The Secret Life of Winnie Cox by Sharon Maas

Author:Sharon Maas [Maas, Sharon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bookouture

I used the time spent crossing the river counting my coins into shillings and tying the little piles up into the corners of my cotton shawl. I did not want to repeat the embarrassment of counting ha’pennies before a crowd of impatient passengers at the train station. It was bad enough, when the time came, that the ticket seller had to re-count the heap of coins I shoved at him for the fare to Georgetown, but at last I had my ticket in my hand. I passed the turnstile, handed the conductor my ticket, and boarded the train.

Once again, all my previous journeys had been in the first-class compartment and once again, the third class was filled to bursting, with all the wooden benches occupied. But this time it was different. For a reason I could not explain, the two men sitting on the foremost carriage bench both stood up and offered me their seat. I looked from one to the other, not sure which one to accept, and finally chose the older of the two. I sat down. But instead of sitting down again, the other man remained standing.

‘Do sit down!’ I said to him, and pointed to the empty seat. He shook his head, mumbled something undecipherable, and moved away down the aisle. A fat woman with a bundle under her arms entered the carriage. I smiled at her and pointed to the empty seat. She looked at me and frowned, seemed to consider my offer, and reluctantly sat down next to me. She was so fat I was pushed against the window.

By now the doubts were tumbling through my mind. This was all a big mistake. A huge mistake! But it was too late now; no going back. I was on my way. The stationmaster’s whistle pierced the babble of muted noise in the carriage, followed by a gasp of steam from the engine and a series of jerks and squeals and clanks, metal scraping on metal. Faces at the open windows, raised voices, hands reaching in as relatives said their last goodbyes. Slowly, creakingly, we juddered into movement. Straining like an old man whose joints refuse to comply, puffing as if out of breath, the train crept through the outskirts of Rosignol. As the last houses gave way to open fields, we gathered momentum. The train’s whistle screeched joyously, and losing its last restraints, the engine huffed and puffed and plunged forward, our carriage rattled along behind it, swaying and rumbling and throwing me alternately against the fat woman and the wall. I gazed through the window, seeing nothing. My vision was blurred by unshed tears. I held my breath in the effort not to cry. All my pluck, all my confidence seemed washed away in a flood of memories: of Papa, Mama, childhood joys, Promised Land, waving cane, big skies, home. Goodbye to all that! I buried my face in my palms and shook with a dry sob as it truly dawned on me what I had done.

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