The Railway Station Man Read Online Free Page A

grey curtain of rain hid the view from the window.
    â€˜God what a bloody day. How can you stick it here when it’s like this, mother?’
    â€˜Five times on one page the word outrage. The whole country is outraged.’
    He held the plate of Cornflakes poised over the bowl with holes in it that sat in one corner of the sink.
    â€˜What are you doing with your Cornflakes?’
    â€˜I’m throwing them away. I hate them.’
    â€˜Now I’m outraged. Give them to the cat. Waste not, want not.’
    â€˜I don’t believe the cat likes them either.’
    He scooped the mess into the bowl.
    â€˜What’s everybody outraged about this time?’
    He put the plate in the sink and turned on the tap.
    â€˜The usual.’
    Water bounced into the plate and sprayed up at him.
    â€˜You mean the fight for freedom continues?’
    â€˜You’re splashing water all over the floor.’
    He fiddled with the tap.
    â€˜Jack. You’re making the most awful mess.’
    He turned it off.
    â€˜I don’t mean any such thing. I mean a man was alive yesterday and now he’s dead. That’s not fighting for freedom.’
    â€˜None of those words mean anything any more. Overworked. Demeaned. Anyway, why get worked up about a man’s death? We all die. We’re all here one day and gone the next.’
    He clicked his fingers.
    â€˜It’s the snatching, playing God … that’s what is the outrage …’
    â€˜An overworked word. Anyway what do you care? What does anyone care? A handful of people feel sorrow, fear, pain. Something. Otherwise it’s just words, news. Manipulated words. Pictures of tight-lipped people on the television screen. Not nearly as affecting as a good play. To get back to Cornflakes …’
    â€˜Have some toast.’
    â€˜It’s cold.’
    â€˜I’ll make you some more.’
    She didn’t move, though. He looked at her for a moment and then sat down again.
    â€˜Don’t bother. I really don’t mind cold toast.’
    He began buttering.
    He always put too much butter on his toast; the thought of heart disease never worries people in their twenties.
    â€˜No home-made marmalade?’ he asked, taking the lid off the jar.
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜You always used to make marmalade.’
    â€˜I have no time.’
    â€˜I’d have thought you’d have had all the time in the world.’
    â€˜Have some tea?’
    He nodded and pushed his cup across the table … she filled his cup and then poured out some more for herself.
    â€˜How long are you staying?’
    â€˜Just over the weekend. I really should go on Sunday evening, but I may wait till Monday morning. It all depends …’
    He took a large bite of toast.
    â€˜Depends on what?’
    â€˜The weather. If the weather turns good, I may not be able to tear myself away. Have you any plans?’
    â€˜I never make plans. I thought of clearing out a lot of the junk in your room. I’m sure you don’t want it any longer. There’s a jumble sale next week and I thought most of it could go to that.’
    He laughed.
    â€˜My precious belongings. You have a nerve.’
    â€˜You brought everything precious to Dublin. What’s in there now isn’t even worthy of the name of jumble.’
    â€˜I suppose I can’t stop you.’
    â€˜Not really.’
    â€˜If you make a pile … several piles … I’ll …’
    â€˜Did you know that the station has been bought?’
    â€˜No. Who …?’
    â€˜A couple of months ago. Some Englishman. I haven’t come across him yet. I thought I might walk over this afternoon and say hello. He’s doing the place up. He has one of the Sweeney boys working full time.’
    He was buttering another piece of cold toast.
    â€˜Damian Sweeney.’
    â€˜There are so many Sweeneys. I never know which is which. He won’t eat sliced bread