Humanity

My mother used to tell me there are two types of people in this world – people who are humane, and people who are not. She told me that there are a great many people in this world who are just not good at being human, at sympathy and empathy and all the elements of human kindness. She described the world to me as being like the centre of a vacuum cleaner; the sort where there’s a central fabric that the dirt clogs up on. Humans are the dirt, connected to each other in howling wind,  kept without consent. It was a mark of how my mother raised me that I understood this not to be a bad thing; it was merely the case. We are all stuck here; why make it more difficult?

My mother died when I was seventeen. She was my only relative. I knew I had uncles somewhere, in another country I couldn’t fathom, but for all intents and purposes I had lost the only person who shared my blood. She was a fantastic woman – two days before her death she told me not to cry, because people who die before they’re old get to be young in Hades. Hades, she said, because to claim she was headed to heaven would be arrogant. I knew her well enough to know that.

I considered myself a success. I had a flat, a four year-old Chartreux, and a job that kept me stocked in long shabby coats and cigarettes. I took trains for important reasons, and sometimes travelled business class. Not today.

“Is this seat taken?” The words were rushed out, mumbled as if they were rude. I’ve found it’s a particular trait of the British that we are embarrassed of politeness, as if somehow daring to speak at all is rudeness in and of itself.

“No, feel free.” I meant it, as well. My welcome intruder was shorter than me, curly haired, with the heavy lilt of south Wales on his voice. I remembered something about Tolkein and cellar door, something from my good degree at my average University.

“Cold, isn’t it?” He was shivering, as if to prove that yes, it was cold.
“Seems so. Winter’s always fashionably late in Britain.”
My companion laughed. That was my favourite weather-line. You need a specialised script in a country with weather like ours.
“You headed to Edinburgh too?” I could already tell the Welshman had a talent for small talk. He had that quality of casual interest; a voice that seemed to wash over you, comfort you instinctually.
“Stirling. But via Edinburgh. I’m visiting a friend.”
“Stirling. All I know about Stirling is there’s a castle. Must be one of those half-child memories.” I smiled. He made ignorance sound like bliss, and I liked that he said half-child instead of half-memories; it was poetic.
“I’ve never been. It’s her hometown. I brought layers.”
He laughed. “Good shout.”

We lapsed comfortably into silence. An old woman settled in across the aisle, and we exchanged a look of indignation, as if our sudden and public conclave should be respected. It was clear we were both unenthralled by our books, so after a while of glancing at each other, the Welshman brought the courage.

“I know it’s childish, but I still find train rides a bit exciting. Like they mean a trip.” He grinned sheepishly.
“S’not childish. I was a London kid. Getting somewhere non-rectangular was a fucking field day for me.”
He laughed at that, and we earned an edifying scowl from the old woman.
“Not a London kid now?”
“In spirit, but I’m Peterborough-dwelt these days.”
“Ah. I’m in Cambridge.”
“As in the University?” I was impressed. He grinned the grin of somebody proud of their achievements and nervous about their possible arrogance.
“Yeah. I’m doing my doctorate in Biochemistry. I study Yeast for a paltry living.”
“How bourgeois.”
“First against the wall, right? It’s a good thing I’m a Welsh miner’s boy, very socialist. Can’t argue with my credentials.” The Welshman flashed pearly whites, uneven.
“Mixed-race child of a single mother; I’m bred for reality television.” I smirked.
“Ah right, you get stuck with all the R&B throwbacks week-to-week.”
“People of colour can’t sing indie. You’re a biochemist, you should know these things.”
“Must’ve slept through that lecture.” We laughed in unison, looked at our books, and fell silent.

The ticket collector shuffled through our carriage a few minutes later, pushing his little cart. Both of us were over-eager ticket-finders; both of us had return tickets.

“So what’re you planning in grand old Stirling?” He was casual again. I paused, letting the hiss of my newly-opened Sprite subside.
“A funeral.”
His eyebrows rose. “A funeral. Oh. Of your fr-“
“My friend, yeah.” I shrugged a little.
“I didn’t mean t-“
“You didn’t.” I looked up.
“What was it?” His curiosity was innocent, it understood the value of sharing.
“Car accident. Standard, you know.”
“Death’s not standard.” He was frowning for me.
“I mean for a car accident.”
“Right.”
We settled into a more awkward silence this time. I could tell he was forming an apology, but I could also tell he thought it would sound insincere. Twenty minutes trundled by.

“Her name was Sarah.”
Welshman looked up. It was the kindness in his eyes. It prompted you. “Sorry?”
“Sarah. My friend. She was an estate agent; she liked to make jokes about how estate agents are evil, but she actually believed all of that rubbish about potential and character – she loved houses. She did her A-levels and went straight into an apprenticeship with the estate agent’s, because she knew what she wanted to do. Used to tease me about University life while she was pulling down more than I do now. Team mother, you know? That was Sarah.”
“Why was she living down south if her hometown’s Stirling?”
“It’s not, really. I mean, not emotionally. But her family’s from there and they get say, obviously.”
Welshman nodded.
“She was just nice. Most people aren’t just nice for shits, you know? They do it because they think it makes them good people or they do it selectively, but Sarah was really honestly nice. She did volunteer work, for fuck’s sake. All I do is sit in my flat and read and stare at the world like it’s going to bite me. Sarah was fucking brave. She’d talk to people like they were an old friend, instantly. She had this talent of...humanity. It was humanity.”
Welshman wrinkled his brow. “How d’you mean?”
“You know how some people do good things but they’re still fundamentally practical? They can look at people and turn them into numbers in their head, even if they really, really care, because they have to?” I was leaning forward, willing him to absorb the words I was saying. He tilted his head in assent.
“Well,  Sarah couldn’t. She was gloriously, wonderfully impractical, and you know - I think practicality’s overrated. I think a lot of practicality is just heartlessness justified – wise heartlessness maybe, but still heartlessness. And I wish we were allowed to call it that without it being a personal attack, because the people who can’t put their heart aside are really fucking rare and deserve recognition for it. Because they’re fucking wonderful, they really are.” I realised I was speaking pretty loudly, and I felt suddenly chastened. Welshman was looking at me with this strange look; this implicit recognition, combined with something like pain, but calmer.

He took out a packaged sandwich.
“Do you want half?” It wasn’t a question. I took it meekly and we broke bread together.
“You cared about her a lot.”
I paused, chewing. “I knew her for a really long time. After my mum died she did all of it right; didn’t try to be family, didn’t encroach on my space, but…pestered me just enough. Allowed me to get annoyed with her, told me when I was being a dick, kept me standing on the ground. Some people just feel like elements, and she felt like Earth. Fuck, her tea. This woman’s tea.”
“Did you love her?” Welshman had sat back.
“Of course. Y’know, platonically.” I smirked a bit, despite myself. “We could’ve spent a whole life together, talking about fuck-all.”
“Did you guys travel in wide circles?” He was avoiding the use of the word “friends”, I think.
“She did, I didn’t. I think that’s probably part of it. I’m not a social person, you know?”
“That’s a shame.” He was watching me, I could feel it on my bowed brow.
“Not really.” I looked up, faced him properly. “I’m a loner, fundamentally.”
“But even loners need people.”
“Yes. I needed her.”
Welshman looked at me for a long time after I said that, but we slipped into silence again. By the time he spoke again, we were pulling into Edinburgh station; our stop.

“I could be that person. I mean, not face-to-face all the time, but I don’t think you’d need it anyway.”
He said it so simply, like it was an offer to look after my cat. I could tell my eyes were swimming. It was that fundamental trait, that humanity. It was slipping off of him as if he was bathed by a moving light, like he was shedding it.
“I just mean – if you need it.”

I looked at him for a few seconds, coughed, and nodded.
“I think I do.”
Like two fleshy pebbles we found our way into the flow of passengers emptying onto the platform, the hubbub of conversation washing over our subsiding exchange. A wrought iron roof magnified the speech, like some vast urban choir playing for a strange Cathedral.  As we left the platform, I turned to him.
“You know, you remind me of my mother.”