One Act of Kindness

By Julie Harris

How much is a ticket to heaven?

Compassion doesn’t feature as a reality in Ruth’s life. Compassion is always something that other people have in their hearts and so to Ruth it remains one of life’s unsolved mysteries.

'Just one act of kindness can alter your life', her hapless brother once said. But his words meant nothing to Ruth, for when one lives within a fortress of one’s own creation, there can be no conqueror.

Once she was happy. Once she even loved somebody and his name was Daniel.

But only once.

Ruth learnt early not to depend upon others. To get through life one should only do what one must, involve others as little as possible, and most of all, never allow one’s soul any light, any warmth, any laughter. For it soon enough turns to darkness, and cold, and tears…

How much is a ticket to heaven? Does it cost just one act of kindness? And if so, is it true what Daniel always believed? They would meet again some day?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julie Harris
• Release date: Jun 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781497724020

Book preview

1

––––––––

The first thing she noticed was that the railway station was deserted. For an instant, hardly a passing moment—gone before it even arrived—the atmosphere was almost eerie. Ruth had never experienced this before. There were usually swarms of people, all on their ways to or from, and the only lull in the human traffic came when a train departed. That too was momentary because slowly, more passengers filled the platforms and, like ants to sugar, frenzied for a place, and then disappeared as if they’d never been there. Virtually every day for forty years, Ruth was amongst them, another ant.

But not today. She was the only one on the platform. Best to enjoy this tranquillity while it lasted. Clutching her favorite black bag close—for you never knew what kinds of people abounded these days—Ruth Quinlan took the seat she’d always taken, by the ticket enquiries box on platform 5. Heaven knew what time it was. For some reason she’d left her watch behind.

From habit, she checked her clothing. Sensible walking shoes. Grey skirt, elasticized at the waist for extra comfort. Twin set in a pale, dusty pink. She’d kept it of course, with a knowing in her heart that the era to which it once belonged would surely come back into ‘fashion’ again. And pearls. Real ones, of course. They had belonged to her grandmother. She’d worn them at her wedding.

Ruth’s hair was short and naturally grey. She never tried to camouflage her maturity. Besides, she’d not received a second glance for forty years and it didn’t bother her a bit. She knew that when she looked in the mirror, a simple truth was reflected. The only things about ageing that bothered her were other people’s perceptions of it.

Ruth squinted into the sun. It was an early morning glare, brighter for the fact that it had been dormant far too long because of the recent rains. She could have sworn it was closer to midday, what with the sky so very blue today. Ever so bright, it was. The station walls were a glaring white and the geraniums in the pots seemed blood red today. There had been a recent visit by a world-renowned dignitary, and that was the only reason the station had brightened its facade. But only its facade, mind.

The clock was gone, and not one of the digital signboards was working. A glitch in the system, she thought. How will I know when the next train is due? Ah, what did it matter? She could take whichever train she wanted from platform 5—all trains southbound stopped at their, sorry, her station. It used to be their station, and in that moment of transforming mine to ours, she thought of Daniel. He’d departed from her life so many years ago now that thoughts of him had become like any other. They came, triggered by a sight or a smell, and they went again, just as quickly. Some were sad, some were happy and some, well, most in fact, produced no reaction at all because they were, essentially, nothing. Just like he was now. Nothing. So she thought of Daniel now in the same manner as when she made her weekly shopping list. That, too, rarely varied unless there was something special, something out of the norm, which she thought she might buy. Just for a change. But today, with the absence of any distraction to occupy her thoughts, Daniel was on her mind. No, it was more than that. She hadn’t really bothered thinking about him, deeply, so to speak, for twenty years. Twenty years was a long time. Yes, she’d loved him once, well, more than once, obviously, for they had been married and the diversity of feelings she had for him rarely waned over the course of many, many years. Comfort always turned to boredom, but that was fine. Daniel was always a ‘Tuesday means sausages and chips’ type of man. Then he went ‘away’—some well-meaning idiots would say ‘to heaven’ but she knew there was no such thing, not really, and of course, her life resumed as it had while he was with her, with each day passing into the next. Recycling nicely, thank you very much.

Soon enough memories faded in importance with each heartbeat that passed. So why now, today, was she thinking of him? Heavens, she couldn’t even remember what he’d looked like. It was just a vague feeling now.

At the beginning, her memories hadn’t failed her. He’d had mouse-colored hair that, in the sun, sparkled somewhat gingerly on the tips. He’d gone grey long before she had—a notion that always brought her immense satisfaction for he was the idealist without a care, and she the practical one who bore both weights evenly. His eyes had been the color of a churning ocean, a somewhat murky green. But it had been his smile she’d loved most of all. It was the smile alone which drew her in the beginning. And when was that? Had they both been children? Perhaps.

Where daily existence had amplified certain parts of Ruth’s body, it had sadly contracted his. He never put on any weight. But that could have been due to his job. Daniel had been both a mechanic and a gardener all of his life, and not only flowers did he cultivate with a passion. He should have been the one who’d stayed behind, really, he should have, but sometimes such decisions, such circumstances, were beyond anyone’s control. That was up to God, but of course, no one had yet proved to Ruth that God indeed existed. Daniel believed, but heavens, Daniel would have believed anything.

Life, Daniel always said, was like a garden. You could grow into an original, or be propagated. It was always your own choice whether to grow from the seed of your own soul, or become a clone of someone else’s. But he always talked that way. Sometimes she often wondered why she’d married him. Such a dreamer he was. Such an idealist. He, of course, was an original. Ruth was just a cutting. He’d never have said that, though. He’d never have dared.

Ruth sighed. There was still no one on the platform and not a soul about to enquire of the time. Habit alone was the reason for the constriction of her fingers upon her bag. She simply didn’t trust anyone—never had and never would. For all she knew, at any moment, a gang of terrible teenage hooligans may bound up the stairs and her peace would be shattered. Old ladies were easy targets.

She looked down into the bowels of the station. The gates were certainly not closed, so why wasn’t anybody about? Just concrete and steel. So thick was the silence that even her thoughts were echoing. For a silly moment, she’d have been glad of a hooligan gang. And then it came. It rounded the bend, the infamous steel reptile that gorged upon its human prey, sped off and vomited them out again at will. Ruth rose to her feet instantly. That too was habit. She only had a few seconds to get on the train before the warning that the doors were closing, so it was habit to rush even today, when there were no other passengers waiting. The doors to the middle carriage opened. But she didn’t want the middle carriage. She’d always sat in the rear one—in case of accident. You never knew, did you. Normally people who were killed in train accidents always sat in the first carriages.

Oh well, the middle one it had to be. She wouldn’t feel comfortable about it, but she had no choice. If she wanted to catch this train, so be it. Ruth stepped in, alone. She had her choice of seat, too. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Normally she would have to stand, in her sensible shoes, clutching her handbag tight with one hand whilst holding on to the handle with her other, and in the meantime glaring at the nearest younger person she could find until they took the hint and gave up their seat. She enjoyed that—making younger people feel guilty. She was older, you see, she had lived on the planet longer and therefore she was entitled to such courtesies.

But she’d always been entitled, hadn’t she. By the very fact of her birth, Ruth Quinlan had been entitled.

For heaven’s sakes, what’s taking so long? There is nobody on the platform. Nobody at all and yet the train is sitting here, passively wasting electricity. I pay for this, she wanted to say and she would have too, had anybody else been in earshot.

It wasn’t often she acquired a window seat all to herself. The seat was hard, though. Ordinarily the hardness alone would have pained her hip but today she was relatively pain free. Her only discomfort was impatience.

Come on, for heaven’s sake, let’s go! I have things to do!

The thought surprised her. What things had she to do?

Ruth opened her bag after first looking about, ensuring that no younger, prying eyes were near to glimpse what was contained therein. Her purse. It had been a gift from one of the little girls next door. It had supposedly been handmade in Wales but she guessed it had been manufactured, along with ten thousand others, on an assembly line in China. Thank you dear, what a wonderful gesture, she’d said, believing at the time that it had been purchased from a local discount store. After all these years, the clasp was still strong and no change ever fell from it, so perhaps it had been handmade in Wales after all?

So there it was, the purse. Purple and black tapestry, two compartments. Three neatly ironed handkerchiefs, rotated weekly even though she never used them. Tissues were by far more practical. A lipstick. She had never, in her life, worn any other makeup except on her wedding day. And even on that day she’d looked and felt like somebody else. A comb. A train timetable, not that she ever needed one. Tucked into the side pocket of the handbag was another little wallet with her cards in it—a driver’s license which had expired six years previously (but she carried it for identification purposes). Medical identification card, still with Daniel’s name on it. She’d told them he was no longer about, but they’d made a mistake and said it didn’t really matter—it was her number which was important. Her electronic banking card. It had taken her such a long time to find the courage to use it in those silly ATM machines. Her Seniors Card which she used whenever possible. And so, rightly should she get discounts at her age. She’d paid enough taxes already. Shouldn’t she be entitled to something in return? A library card which she used three times a week—Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays.

She never read on a Thursday, you see, for on Thursdays she took the train to a respite day care center across town. It was the only charity work she did. There but for the grace of God go I, she thought often as she sipped tea and played Uno with people, often younger than herself, who’d suffered grievous misfortune. Strokes, mainly. The odd dementia. Here and there an Alzheimer’s. There they were, most of them wheelchair-bound, unaware of life’s quality, solely looking forward to lunch. And after lunch they’d wonder when lunch was. But so be it. She liked playing Uno with these folk for they never realized she cheated. If they did, they were bound to silence. Rather it be them, she thought, than me.

Ruth always liked to win.

This is my life, she thought as she peered into the depths of her bag. Everything that I am, have ever been and will be, is summarized, like a series of bullet points, and contained in this genuine leather satchel upon my lap.

She wasn’t saddened by the realization either. How could you ever be saddened by the truth?

Why isn’t this train moving? Is there a problem?

There was an intercom. An emergency intercom. If you pushed that red button, you could speak to the driver—or so the picture above it explained. But if you used it when it wasn’t an emergency, you could be fined. Perhaps, indeed, but who would fine an old, confused lady? Heaven knew Ruth could certainly act the part when the role was offered. She smiled to herself and in her mind, in the silence therein and thereout, her imagination took wing. The perfectly manicured finger pressed the red button. A clear, young voice, reminiscent of ... who, she wondered, answered with:

Yes?

Is there a problem, young man?

Is this an emergency, Madam?

Don’t you Madam me. I am Mrs Quinlan thank you very much.

Is this an emergency, Mrs Quinlan?

Yes. I am in a dreadful hurry and this train is not moving.

We’ll be on our way shortly.

That was it? That was all he had to say?

I’ll show him. Ruth rose from her seat, and still clutching her handbag, walked to the intercom button, near the door which was still open. She pressed the button.

Yes?

The voice wasn’t young at all.

Why are we stopped?

Sit and be patient, please, Mrs Quinlan.

How do you know my name?

Sit and be patient, please, Mrs Quinlan. I told you before, we’ll be on our way soon.

Goodness, she thought and went back to her seat. She looked from the window, not daring to think what might be happening. She knew then she’d have to cease her weekly volunteer work at the respite center. Wasn’t it true that the more involved you became ... Stop it, Ruth, she told herself. Perhaps I did press the button twice, not once. Of late when making herself a cup of tea she’d promptly forgotten that it sat by the kettle, waiting. Until the next time she thought she’d make a cup of tea.

Thoughts of encroaching senility soon wavered. What was this? The train’s window was clean. It must have been the first time that a train’s window had ever been clean. It must have been a brand new carriage. Yes, that’s what it was. Brand new. Still no one on the platform. Who on earth were they waiting for? Presumably nothing or no one for the doors hissed and clunked together.

At last, they were on their way.

Ruth was satisfied now and the satisfaction lasted but a moment. Such a transitory thing, satisfaction, peace. From peripheral she saw a little boy belting up the stairs. A poor little urchin, all alone and barely six years old. But the train was pulling out! No! No! Somebody stop the train! Automatically, she reached around her neck, thinking that the pearls were her whistle.

The train stopped regardless of her efforts of blowing hard on her pearls, and the doors to the third carriage opened. The little boy got on. He took the seat across from Ruth and curling his little feet under him, rested his head on the window pane as the train pulled out.

Ruth glanced at him. She wanted to say, ‘Boy? Put your feet down. You can’t put your feet on the seat. They’ll throw you off and then where will you be?’ All this and more she rehearsed until she heard the child crying. It was a series of low sobs, really. He was trying hard not to cry, but he couldn’t help himself. The only thing worse than a child crying so pitifully was the fact that there wasn’t a soul about, other than her, to amend the situation.

Boy?

He didn’t hear her. Perhaps he was deaf?

I say, boy? Louder. His sobbing continued.

She’d never had much patience with children, ever, but that said, she could never bear the sound of an unhappy one, either. Little boy? she asked, gently. Children, after all, were like dogs. They reacted to gentle voices, not raised, angry ones. The child raised his head from his arm and looked at her. His eyes were murky green, reminiscent of Daniel’s, although she’d never actually seen Daniel cry in all the years they’d been together. Things like that he kept to himself. As far as she knew he hadn’t even cried when his beloved father had departed. Where’s your mother? You’re far too young to be traveling on your own.

The lady said you’d watch over me because it’s such a long way.

What lady, boy? Who told you that?

She did.

He pointed to the door that separated the second carriage from the third. A woman, in a Railways uniform, was approaching. Something about her was vaguely familiar to Ruth, but she doubted she knew her, for the young woman would have been sucking on a nipple when Ruth worked on the railway.

Ticket, Ruth thought. Dear me, did I get a ticket? She couldn’t remember purchasing one, either from the booth or the vending machine. Not that the vending machine ever worked. She frantically looked through her bag. No sign of a ticket anywhere. Now the carriage door was opening and the young woman was approaching. The little boy had his head in his arms again. His sobbing continued. Ruth forgot about the child. Whatever was upsetting him certainly had nothing to do with her.

The ticket collector had a pleasant face, really. In fact, she seemed to resemble Ruth in many ways—the Ruth of long ago, of course. Not the Ruth of now. For, half a lifetime ago, Ruth had shoulder length fair hair, too. And how proud of it she’d been. It had turned many a male head, that hair. The young woman approached Ruth and without so much as a welcoming smile, barked, Tickets please.

I don’t seem to have one.

The young woman sighed. It was an impatient sigh, too.

You see, the booth was unattended and the machine wasn’t working.

I said, tickets please.

Did you listen to what I just said, young woman?

If you want to ride on this train, you will give me your ticket. His too.

I doubt the little boy has a ticket. Why are you so rude?

Do you have your tickets or not?

As I said, the booth was unattended and the machine was not working. But I can purchase a ticket from you.

What about him? the young woman nodded towards the child.

I don’t know. He’s traveling unattended.

I was told he’s with you.

I don’t know this boy.

I was told you do know him.

I don’t know who the source of your information is, young lady, but I insist. I came aboard on my own and I will depart this train on my own. Now how much is my ticket going to be?

Is he under five? If he’s under five he travels half fare.

I am not paying for a child I do not know. What is my fare?

Sixty. Ninety if he’s under five.

This is outrageous! Sixty is for an intercity train! I must have got on the wrong one!

Sixty. Ninety if he’s under five.

When was the last time she’d been to the bank? She couldn’t remember, such was the fluster in her head. Ruth opened her purse and fear clutched her heart with tight, gripping fingers. It was empty. Devoid of even the lowest silver denomination possible.

I seem to have... I don’t seem to have any... Dear God, I’ve been robbed!

Don’t you have any money at all?

No. No, look.

The girl peered into the empty purse. She regarded Ruth as if she were something unmentionable adhered to the sole of her new shoe, then she turned and walked away.

Ruth watched, fear still gripping her heart, as the girl walked to the front of the carriage, opened up an otherwise locked compartment and used a telephone. Only staff knew it was there. But she could not hear what was said. There was no mistaking the look though, as she talked to her supervisor, wherever her supervisor was located. She glanced back now and then and pulled the occasional face.

Oh dear, Ruth thought. How many times in my life have I had to do that? And the outcome was always the same. If they couldn’t, (or wouldn’t more likely) pay, they were handed to the relevant authorities at destination, or the nearest station en route, and they would be dealt with accordingly for fare evasion.

Conversation over. Ruth knew what would be waiting for her at destination. "Can you pay