Impression of Sunrise

By John Paxton

A novel about the normal aspects of life - love, relationships, sex, death, guilt. While still coming to terms with the death of his wife and the changes that brings to friendships, Martin struggles to rebuild a life and handle new friendships and relationships. He is subjected to many forces of change and financial pressures outside of his control.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Paxton
• Release date: Oct 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370708895

Book preview

Impression of Sunrise

A novel

John L Paxton

Smashworks Edition

Impression of Sunrise

Chapter 1 The Lady on the Train

Chapter 2 Lunch

Chapter 3 Fiona

Chapter 4 Christmas

Chapter 5 A Release

Chapter 6 The Funeral

Chapter 7 Deidre

Chapter 8 The Weekend

Chapter 9 The Return

Chapter 10 Sydney

Chapter 11 Jenny

Chapter 12 Paris

Chapter 13 Sharing

Chapter 14 A Proposal

Chapter 15 The Swimming Pool

About John L Paxton

Other Books by John L Paxton

Chapter 1 The Lady on the Train

The feeling was one I had lost familiarity with. It would have been impossible to say when I last experienced it, or why I was experiencing it now. The cause was obvious – the woman sitting opposite me. The setting was very mundane; it was not an elegant, glamorous cocktail party, full of successful or self-absorbed people. There had been no clichéd, yet meaningful, meeting of eyes across a crowded room. I was in a crowded, early-morning, commuter train on my daily journey of penance to work.

Concentrating on the rhythmic sound of the train over the tracks I started to relax. After a time, which was probably much shorter than it seemed as the complete journey only took 35 minutes, I succumbed to curiosity. I tried to picture the woman opposite. My eyes were still closed but there was no imprint, however vague, of her on my retina. I could not remember anything about her, not even the colour of her hair. This woman was attractive to me for some reason. She had aroused not only my curiosity; she had aroused me sexually and I could feel the physical effect to prove it. But I didn’t know what she looked like.

As a child I used to open my eyes to the narrowest of slits, believing no-one could tell that I was looking at them. Now seemed an appropriate time to reprise that skill. Opening my eyes by the smallest, possible amount, I looked across to the seat opposite. The woman sitting directly opposite me was reading The Times, holding it upright in front of her, completely obscuring her face and upper body. Oh well, I thought, she can’t see me either so I opened my eyes fully and sat more upright. With the newspaper in front of her and the table between us I could only see her hands, which drew my attention, as there was little else of her to study. The fingers were slender, well-manicured, with no signs of roughness. The nails had been painted with a very pale or clear polish; no strong or bright colour, which I thought, for some unknown reason, was good. The left hand had no rings, indicating she was probably unmarried or possibly divorced, another positive. There was a ring on the right hand, white gold or platinum, with small diamonds set into the band. It was exquisitely simple and stylish, a ring that could be found in say Tiffany or Cartier, certainly not the average High Street jeweller.

A mental picture was already forming of this woman. Obviously well-educated and intelligent; a professional, perhaps a lawyer or accountant; probably unmarried; good taste; elegant and took pride in her appearance. I looked around to see if there was a brief case or handbag, as further circumstantial evidence, to confirm my opinion; neither was visible as they were probably hidden under the table.

As there was only one stop left, Waterloo, where the train terminated, I decided to let her out first and follow, for a little while at least, to observe her further, to see where she went next, to find out more about her, without making my activities too obvious, if at all possible.

The train started to slow as it approached Waterloo. This was the signal for mass activity. Laptops were closed, papers shuffled into brief cases, newspapers folded as weary commuters prepared for the next part of the journey into the office. Lifting my brief case onto the table, I slowly inserted my already-folded newspaper, The Times, into it; there was plenty of room as I never took any work home these days. This afforded the opportunity to glance casually at the person sitting opposite. She had thick, dark, not black, shoulder-length hair surrounding an oval face carrying no excess fat. Above her dark, quite large eyes, the eyebrows were well-defined.

We stood up at the same time and gathered our possessions. Unsurprisingly, she had a smart, black, leather handbag with a slim briefcase that looked to be of the same make. I deliberately let her move into the corridor ahead of me and ensured that I was directly behind her as we moved towards the train exit. Following as closely as I dared, I breathed in deeply to smell her, wondering what type of perfume she used. It was discreet and subtle, floral but not too sweet, in no sense overpowering and requiring one to be quite close to be able to smell it. It was very pleasant but unidentifiable to me. I followed her off the train and along the platform, maintaining a respectful three paces between us. Unfortunately, it was winter and very cold, so like every other London commuter she was wearing heavy clothes. A long heavy, navy, woollen coat, gathered casually at the waist by a large belt of matching material reached to mid-calf, covering the top part of a pair of leather boots. The weather-defeating coat was topped off by a large shawl collar that was now upturned to obstruct any cold drafts. So, trudging along behind, I was prevented from reaching any determination with regard to the shape of her body, or even her legs.

The platform is long and I followed her right to the end. I was in no great hurry to go to the office and was curious to see which way she went. At the end of the platform there is a choice: exit the station; go the underground, or catch a taxi. From there I normally walked to the office; my ‘prey’ obviously didn’t as she headed for the underground. I followed her into the Underground station, intending to go as far as the barriers. The moving swarms of commuters separated us; there would have been more than a dozen people between her and me. I moved to one side of the barriers and watched her remove a purse from her handbag, extract the ticket and insert it into the gate. I was too far away to see if it was a daily or a season ticket. Within thirty seconds she was gone from sight. Perhaps for ever.

I drifted out of the underground and made my way, unconsciously, to the office. Throughout the morning I went through the motions of work, completely distracted by thoughts of the woman I had seen. I constantly replayed every moment that I had been watching her, trying to recall every minute detail – her face, her clothes, her bags, the smell of her perfume; I even thought of going to a department store to smell the sample perfumes to identify the one I had experienced earlier. It was almost as if I had regressed to being a besotted teenager.

At lunchtime, I visited a favourite, subterranean wine bar close to St Pauls cathedral. I had always enjoyed the wine bars that seem particular to London: sawdust on the floor, good quality wine and simple food. I found a quiet corner and enjoyed half a bottle of red Burgundy with a steak sandwich, while lost in a meandering contemplation. Emerging from the underground bar I was greeted by a harsh, bright wintry day. For half an hour I walked along the Thames footpath before returning to the office. For all my contemplation I had resolved very little.

Why had this woman had such a startling effect on me? She seemed fairly attractive but was not stunning; there seemed nothing in particular that would mark her out from the crowd. She had a certain elegance and professional air, but that of itself was insufficient. It was a long time since I had thought so much about one woman. A long time. One woman. Not since…

One thing I had resolved was that I needed to try to see her again. I knew the train I was on that morning, which carriage, the one I always took, and which seat she was in. I couldn’t work out if she was already on the train when I caught it, or if she took her seat later. I would attempt, for the rest of the week at least, to occupy the same seat. Also, on the home journey I would look out for her. Thus determined, I left the office and returned to Waterloo. My train wasn’t due for thirty minutes so I loitered around the underground entrance hoping to see her. Many women passed before me wearing heavy winter coats and boots; many of them had dark hair and my hopes were raised numerous times, without success. I didn’t catch the train. Instead I stayed on guard for another 30 minutes, with the same failure. This was expected. At least I had made decisions and taken actions; the first for quite some time.

I was reminded briefly of The Collector by John Fowles, a book, like most, that I had read many years ago. I gently laughed to myself at the allusion; my intentions, though still unclear, did not lie in that direction. The thing that surprised me was that I felt slightly light-hearted, there was a spring in my step. There was an element of intrigue and curiosity, enthusiasm perhaps, in my life. I wanted to know more about this woman; who she was, what she did, where she lived. I wanted to know as much as possible, everything. The early morning anxieties and morbid thoughts of the past had dissipated. Was this all because of…? Because of whom? She needed a name; it was impossible to mentally refer to her as ‘the woman on the train’ all the time. After a brief experimentation with the short list of female names that quickly came to mine, I settled on Miranda; it seemed to fit. A reference to Miranda Richardson, a rather beautiful and elegant English actress, perhaps? Or the enigmatic Miranda from Picnic at Hanging Rock? - no, my Miranda was much older than her. Resigned, but not disheartened, and somewhat energised, I gave up waiting and caught the next train home.

That evening in the small townhouse I rented for week-days, I could think of nothing else but Miranda. I had a simple meal of grilled fish and salad, with a couple of glasses of very ordinary white wine. Television utterly failed to distract me and I could not settle to any reading. At about 10:00pm I went out for a walk. The night air was cold and refreshing, encouraging me to walk briskly. It was an ordinary suburban area, so there was no incentive to linger anywhere. It reminded me of occasions in my late teens when I often walked at night, sometimes in the early hours of the morning, in a park close to where I lived. I used to creep carefully out of the house after everyone had gone to bed: as far as I am still aware, my parents never knew. After about three quarters of an hour I returned home, showered and went to bed. I had a fitful night, willing the morning to arrive early, as if in anticipation of a special event or occasion. Eventually of course, as certainly as the sun rises, the morning came and I did not need the alarm clock to wake me.

I assumed my regular place on the platform twenty minutes earlier than normal, despite it being a particularly cold morning. This time I was more alert than most mornings, scanning not the tracks for an approaching train but the platform for a glimpse of Miranda; the name I was now quite convinced had to be hers. By the time the train arrived I had assessed every female on the platform from top to bottom, but she wasn’t there. Perhaps the next stop was hers? For once I did not fall asleep. As the train slowed to approach the next stop, I eagerly scanned the passengers waiting on the platform – again she was not there. Only one stop left and the process was repeated with equal success. Perhaps she was catching an earlier train? Or a later one? Could it be she didn’t normally work in London? Perhaps seeing her yesterday was just a fluke? Or had she somehow taken a seat on the train without me seeing her?

On the approach to Waterloo, I left my seat earlier than usual and positioned myself by the door to be first off the train. Leaving the train in a hurry I rushed down to the barrier by the Underground entrance and positioned myself discreetly against a wall to observe everyone passing through. The rush from my train subsided and there was no trace of Miranda.

The day in the office passed slowly and I returned to Waterloo wearily and a little disheartened. I took up guard by the Underground entrance to observe again passengers returning to Waterloo. No Miranda, so I caught my train and went home.

The following morning, Wednesday, I was on the platform early again. The train pulled in and I occupied my usual seat; no Miranda in sight. Slowing down to the next station, as on the previous day, I scanned the expectant passengers. She was there, on the platform. I willed her to take a seat in the same carriage and she did, but not opposite me. She had taken a seat two rows further up, with her back to me. All I could now see was the top of the back of her head; I felt relieved.

The next part of the exercise, exiting the train, was going to be difficult. How was I going to be able to place myself right behind by the exit door, to be able to smell her again? I put my brief case on my lap, ready to stand up immediately; I had no newspaper – I hadn’t bought one for two days. Fortunately, no-one was sitting to my right - that was lucky; in future I should try to occupy the aisle seat. I remained seated, watching. As soon as Miranda left her seat I was on my feet and moved up the aisle. By moving quickly, I was able to be right behind her, close enough to smell her perfume. It was the same as before, still delightful, still unknown. Perhaps I really should visit a department store. I followed her, three paces behind, all the way to the Underground, and watched her go through the barrier. Should I buy an Underground ticket to follow her further another day? She was wearing the same coat as the previous time and a pair of boots, perhaps not the same pair as before. That evening I waited by the barrier, again without success.

Thursday, she caught the train; she was seated on the opposite side of the carriage, two rows ahead and facing me diagonally. I tried to look and tried not to look at her. Irrespective of my looking or not looking, Miranda, absorbed in her newspaper, was completely oblivious of my presence. Having been successful in procuring an aisle seat it was relatively easy to follow her off the train and along the platform to the barrier. Success in determining her destination after Waterloo had not come my way. There was no luck in seeing her that evening, either at the barrier or on the train.

Miranda was on the train again on Friday, in the same carriage, and I was able to follow her closely, not sufficiently close to smell her perfume, to the Underground. Tuesday and Thursday of the following week, Miranda was again on the train; again, I followed her to the Underground, closely yet discreetly. My enthusiasm and desire to know more about her only increased; my knowledge didn’t. I still knew nothing about her, other than the fact she occasionally caught the same train as I. The thought of trying to start a conversation with her had not, even idly, crossed my mind. I was no clearer as to why this enthusiastic curiosity had developed nor did I understand what I was hoping to achieve by regularly following her. No plans, no desires, other than obtaining more intimate knowledge of my ‘prey’ had been formulated.

Friday morning at last, yet I did not have the usual anticipation for the week-end. Miranda was again on the train; this time at the far end of the carriage, opposite side but facing me, not that I could see her at all clearly. As she was so far away from me, I adopted a different approach at Waterloo: I exited through the door closer to me as she used the far door. I quickly scuttled along the platform, caught up with her and slowed down to stay about a yard behind. Half way along the platform Miranda stopped suddenly, spun round and looked straight into my eyes. Her eyes were bright with indignation, Why are you following me? she spat. I am not stupid. You have been doing it for days, following me to the Underground. Why?

I felt my stomach turn to water and dissolve any composure or confidence I might have. It’s not what it appears. I’m sorry but it’s not easy to explain, was all I was able to mumble, inadequately.

Look, what is going on? Are you stalking me? Do I need to call the police? Or have you escaped from psychiatric institution?

I think I felt most indignant at the last suggestion! No, none of the above. I mean you no harm. I’m not a lunatic. I’m not violent. I’m sorry if I appear to be stalking you. It must have sounded weak and pathetic.

Isn’t that exactly what you are doing?

I guess so, but not in any malevolent sense. I don’t have any dark motives. Not daring to look her in the eye, feeling shamed and embarrassed.

Then why. Please explain. I am standing on a long platform in a busy London railway station, talking to a man who has been following me for days. For all I know you might have been following me to my home with God-knows-what vile intentions.

Firstly, I have no idea where you live. Secondly, I have followed you to the Underground only, nowhere else. Thirdly, I can honestly assure you I have no intentions, let alone vile intentions. What intentions did I have?

Then why?

Some of her anxiety seemed to have dissipated and replaced by a form of exasperation; she wasn’t holding her brief case as tightly, as if it were a potential weapon of defence, or maybe offence.

As I said previously, the defensive edge having left my voice to be replaced by a softer tone, it isn’t easy to explain. I wholeheartedly agree that I owe you an explanation but I cannot do it quickly, it will take time to explain myself properly to you. Could I buy you a coffee? What precisely was I going to explain to Miranda? Up to this point I hadn’t been able to rationalise it to myself: how could I hope to satisfactorily explain it to the offended party?

No, I don’t have time. And I don’t have time for this nonsense, wearily. Is that what this is all about, a tawdry pick-up approach?

No, absolutely not. Sadly, I’m not trying to pick you up, or anything like that. Are you sure you don’t have time for a cup of coffee? I was desperately clinging to the moment of contact, hoping to prolong it, preserve it and facilitate future, less-hostile contact.

Yes, definitely. I have a meeting that I am already in danger of being late for, and I really do need to be there. Miranda was calming down more; she had obviously discerned my lack of threat.

That’s a pity. Then, emboldened, What do you do?

I’m an accountant. A brief pause followed by a return to indignation, albeit milder than previously. What is going on? I ask you, quite reasonably to explain yourself and you start asking questions about me!

I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to pry, but wasn’t that what I really wanted to do!

Do you always apologise? With sharp curiosity.

Not always, but it seems to be a recently-acquired habit.

Why recently-acquired?

Now who’s asking the questions? Are you sure about the coffee?

Yes. I really have to go.

Are you free at lunch-time? I’ll try to explain properly. I was shocked that I would propose something like this: the words had escaped before the formulation of the idea.

What! Are you now suggesting a date or something?

No. I’m merely suggesting taking the opportunity to explain myself properly to you. Do you work in or close to the City? I was sounding more in control of myself, more composed.

Ye-es?

There’s a wine bar in Gutter Lane, off Cheapside. Do you know it?

Yes, I think so.

Would you meet me there at 12:30 to-day? Please. I will answer anything you ask.

I think I must be quite insane. OK I will see you there. I will also inform my secretary where I am in case of any unforeseen eventuality.

By all means but you need have no concerns for your safety.

We then separated without further ado or formality; she to the underground and place of work; I to my office. By agreeing to meet me she had made what would turn out to be one of the most significant decisions of my life.

I was aghast at my impetuous, indiscreet proposal, even more so that Miranda had accepted. Did she perceive me to be some harmless fool that she could frighten away permanently by threats of legal action perhaps? Or other means?

Chapter 2 Lunch

The morning was spent in fretful, near conclusion-free contemplation. What exactly, and how, was I going to tell Miranda? My state of agitation heightened as the morning wore on and the time of the assignation approached. Would she really turn up? Common sense said probably not, and a betting man, which I am not, would be more likely to place money on that outcome. However, she does catch the same train as I and therefore, unless she changes her life timetable, is almost certain to run into me again. So, if she wants to understand my motivation and bring closure to the incident, or situation, or whatever term she might choose to apply, she is likely to turn up and confront me again. The venue is a public place and will be very busy on a Friday lunchtime, which meant she had no need to fear for her safety; it also meant I should be there early to ensure a decent table. Miranda said she would let her secretary know where she was: presumably there was nothing to stop her secretary coming along and observing from a discreet distance. I dare say I had provided a good source for office conversation and scurrilous speculation that morning and, quite conceivably, a few other mornings as well. It