"Lydia Charles" by Beetle Holloway

My smartwatch says ‘unknown number,’ but I know who it is. 

‘Good afternoon, Lydia Charles,’ I say, reciting the manual. 

‘Tracey, Pete here, time for a quickie?’ 

I look around the train carriage. It’s silent. There are eyes in books, eyes out the window, and, now, eyes on me. 

‘Sure,’ I say. 

‘Sure?’ Pete says. 

The manual outlaws ambiguity. 

‘Of course, Pete,’ I say. 

‘What you wearing?’ He says. 

‘Office clothes,’ I whisper. The bespectacled old man in front of me looks up from his newspaper. 

‘Office clothes?’

I look down at my jeans and hoodie. ‘Blouse, skirt, tights. You know, what I usually wear to the office.’ 

‘I do know what you usually wear to the office, Tracey, but you’re working from home today, aren't you? Just wanted to check you’re sticking to the manual.’ 

His caustic breath corrodes my ear. I picture his gnarled smile, his expensive teeth. 

‘Of course, Pete,’ I say. 

The train screeches. I jam my phone into my hoodie, suffocating the microphone. The old man points to the no-speaking sign. All carriages are silent now - better for on-the-go productivity.  

‘What did you have for lunch today, Tracey?’ Pete says. 

‘Salad with chicken breasts,’ I say. 

A young woman from across the aisle catches my attention. She taps her smartwatch. She holds up four fingers - which I take to mean it’s 6.56pm (four mins to go) - and then raises her fist in solidarity. I wonder if she’s going to the protest too. 

‘Grilled?’ Pete asks.

‘Yes,’ I say. Pete hates unhealthy food. Bad for the body. Bad for the mind. Bad for Lydia Charles. That’s what it says in the employment manual. 

‘Made extra last night,’ I say, knowing Pete also knows how long it takes to grill chicken breasts and we only have 30 minutes allotted for lunch break. 

‘Thinking ahead,’ Pete says. ‘Very Lydia Charles.’

‘Yes,’ I say. 

‘So you knew you were going to be feeling ill today?’ Pete says. 

‘No,’ I say. ‘I just always make extra to save time.’

‘Of course,’ Pete says. 

I shove my phone into my front hoodie pocket as deep as my belly button. The train doors beep open. 

The young woman holds up three fingers. 

‘Well, thanks for pushing through today Tracey,’ Pete says. ‘It’s very appreciated, what with Maya and Gilbert off too. Although Gilbert still sent in a report from the hospital, which I have to say, is very Lydia Charles.’

‘Very,’ I say. 

‘Maya, on the other hand. Well, who am I to say when you should stop grieving, but it’s not very Lydia Charles to mope forever, now is it?’

Hmm, I murmur vaguely. I don’t want to say ‘No’ and put Maya in it, but I can’t disagree with Pete. I’m already on one strike for the time I picked up my daughter during work hours. The manual only allows time off if a dependent is ‘unwell,’ not if they’re ‘upset.’ 

‘Sorry, I didn’t quite hear you there, Tracey?’

I think of Maya. I think of my daughter. ‘Yes,’ I say. 

‘I’m glad you agree, Tracey,’ Pete says. ‘It can’t go on, can it?’ His breath rolls out of my phone like chlorine gas, silently choking my humanity. 

The new passengers are staring at me. Two workers and a woman in her 70s. Likely a Super Spender given the way she vigorously points to the no-speaking sign. I hold my index finger up, pleading for one minute. The young woman across the aisle holds up two. 

It’s then I see him: grey-haired, brow-beaten, paper in hand. It’s less common since the Directive, but I used to always wonder about begging on the train. Is it worth the cost of the fare? Is it better in cold weather? Do you target certain lines or parts of a line?

‘Tracey?’

‘Yes, sorry’.

‘I said, do you think I should give her one last chance?’

I look at the unemployed man shuffling up the carriage. I picture Maya in the same outfit. I wonder if she’d follow in her husband’s footsteps and commit suicide rather than face joblessness. 

‘That would be very Lydia Charles of you,’ I say. 

‘Yes, you’re right’, Pete says, cheerily. 

I exhale slowly. The young woman holds up one finger. The old man shakes his head, but I point to my watch. Even the over 70s - the retired Super Spenders - know the 7pm cut-off. 

But so does Pete. He’ll wrap up on time like he always does. 

‘Any plans for the evening?’ Pete asks. 

‘I’m ill,’ I say. 

‘Ah yes, silly question. Well, I’m off to the theatre. Got tickets to the monthly advertising forum. I imagine you’ll be tuning in, what with being stuck at home and all.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Also my daughter is 15, so she’ll be watching it as it’s…’ 

‘Excellent, very Lydia Charles,’ Pete interrupts before I can say ‘compulsory’. ‘Have a good evening, and see you in the office tomorrow. Bonne nuit.’

I sigh, my mouth so dry it tumbles into a cough. The old man shakes his head. The young woman raises her fist. The unemployed offers me his resumé. 

Beetle is a UK-based copywriter with a weird name. When he’s not writing words for other people, he likes to write weird, funny and dark short stories - mostly about everyday people in unusual situations or unusual people in everyday situations.