Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

It was probably more like nine fifty when I got there. I should possibly have met her at eight. Maybe she never turned up.
     
I did not leave Manchester because my girlfriend stood me up, or because I was tired of working at not working. I decided to go to London and sell the three books I had inherited from my grandfather when I was eighteen. I had kept them for five years and could wait no longer. I could have sold them in Manchester but thought I would get a better exchange rate down south.

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On his back was a rucksack with three books in it, wrapped in bubbles. Two kids on the bench to his right gave each other their eyes. He walked towards the edge of the platform, and stopped on the safe side of the yellow line. His eyes squinted at the bright clouds and down the iron track, then up to an office block where early morning figures were moving around within window frames, probably cleaners, small enough to put in his pocket and take with him for doing jobs he didn’t feel like when he was rich. He looked back across the city, back to where he had recently come from in an eight pound taxi speeding through reds at dawn. He pushed his hair away from his brow with a slightly damp left palm. He turned away from where he had come from and looked back at the bench where the young couple had once been sat. He looked up at the VDU: due on time. 6:43 and 15 seconds 16 on the 17 digital 18 clock.
     
The taxi driver had said: “What time’s your train?”

      “Quarter to seven."

      “We’ll make it.”

      “Where you going? Hang on, another customer.”

The taxi pulled up at the bus stop. “Where you going, pal?”

      “Piccadilly.”

      “Train station?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Do you wanna share a fare with this gentleman?”

      “Okay.”

      “Where you going?”

      “Birmingham.”

      “Brum brum. Never been there. Where you going, mate?”

      “London.”

      “Done London twice, nearly did for me once.” Nobody spoke
any more until the car arrived at Piccadilly station. “Eight pound between you lads, please.”

       The customers split the fare, which was about two pound above average for a private hire going that distance, and the car sped away.  “Interesting journey,” said the man bound for Birmingham, offering his hand to the man going to London, who shook with his usual suspicion of friendliness.

        During the journey to London, his thoughts were muggy and his head felt heavy and vague with what he was leaving behind. He had to concentrate on what he was doing and where he was going. Simple things. Get on a train. Try to look forward. Get off train.

       He was almost certain he was trying to get away from something. Bad times were inevitable. Life was an ongoing preparation for dealing with the best and worst that might happen. He had bought a ticket the night before he left. He had packed a rucksack with some clothes and three books to sell In London. He would phone his parents when he got there. He had already posted a letter to his girlfriend, with news that she was his ex, before flagging a car that looked like a private hire and sitting next to some character going to Birmingham.

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Arriving in London felt like a journey to somewhere it might be impossible to leave. I sold the books for a total of twenty three thousand pounds and London was like Dr Johnson said it was in the eighteenth century. Ten months later I felt as if I had been robbed by an economic system that hadn’t rewarded my generosity. I caught a coach back to Manchester and hoped for the best.