Fic: Platforms 1/?
She muses on why waiting for trains always sends a chill down her spine. Platforms are always cold, the wind is always a bitter one, it could be the height of summer, and yet, Miss Lopez would feel stone cold standing in expectation for her journey to begin. It is not, however, the height of summer, the milling bodies in the station bear witness to that; ladies with their fur trimmed collared coats and muffs, men with their collars pulled up and their hats angled down, all of them with their breaths hanging about them in the chilled air. It makes matters worse for Miss Lopez, even the distractions of Victoria Station do nothing to relieve the discomfort that creeps under her skin. The high arched ceilings, the regimented ornate pillars, the refreshment stand, do not hold her attention for long, neither to the polished porters or platform masters who go about their daily business with ease and efficiency.
She never enjoys the unsettling feeling of waiting for a journey to begin. She’s not a sentimental girl, but she can’t help but be transported back to the one journey in her life thus far that was not a welcome one. She despises dwelling on the past, it has no place in the future, but she can’t escape it in the present. She could have only been of ten when her father sent her to England, for an ‘education,’ ‘to better her prospects.’ In an age of social mobility and change, of industry, fashion, culture and of corruption, because no time is free from that tainting, it was required that she should make the journey from New York to Kent, to board and receive an outstanding education. Her father was the authority on the matter, she had no choice in it, her mother had no choice in it, he was, and still very much is, the master of her life. She hasn’t seen him since she was ten, yet the ritual task of writing means he is kept informed, a ritual that was very much imposed on her by her father, a ritual which she has attempted to discard but he has his ways to ensure that he always knows what his daughter is conspiring of.
It is her father’s doing that has her shaking with cold and anticipation on Platform Seven at Victoria Station, awaiting the 10.27 to Paris where she will then change trains to the Simplon-Orient-Express and commence her journey. A journey that has no real ending, or purpose, as far as Miss Lopez can comprehend, but it is 1925, there is not the need for necessity. Her father is a man of mode, the latest trend being high class travel, it is an indulgent display of wealth, one that will confirm he is still one of the richest men to tread the floors of Wall Street, and cynically it is a journey that will keep his daughter out of low society, sheltered a little longer, fresh after London’s finest finishing school, and before that straight out of Cobham Hall School. If Miss Lopez was fond of the romances of the Victorian era, of whom their heroines are suffering, fragile, woeful creatures, she would say she is similar to the caged bird, who flits and flaps to no avail and peeks out through the gaps at a world that is neither better nor worse than the one inside the cage, but simply bigger, unexplored. However she is not, she’s of her age, and although she is certain her father did perhaps not realise it, although he probably did considering he maps out her doings, when sending her to finishing school he was grooming her to be the girl that men fall on their knees for. Of course she has all the correct etiquette, the posture, she knows how to engage in courteous discourse, how to refuse unwanted advances politely, how to be a hostess, how to serve tea, and all the other prized and old honoured skills, but at the same time, this is the 1920s and the institute was well aware of it. Only the highest students received special education, Miss Lopez being one of them. Men of the age, want women of the age; fashionable, quick witted, flirtatious, worldly, in other words they wanted a well groomed vixen. Miss Lopez is certainly one. Knowledgeable bystanders will know she’s wearing the coat that was featured in this month’s Tatler, will see that she stands with an air of grace and respectability, will observe her disinterested, but pretty, face and remark that she is a girl of learning; the less knowledgeable simply know that they should doff their caps as they are in the company of one of the elite.
That is not to say that she is not met with hostility sometimes, she can see the doubt in some and the barely hidden disgust in others, years of isolation, of being ostracised in the days of Cobham has taught her that although she moves in well bred circles, she herself is not well bred. She is not the English Rose which surrounded her in her youth, their thorns pricking her constantly, she is the daughter of a gaucho, she is dark eyed and haired, her skin is not the pale sheet which blushes crimson at the merest thing. She is not the conventional beauty.
It is evident to Miss Lopez that people are initially put out by her looks, dubious about her respectability, she should not be dressed in the latest clothes but be wearing that black smock with that white apron and should be busying herself with that duster in their stately homes; but then after the formal introductions they remember hearing about the Lopez girl, isn’t her father big on Wall Street? How he did it is beyond them, isn’t he from somewhere in South America? How did he go into the stocks? How did he acquire so much wealth? She hears things, rumours, she wants to call them lies, but even she does not know how her father came to prominence; drug dealing, stealing, fraud, pimping, and other vices are suggested. She wouldn’t be surprised, they didn’t dub her Satan for nothing, if her father is the devil it would explain his fiery temperament, his ability to trick her, and to force her to walk along the pathway he’s set her on. Underhand dealings would explain the late night disruptions she vaguely remembers from home, the hammerings on the door, the mysterious late night telephone calls, hurried footsteps, whisperings that were not so whispered, the constant delivery of packages, the week long absences, the aloof returns, and once or twice she had been startled from sleep by a noise that could only have been a gun shot. She doesn’t need to know where he got his money from, and no one else does, the only matter of importance is that he’s got a fortune, and people with fortunes have power, and those with power get what they want.
A whistle stirs Miss Lopez from her thoughts; her stomach churns as she hears that slow chugging of a steam engine. The excited buzz around her does not stop her palms sweating from discomfort inside her leather gloves, she takes a steadying breath as a porter holds open a carriage door for her and assists her inside. Her journey begins.
Dear Father,
I am currently on the 10.27 to Paris from Victoria, it is a busy little train and even First Class seems somewhat cramped. I have been joined by a gentleman whom is also changing to the Orient, one Mr Schuester, I expect you know him. He did after all seem to head straight for me as though he had been given instructions to do so, and did not quite mask his knowledge of my trip well enough. It was no surprise to him that we both happen to be going the entire length of the Orient and both happen to be boarding at Victoria. He also showed no surprise at my breaking off of conversation in order to write you, and if anything looked pleased for my doing so - I am pleasant enough in conversation, so the only conclusion to be born out of this is that he is glad to see you dominate my thoughts. I am the ever obedient daughter. Your efforts to follow me on this journey does not phase me in the least, however I am a little offended that you hadn’t kept me guessing at your spies, Mr Schuester is so transparent that it is shocking I can not see the upholstery of the seats through him.
I must leave off now, not because I wish to engage in chatter with your man, but because I have nothing more to say to you, and anything I do not say will soon find its way to you. I may even save Mr Schuester the bother of postage and let him slip his report in with this.
Pass my love to Mother.
Forever your daughter,
Santana
She hastily folds her letter and places it in an envelope, scribbling out the address on the front, before staring out of the window at the passing English countryside, the blur of field upon field is almost dizzying.
‘You have finished your letter, Miss Lopez.’
‘I have indeed, Mr Schuester, I had little to write of.’
‘Please Miss Lopez, I insist on William.’
‘Well William, what brings you on this journey?’
‘Nothing except the joys of travelling, I’m a gypsy man at heart, but that’s between us.’ He flashes his perfect teeth at her, in an attempt to charm himself out of her suspicions. ‘What brings you here, Miss Lopez?’
‘I intend to join a circus in Constantinople. I have been in correspondence with the bearded woman there for some months now.’
‘Miss Lopez, you are a wit.’
‘So they tell me. Oh excuse me, would you do me the favour of posting this when we get into Paris, I’m afraid I will not have the chance to leave the station? Thank you.’
Santana hands over the letter to one of the attendants, pleased that she won’t have to write another for a few more days.
‘Do you write to your father often?’
‘Often enough.’
‘You are close to him? Forgive me if I pry too much, Miss Lopez.’
‘Do not apologise William. I am as close to him in heart as in distance.’
It is a deliberately ambiguous answer and she’s pleased to see Mr Schuester puzzle it to no avail. They sit in silence for the remainder of the journey the odd passing comment on the views outside the window break the suppressing atmosphere. It was going to be a long trip if he would insist upon sitting with her on the Orient; she takes pleasure in knowing she can escape to her own compartment and believes that is where she will spend the majority of her time.
By the time the train pulls into the station it is nearing four, there is a fifteen minute gap before the Orient arrives and she can board. Porters unload her luggage and place it on a trolley close by. She has managed to escape William who is having baggage problems; one of his cases seems to have been mislaid. She takes the opportunity to cast her eye over the passengers who will be joining her, if not for the whole way then in part. They all seem to be the cream of society, a few arrogant faces, a few foppish bodies, a few serious business men. Some passengers hold her attention longer than others; there is a woman and a young blonde with set faces, there’s a haughty superiority in the woman’s face and Santana smiles to herself when she sees the woman push her luggage trolley into a gentleman who dropped his paper on the floor, before verbally beating him into submission. He picks up the paper with a look of fear plastered on his features. The young girl looks apologetic, but it’s insincere. A brunette pushes past Santana, breaking her observations, with an entourage of porters, flashes surround her and Santana has to blink away the spots, a journalist is busy firing questions at the girl who beams at him as she responds enthusiastically.
‘That’s Rachelle Bérry, the famous cabaret singer, she’s big over here, the French adore their home grown.’ William has sidled over to her again, but she’s happy that he knows who is joining them; it’s hardly surprising as he’s probably been prepped about the passengers, who she’s allowed to associate with and who she is not. It doesn’t bother her, few things do, she enjoys observing people though, she likes to know who people are, not because names matter but because she feels an emotional attachment to them, it might be little odd but then she’s barely ever had any real friends.
‘Who are those two?’ She gestures at the pair she was watching earlier.
‘Ah, yes that is Countess Sylvester and Lady Quinn, her niece; they travel a lot, filthy rich, old money. Austrian.’ She sees him leer over in Quinn’s direction, there’s a twinkle in his eye that wasn’t there before.
‘You see over there? Chorus girls from America who have been doing the rounds, they’re a highly popular dance troupe, they’re all dazzlers. The blonde has a reputation: best dancer, biggest flapper.’ He tuts to himself, but she can see his eyes travel over the girls’ bodies, approving of what he sees. It’s clear that she shouldn’t be involved with them though as he looks at her and shakes his head solemnly.
They are all very much in vogue, their bucket hats hiding their immaculate bob haircuts, their heavy, yet fitted, winter coats halting Mr Schuester from seeing above mid calf. They are dressed similarly to Santana, she is the height of fashion herself, she has all the characteristics of a flapper, she was not of old schooled attitudes, yet these girls exuded pure vibes of liberalism, they were the epitome of the new breed. The way they stood oozed pure sexuality, and although Santana had been in Jazz Clubs, seen these types of girl in action, emulated their behaviour on certain occasions, during those ‘special education’ lessons of finishing school and at times when she had managed to sneak out, it had been nothing in comparison to the group of girls laughing a few feet away from her. The tall blonde holds her attention for the longest amount of time; she’s smiles at the girl next to her and shoves her playfully before pulling out a mirror and doing her lips in a dark shade of red. Santana can’t bring herself to look away from those lips, they curve up elegantly as the girl applies the lipstick, her stomach flips as the blonde smacks them together before shutting her compact and slowly twisting her lipstick back down, placing the lid on and burying them in her clasp again. She’s still transfixed on the girl when the whistle blows, her personal Orient steward has swept her luggage away, unbeknownst to her, and has now returned offering his services and showing her onto the train.