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Trevor was a serious artist. His art was small and plain and dark. His pallet was brown, like his shoes and his eyes. His pictures were sad like him, and his subjects were apples and plates and vases and flowers.
Then one day he ventured to the train station to paint. The engines were black and dirty, the people were busy and grey, and the noise was deafening, but Trevor heard sweet voices and painted bright colours and smiley faces.
‘Has the train got a name?’ I said, admiring the little green engine with the pink face. ‘Trevor,’ he said.
‘And the blue one with the tall funnel?’ I said. ‘Margaret,’ he said.
‘Why, that’s my name,’ I said. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘She told me.’
So Trevor and I became friends, and every weekday morning I would see Trevor at the station and ask him about his trains. He would tell me about the wonderful day that Trevor and Margaret had at the seaside or at the zoo, all the bright fun things they did, and all the fantastic adventures they had.
During the day, while I sold and sorted pants and socks and jumpers and bras, I would think about Trevor and Margaret and the splendid time they were having, the places they went and the other trains they met, and all day I would have a big smiley face.
In the evening, on my way home, I would pass Trevor at the station, still painting. I would be sure not to look at his canvas, in case I caught a glimpse of Trevor and Margaret and spoilt it for the next morning. That night I would dream about their next adventure and hope it came true.
At the weekend, Trevor and I stayed home. Every weekend, all the trains would rest in their engine sheds. Every weekend, Trevor’s palette would revert to brown, and he would paint apples and plates and vases and flowers and no smiley faces. Every weekend, my heart would stop.
July 18, 2023