Why Did Your People Want to Call You After A Railway Station?

Pickie had expected him to ask a little sooner. The men she dated usually did. She could hardly blame them. It was the sort of question you asked to get the conversation going when you first met a girl. This man was different. He measured his words and did not mind a companionable silence. He asked if she’d read anything decent lately and what she thought of the bistro’s décor and complimented her on her dress. They talked a little of politics: here, there and across the water. She wondered if he’d ever ask. As the meal progressed, the unasked question sat between them like an ever-expanding elephant.

He did, of course, eventually ask. Though they’d made it through a three course meal -soup for starters, lobster for main and finally, a lacklustre crème brulee- before he turned to Pickie and offered her a cigarette and said, as casual as anything, “Pickie’s a frightfully strange name. I’ve never met a Pickie before. Is it short for something or a kind of pet name? Do tell. I’m all ears.”

“Oh, it’s short for something,” she said, smiling, and even though, it felt a little demeaning, and she’d vowed she wouldn’t play this game again, she found herself adding, “I bet you can’t guess what it’s short for. There’s a kiss in it, if you do.”

“Pickwick. Pickles. Picket. Pickatine,” he rattled off, pausing between each to ascertain whether he was getting close.

“No,” she said after several minutes, “Looks I’ll be holding on to my kisses tonight. But I’ll tell you, seeing as you played along. Pickie’s short for Piccadilly. My parents named me after a railway station. I know, it’s ludicrous. Don’t ask why.”

Well, there was no stopping this fella then. He had to know. He had to ask. “Why did your people want to call you after a railway station? Although, fair dues to them, Piccadilly Circus has always been my favourite stop on the underground. It’s that moment when you come up the stairs and it’s like emerging from a deep dark cave, straight into the beating heart of London. The whole city’s waiting at the top of those stairs.”

Pickie knew exactly what he meant. She too entertained a certain fondness for Piccadilly Circus. She thought it had an unusual smell. She might have explained this to him, but instead chose to answer his question. “My mother went into early labour on the way home from a performance of the musical, Cats. Father and her were in the station when her waters broke and there wasn’t time to call a doctor or even phone for an ambulance. We slid out in a dreadful rush, right in front of lost property.”

“We?” he asked.

“My brother and I.”

“And is he also named for a railway station?”

“Yes,” I said, “you couldn’t name one and not the other. There’s always a certain symmetry about twins.”

“Circus?” he asked. “No, let me guess, Dilly?”

“Mani,” I said before he could go any further, “as in, short for Manchester.”

 “Oh,” he replied. His face looked like a fallen souffle. I knew, then there wouldn’t be future kisses. There wouldn’t even be a second date. I’d encountered his kind before: London boys, with London roots, who couldn’t see further than North than Enfield, who only had eyes for London girls.

Inspired by a line from Agatha Christie’s 1951 novel They Came to Baghdad