Poppy Bird

Gemma felt jaded. She had been feeling this way for a while, it was something that always seemed to creep up on her at this time of year. The cold, long evenings were drawing in earlier each day, yet Christmas was too far away to look forward to.

She knew she was feeling down because usually she loved riding the Tube and tonight she barely noticed her commute home. She'd also taken her copy of 1984 from her bedside cabinet, an edition with a specially designed cover made by a friend of hers for a birthday a few years ago. That book always made her feel more alive.

Her eyes were lowered, absorbed in its pages as the Tube carriage hurtled her towards her home. She remembered how the first time she had read it she didn't get it, couldn't graps the concept - she was too young, too immature, not worldly enough. And she cherished the thought of the next time she read it, the time it clicked, the time it became her favourite novel.

Gemma became aware that she was being watched. She didn't mind, it was hard not to people watch on the Tube even though convention dictated you stare at your shoes until your stop.

She snuck a glance at her apparent admirer. He looked away immediately. He seemed to be around 21, with messy, dark hair and a pallid face that marked him out as a Londoner, probably from not far away from her. Content he was not a threat, Gemma turned back to her book.

A moment or two later, it was her stop. She alighted the train and hurried down the platform and up the stairs to the open air. She loved the feeling of relief when she reached the surface. Though riding the Tube was always an adventure she relished, it could be stifling, especially in the middle of the rush hour, and leaving was often the best bit.

Gemma fiddled with her bag as she walked towards the home she shared with a friend from university who had also gambled on a move to the big city after they have graduated a year ago. She had the feeling she had left something behind, perhaps a file from the office but she cast the nagging doubt to one side. It could wait until tomorrow, she reasoned.

After a couple of minutes, Gemma became aware she was being followed. There was a scurry of footfall a short way behind her. She lived in a quiet neighbourhood, tucked away around the corner from the Tube station, and often got home without seeing another face.

She assessed her options. She was too far away from the flat to start running. She could not take out her mobile phone to make a phone call, it would be just the sign her pursuer would need to snatch it, she wanted to avoid confrontation. Screaming was useless, nobody was around.

Gemma had lived in London a little over 12 months with few problems, but she knew plenty of young women who had been attacked trying to get home in the winter months.

Before she could decide what to do, the man was upon her. She sensed it was a man, the hairs on the back of her neck were on end and she ran over her plan in her head - a kick to his crotch and a thumb to each of his his eye sockets.

But before she could spin round, the man tapped her on the shoulder with a quiet "excuse me, miss". She turned. It was the young man from the Tube she had caught looking at her. He reached out. She flinched, but he looked hurt at her action.

Gemma realised he was holding her copy of 1984 in his hand. She also noticed he had a facial tic, but he was smiling at her nervously. 'I think you left this,' he said softly, and Gemma found he had a lilting Irish accent, she was wrong about him being local.

Relieved, Gemma shot the man a toothy grin and took the book from him. 'Thanks,' she said. 'I've got so many stories about this book, I don't know what I'd do without it.'

'I'd love to hear them,' he replied, with a hopeful look in his eye.

'I'd love to tell you about them. Shall we go and get a drink?'

Gemma was often impulsive and saw this as an opportunity she could not refuse. For a moment she had been sure she was going to be attacked and it turned out it was just a man doing her a massive favour. At the very least, she could buy him a pint and learn some more about him.

She took him to her local, her favourite pub in London, and they found a cosy corner to sit together. She shucked off her long, black coat, adorned with the poppy she always wore at this time of year.

They talked for ours, she felt herself coaxing this nervous young man out of his shell. Gemma had a good feeling about this, and as she took his hand and led him back to her flat, she was glad she had left her most prized possession on the Tube that night.

This story was inspired by the song 'Poppy Bird' by Bromheads Jacket.