Between stations

The doors to the train opened and Daniel stepped inside, dripping from head to toe, his suit clinging to him like wet paper. The train was packed. It was rush hour and he made for the only empty seat he could see, a table seat at the far end, with an older man asleep against the window. The man was in his sixties, slightly balding and looked unkempt and a little dishevelled.

Daniel sat down, took off his suit jacket and placed it on the chair next to him. As the train started off again the man jolted awake. Daniel offered the man a quick, polite smile and was returned with a courteous nod of acknowledgment.

A silence settled between them, broken only by the lashing of the rain on the window and the general hum of noise in the packed carriage.

“Nasty weather,” the man said, his eyes fell on Daniel’s suit.

“And in a suit too.”

Daniel let out a half-laugh.

“Yeah, it’s really coming down out there.”

The man tilted his head, as though weighing something in his mind before speaking again.

“Special occasion?”

“A funeral. My father’s.”

The man’s expression changed, not to one of pity but something different, something more contemplative.

“My condolences,” he said solemnly.

“Were you close?”

Daniel shifted in his seat. He wasn’t really in the mood to chat, but the man seemed somehow lonely, like this conversation meant something to him, rather than just small talk.

“We were,” he said, mulling the words over slowly as he spoke them, “at least, we used to be. We drifted apart in the last few years, after mum died I felt like he pulled away from me. I always knew this day would come but I thought we’d have more time to reconnect before…”

He trailed off.

“He was always so busy when I was a child, he was there for me but I got the impression he wanted to be somewhere else. It was strange,” Daniel said. “Standing there listening to people talk about him. Stories I’d never heard before. Everyone saying what a good man he was. He worked away a lot and when he was home it felt like he was only half there. I know he loved me, but he had a strange way of showing it sometimes.”

The man didn’t reply straight away, but just sat back and listened as if contemplating over each word.

“It’s hard,” the man said.

“I barely knew my own father, and I have a Son about your age. I always promised I’d do better for him than mine did, but things get in the way sometimes. It’s true what they say, there’s no instruction manual on how to parent.”

He sighed and then continued.

“I lost touch with my son. Out of stubbornness or maybe pride, I didn’t want to be the one to reach out first. I can’t even remember why we stopped talking, we just did. Maybe there’s still time, maybe I can be the one to make the first move and say I was proud of him and the man he had become and I’m sorry.”

There was a silence between them, not awkward or unwanted but confirming there was something unsaid between the two strangers who knew next to nothing of each other but shared something so deeply personal neither of them really knew what to say next.

A few moments of silence passed as the rain battered the window.

Daniel watched the rain slide down the glass in crooked lines. Outside, the city drifted past in a blur of grey buildings and bright lights, people hurrying beneath umbrellas, heads down against the weather.

It had rained at the cemetery too.

The service had been short, almost painfully so. A few hymns, a few speeches from people who had known his father through work or old friendships, stories Daniel had never heard before. Standing there beside the grave, he had realised how little he really knew about the man everyone else seemed to remember so fondly.

His aunt had cried. A few of his father’s old colleagues had shaken Daniel’s hand and told him how proud his father had always been of him.

That part had surprised him.

He remembered standing there afterwards while the others talked quietly among themselves, the rain beginning to fall across the rows of dark headstones. Someone had pressed the folded funeral service program into his hand. He had slipped it into his pocket without really looking at it.

For a long time he had just stood there, trying to think of something he wished he had said, trying to remember the last proper conversation they had shared.

The trouble was, the memories that came most easily were the ordinary ones. Sunday afternoons spent sleeves rolled up, covered in oil, trying to fix the car. The smell of engine oil and cigarette smoke drifted through the open door and the sound of a football match on the radio somewhere in the background while his Mother cooked lunch.

Daniel used to sit on the step and watch him work, asking questions his father only half answered.

Back then it had felt normal. It was only years later he realised those had probably been the moments when his father felt most comfortable being around him.

Not talking.

Just being there with him.

Another memory surfaced unexpectedly.

Daniel was about ten, he’d gone trainspotting. He’d always loved trains and this one was special, this was the Flying Scotsman, Daniel’s favourite train. His Father had gotten up early on that Saturday morning, made a flask of tea and jam sandwiches and they’d driven out to a small station in the middle of nowhere. Sat in the car with the heating on, they’d laughed and joked together.

He’d later come to realise his Father had no real interest in trains, but he’d given up his Saturday morning and driven him just so he could see it rattle through. How many hours had he given up for what was a few seconds of seeing the train? for nothing, but the look on his Son’s face.

It was one of Daniel’s most cherished memories, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever told him.

The funeral had brought back memories he hadn’t thought about in years, moments that had seemed insignificant at the time but now carried a weight he hadn’t noticed before.

“He knows,” Daniel said.

“But it’s good to say it, in case there isn’t another chance. Maybe you can make up where we failed. If I had one last chance I’d just tell him how thankful I was for all he ever did for me. He wasn’t perfect but I think he did his best.”

The guard’s voice came over the tannoy announcing the next station and Daniel gathered his jacket, indicating his intention to leave.

“This is my stop,” he said.

The man reached out his hand, and Daniel shook it. The man’s grip was firm, and slightly cold, but somehow familiar in some way.

“Nice to have met you.”

“Daniel, I’m Jack.”

Daniel walked towards the carriage door and onto the platform, back into the rain.

Through the misty window and the crowd, he looked back into where he had been sitting.

Then the crowd shifted, and the seats looked empty.

He blinked, trying to focus through the fogged glass, but the view was blocked by the crowd.

The guard’s whistle blew.

The train lurched forward and began to disappear into the grey rain.

Daniel stood on the rain-soaked platform and watched it vanish into the distance.