The Train

The Train

Today is my eighteenth birthday, and my mum and dad were shouting at each other again. My thoughts turn to an old photograph, full of promise on the mantelpiece. My mother in her wedding dress, simple and white. Father holds her arm. The sunlight surrounds them. Happiness glowed from his unwrinkled face. That was before the drink took over, and the battles to keep the roof over our heads and food on the table began.

They make so much noise I can’t sleep, meaning there’s no point in staying in bed. If I could leave, I would, but where would I go? Dressed in my old but warm clothes, I left the house. The early morning fog loomed as far as I could see. It shrouded everything in a thick white veil, the light barely managing to penetrate the haze. The sound of birdsong that should have filled the air seemed to have disappeared.

Lost in thought, I strolled along the lane to my secret place: the old station. Long forgotten, vandalised and surrounded by trees of every type. The platform was still there. Weeds grew unchecked through the concrete slabs. Thieves had taken the single track for scrap years ago. The station master’s office and tiny waiting room no longer had the charm of fresh green paint. In those days, the lamps outside were bright, with polished brass and window boxes full of flowers. The old coal fire and grate were still there because no one wanted them.

With no breakfast, my stomach rumbled. Later I would wander across the local cafe and do whatever jobs they had waiting for me. The young couple who owned it never made much money and paid in kind. I ate well.

I loved my station, the peace, the quiet and the solitude. Here I could dream of another life. I found my makeshift seat and sat. From the fog came a figure so bundled in a thick coat that, at first, I could not tell if it was a man or a woman. Who was this person entering my space? For a moment, anger filled my mind. Then I saw her face peeking out of the fur-lined hood, and her hands were inside a black fur muff. She appeared to be my age. There was something about her. Not beauty exactly, though she was pretty. More a sense of confidence and certainty, as though she belonged entirely to another world, one where people knew who they were and where they were going. Her cheeks were red from the cold, and her black hair somewhat hid her eyes. She offered the polite smile of someone trying not to show their nerves, and spoke with a well-educated voice. “Have I missed the train?”

I stared at her. “This station closed fifty years ago.”

“Don’t be silly. I was here yesterday seeing my husband off. He is a lieutenant in the Blues. I stood at this exact spot watching Reginald climb into a first-class carriage.”

The fog thickened, but the weeds were gone, and a fire blazed in the waiting room. I rubbed my eyes, but nothing changed.

“Because of this dammed fog, he told me not to get cold and stay in the waiting room. And so, I stood there watching him go, knowing I might never see him again, and then the whistle blew, and he was gone.

This morning I told mother I was going to London to be with my Reginald a little longer. Young man, you are not wearing a uniform? Are you employed by the railway?”

I went to say no, but she continued talking.

“My bags are at the entrance. Be a good chap and bring them here.”

To appease a strange woman, I strolled to the entrance. To my surprise, two brown leather suitcases with straps lay on the ground next to the gate. My mind whirled; when I arrived, there was no gate. I picked up the cases and carried them to her.

She nodded, said, “Thank you,” and took out her purse, opening the hasp on top. “Damn double damn,” she said, “I have no small change. Here, take this.” She handed me a coin.

Stunned, I shoved it in my pocket. Then I heard it, the distinctive clatter of a steam train, out of sight, but I could hear and feel the engine. I could even smell it. The sound grew louder. Metal rattled against metal. Somewhere, a locomotive released a long, mournful whistle. The platform trembled beneath my feet. My heart hammered as shapes emerged from the fog, first a glow from the headlamp, then the dark bulk of the engine itself. Steam blurred my vision, and smoke made me cough as I stepped back into the waiting room. The train stopped.”

“Young man, I have not got all day. Please put my bags into that first class carriage.”

Confused, I did as she asked. Helped her into the carriage and shut the door with a bang. “Sorry.”

From the rear of the train, a whistle blew, and in a cloud of steam and smoke, it trundled forward.

I stood alone on the empty platform. Weeds surrounded my shoes; there were no railway lines or station building. All that remained of the old steam train was a faint smell of smoke, a shift in the air. What had it been? A memory come alive, a hallucination, a temporary insanity? Time to forget it, I thought, and go to the cafe for a cup of tea before I started work. But walking back along the old station road, I stopped to pass the time with old man Joe. Long before I was born, he was the stationmaster I had often stopped to speak to. On impulse, I asked him if he had heard any strange noises coming from the station.

“Funny you should mention that. You’re not the first one to ask. Some say it’s the train which fell into the river when that iron bridge collapsed. Never heard it myself. Something to do with the war, they said.”

I told myself not to be so silly and set off again for that cup of tea.

The cold bit into my hands as I shoved them into my pockets. My right hand touched the coin. I pulled it out and stared at a gold sovereign dated 1915. For a long moment I stood there. The sovereign felt heavy in my palm. Across the fields, carried on the wind, I thought I heard the distant whistle of a departing train.