How long has that evening train been gone

There is nothing uplifting about Coventry station. The trains that
pull into the grey windswept platforms provide the only colour, the
shivering of the morose soon-to-be travellers the only movement. David
was one of these.
He stood just under the last section of roof on platform 1 awaiting the
arrival of the (delayed) Intercity to London Euston, surrounded by his
worldly possessions and carrying his beloved bass guitar on his back.
He was running away.
He shivered despite the warmth of the June evening and glanced at his
many bags. In his jacket pocket he felt the tickets that would take him
on his adventure and smiled. If the train ever came. Not surprisingly,
it was late. 15 minutes late so far. Despite only having travelled from
New Street, stopping only at Birmingham International airport. He
caught himself. Calm down. It was the nerves. Maybe the guilt. It would
be here soon and he would be out of here. Safe.
He was just jumpy. Almost bumping into Mandy at Pool Meadow bus station
had given him the willies. If she had seen him she would have wanted to
know where he was going and why he had all his things and she would
certainly have wondered why he was alone. Luckily, he had spotted her
from a distance and ducked behind a group of Canadians tourists before
she caught sight of him. Using them as cover, he had escaped from the
station building and dragged his many bags up the hill, past the
University and cathedral towards the BR station, on the other side of
the city centre. Whoever had come up with the brilliant idea of placing
the bus and railway stations nearly a mile apart should be made to walk
between them for the rest of time like some pedestrian flying Dutchman.
The thought made him laugh. The destination printed on one of the
tickets was Hook of Holland.
As he was amusedly reliving his escape through the Lower Precinct, he
caught sight of the Intercity 125 pulling round the bend in the
distance. His heart rate soared, as he glanced across the platform
behind him. Maybe some part of him wanted her to come running through
the ticket-barrier, calling his name, begging him not to go. Would it
make any difference if she did? He sighed and picked up the assortment
of canvas and plastic bags at his feet. It was, he pondered, academic,
as the platform remained Helenless.
Shuffling down the platform to where the second-class carriages would
have spare seats he went to meet the oncoming train.

His bags stowed in any available storage space and his bass between his
legs, he sat opposite an elderly couple as the train pulled out of the
station. From his pocket he pulled a battered Matsui personal stereo
and headphones and proceeded to disentangle the lead. Seated facing
backwards, as he was, he looked up to take one last look at the city of
his birth. Just in time to see a girl with long wavy blond hair come
rushing on to the platform. Helen.