Christmas Train

 

Kings Cross Station late on a
Friday night is not a nice place to be at the best of times. Kings
Cross Station late on the Friday night before Christmas is the worst
of times. He’d walked in through the main entrance, winding his way
past the homeless and stepping over the junkies and now he found
himself on the concourse. Even Burger King was closed. There weren’t
that many people around but those who were had gratefully partaken of
their employers’ Christmas generosity and free booze. They were
largely groups of young men, lively, confident and emboldened, their
shouts and laughter echoing in the cavernous emptiness, or swaying,
subdued and exhausted, silently shuffling to the train to safety,
warmth, home and bed

 

It was the last train out of
Kings Cross for York that night. In fact it was the last train out of
Kings Cross for anywhere that night. So that meant that everybody he
could see would be on his train. He wasn’t looking forward to the
long, dark and probably cold journey north. He’d tried to avoid
this train as he’d known it would be packed with noisy drunks, but
the call from San Francisco, just as he was leaving the office, meant
this was now his only option if he was to keep his promise to his mum
to be home for Christmas Eve. Despite the call he’d still hoped he
could get to the station early, but the call dragged on and on. He
jumped on the train at 23.42, a minute before departure.

 

Of course there were no seats.
Even the aisles were packed with people standing. He couldn’t even
read his phone. He had to stand by the door with his arms tightly by
his sides, breathing the beery exhalations of a stocky unshaven man
from three inches away whilst trying to avoid catching his eye. As
the train lurched through the night there was no way he could have
reached a handrail to steady himself, but the press of the other
passengers kept him upright.

 

Forty minutes later they
reached Watford Junction. There was the usual melee as seated
passengers, needing to get off, fought their way down the aisles with
briefcases and designer shopping bags, but it was noticeably easier
after that and he moved down the carriage where he had a little more
room, and stood holding onto one of those shaped, stubby, plastic
things they put on top of the seat backrests.

 

Then he hit paydirt. As the
train slowed down for Luton the plump middle-aged woman sat directly
to his left stood up and reached up into the luggage rack for a small
suitcase. For a moment he feared she would move towards him,
potentially giving another passenger the space to slip in to the
spare seat, but she walked down the carriage, away from him, so he
sat down quickly and began to make himself comfortable. He looked
around to reassure himself that he hadn’t stolen the seat from
someone more vulnerable, elderly or deserving. It looked OK. Hell, he
was forty-eight. How old did you have to be?

 

There was only one seat
between him and the window and he hadn’t had the chance to see who
was sitting there before he sat down. Of course, he could hardly now
turn his head through ninety degrees to check her out, but with his
head firmly face-front and moving only his eyes she seemed to be a
well-dressed woman wearing a knee-length black skirt with black
leggings and a peacock blue worsted jacket. She was reading a
newspaper on her tablet. Her clothing, soft hands and black varnished
nails hinted at youth and potential beauty. There was a long way to
go. Who knew what might happen? He was successful, wealthy and not
too bad looking. Maybe the journey would not be as arduous as he
originally feared.

 

He pulled down the flimsy
plastic table from the seat-back in front and propped up his phone.
What to read? He scrolled through his library. Ah! A book of short
stories by Ian Rankin! He was tired and didn’t want to have to
concentrate too much. He may even finish it before York.

 

He didn’t actually notice,
but a lot of people got out at Milton Keynes. Most of the seats were
still full but there was no-one standing anymore. He was enjoying his
book so he didn’t actually look up from his screen until they were
pulling out of Leicester by which time the carriage was only half
full at best. Now was probably a good time to go to the loo. Could he
be bothered? If he did he’d have to negotiate those stupid curved
sliding doors, and he never really trusted that the electronics would
ever let him out again. He pondered it for a moment then realised
that if he went to the toilet towards the front of the train then
he’d be able to get a look at his fellow traveller as he walked
back to his seat.

 

The toilet electronics were
kind to him and released him without a fuss. He walked back to his
seat as slowly as he could without looking like a complete idiot. He
took in flaming metallic red hair, accompanying pale skin, a grave,
serious but not unattractive face, probably late twenties. He
couldn’t assess her figure of course as she was sat down. He
re-took his seat and resumed his book.

 

A lot more people got out at
Derby. Now very few of the other seats in the carriage were occupied.
He began to feel a little uncomfortable sat in such intimate
proximity to his fellow traveller. He wondered if she might think he
was a pervert, a middle-aged man on an almost empty train, blocking
an attractive young woman’s access to the aisle and escape. He
wondered if he should change his seat. But how would that look? She
might think he didn’t like her or something. She might be insulted.
She might think he thought she smelled. She didn’t smell actually,
neither good nor bad. He couldn’t detect any perfume. He mentally
shrugged his shoulders and went back to his book.

 

It wasn’t until they were
pulling out of Sheffield that he realised that all the other
passengers had got off and that they were alone in the carriage. He
looked around the carriage again just to be sure. Yes, they were
definitely completely alone. This was crazy and actually quite
embarrassing. He’d have to speak to her now. As the train picked up
speed he tried to decide on an opening line. He had to pitch it so it
couldn’t possibly be taken as threatening, and given the bizarre
situation he didn’t want it to appear as if he was trying to pick
her up. He quickly decided he’d make a bland comment on the
weirdness of the situation and ask her where she was going. He turned
to her and opened his mouth, but she spoke before he could:

 

“I’m going all the way to
Edinburgh David. Yes, it is weird. You can talk to me if you like.”

 

She had crystal blue eyes and
spoke with a Scots accent. He liked to think he was something of an
expert on accents. He’d guess it was West Highlands, maybe even
Hebridean, but he couldn’t be sure.

 

“And yes, I can speak
Gaelic.”

 

She answered his question
while it was still half-formed in his mind.

 

He paused a moment before
answering.

 

“Why are you calling me
David? My name’s not David.”

 

“Charles then. It’s one or
the other.”

 

How the hell did she know his
name? He glanced down at his lapel. He wasn’t wearing his name
badge. Then he realised that if he had been she wouldn’t have
called him David. None of this made sense. He decided to bluff.
Smiling…..

 

“My name’s not Charles
either.”

 

“OK Charles, it’s not
Charles. Whatever you say.” She sighed and went back to her tablet.

They sat in silence for a
minute until he could no longer hold himself back.

 

“OK, OK, how do you know I’m
called Charles?”

 

She turned to face him, her
eyes strangely unfocused.

 

“Don’t worry, you’ll get
the promotion. Not this year but next. And she does love you, perhaps
more than you love her.”

 

“Who? Sally? What’s going
on here? How do you know all this? Is this some sort of
cold-reading?”

 

Her eyes came back into focus
and she looked him directly in the eye.

 

“I like you Charles, you’re
a good man.”

 

“What’s your name?”

 

She paused. She replied,
unnaturally calmly, as if trying to mask or control a note of panic
which would otherwise have betrayed her true mind.

 

“I’m sorry. I’ve said
too much. Way too much. The MoD would go mental if they knew.”

 

She grabbed her bag from the
floor.

 

“Can you let me out please?”

 

He stood up. She pushed past
him and scurried out of the carriage towards the rear of the train.
He started after her but then paused. What was to be gained by
following her? She was clearly distressed and there might be a scene.
And anyway, he had enough to think about. He sat back down in his
seat and was soon lost in his thoughts. How did she do that? Was she
a psychic? Did the Ministry of Defence employ clairvoyants? He didn’t
believe in rubbish like that. But he had a good friend, an otherwise
logical and rational accountant, who’d had his tarot read a couple
of times and had been amazed by what he’d been told. How did she do
that? Was she really a psychic? Did the Ministry of Defence really
employ clairvoyants?

 

He was so wrapped up in his
head that he didn’t notice they’d reached York until the train
actually stopped. He jumped up and hurried to the door, then stepped
down onto the dark deserted platform and started walking towards the
exit, still lost in his thoughts. He was half way down the platform
when the train began to move off. It was still going quite slowly
when he noticed a commotion from the corner of his eye. He looked up.
The train window was thick with December filth, but as it went by he
could just make out the girl. She appeared to be banging on the
window and was mouthing something. It seemed to be directed at him.
She was past and out of sight in seconds.

 

What the hell? This night was
getting weirder and weirder. What the hell was that all about? And
what was she mouthing? Was she trying to tell him something? He tried
to recall the shape of her mouth as she went past, but the window had
been covered with the grey muck of a deep Yorkshire winter. He
considered possibilities. It looked like “Worry” or “Tory”.
But he wasn’t a Tory. He supposed it could have been “Sorry”,
but what would she be sorry for? Maybe she was feeling guilty and
apologising for disturbing his journey home. He shrugged his
shoulders. Who knew?

 

Waiting for a taxi he noticed
the late night curry house outside the station was still open. He’d
eaten there several times and enjoyed it, and he was certainly
hungry. He considered it for a few moments but then dismissed it.
He’d better get home to his mum, she might be waiting up for him
and she was in her late seventies now. Similarly, as the taxi turned
into his mum’s road he noticed the pub on the corner was still
open. He was tempted to pop in, some of his old school friends might
be there, but no, they could wait, there was all of Christmas and New
Year for partying.

 

He let himself in quietly in
case his mum was asleep. He stepped across the hall and gently opened
the door to the front living room of the modest semi-detached. The
room was warm beyond cosy and his mum was indeed fast asleep, softly
snoring in her favourite armchair. The only light came from a fire of
glowing red coals. The evening newspaper lay on the carpet by the
hearth where it had slipped from her grasp as she dozed. He went back
into the hall to hang up his coat then went to the kitchen for a
glass of water. When he returned to the living room he saw a hot coal
had fallen from the fire and rolled across the hearth before coming
to rest on the discarded evening paper. The paper was glowing red and
he watched as the newborn flame took the first breath of its delicate
young life. Mum! He was always reminding her to use the fire guard!
He took the tongs and replaced the coal on the fire then placed the
newspaper on the hearth where the embers could safely die and do no
harm. That could have been nasty, he thought to himself, good job he
was here. Still, no drama, he’d dealt with it, no harm done.

 

He didn’t like to wake her
but thought he should. He knelt by the armchair and gently shook her
arm till her eyes blinked awake. She took a moment to get her
bearings then smiled and leaned across to hug him. She asked him how
his journey had been and he said fine and she asked if he was hungry
and he said he’d make himself a sandwich in a minute. She told him
about the call she’d had with his sister in Australia and he told
her how it was going with Sally. They continued their chat as they
moved to the kitchen and he made a ham and tomato sandwich which he
took to bed with a glass of milk. He made a mental note to remind her
yet again about the fire guard in the morning.

 

The next morning he woke late.
He knew from experience that his mind was at its most fertile and
creative in those morning minutes between gaining consciousness and
opening his eyes. He’d solved several work problems in this way,
and often during this time an idea for a short story or poem would
spring to his mind unbidden, so much so that if he was not in a hurry
he would deliberately keep his eyes closed to try to summon the Muse.
He kept his eyes closed and wrapped the duvet around himself. He
started to plan out his day. He still needed to do some Christmas
shopping then he’d probably go for a pint with the lads. Inevitably
his mind drifted back to his journey home the previous night and his
encounter with the girl. It made no sense. Sorry? Why would she say
sorry? He began to pick haphazardly through the alphabet of ‘orry
words. Borry, norry, porry, gorry…..nothing made any sense. What if
it hadn’t been an ‘orry word. Could it have been an ‘urry word?
He began to pick through the alphabet of ‘urry words, this time
more formally. Burry, durry, furry, gurry, hurry…… Hurry. Could
she have been saying “Hurry”?