Return Journey

He went to the only window in the small station. Of course there was no electronic ticket dispenser here. In this small town you bought tickets from a real person. She was sitting in a small cubicle on a swivelling chair that had seen better days. Her weight pushed the stuffing out through several tears in the fabric that covered it. She looked up when he approached the window and pushed the button so he could speak into the microphone. He nodded once. Single to Norwood. She hit some keys on an old-fashioned machine and tore off a ticket. It had been years since he had seen a ticket like this. He looked around to see if he could pay by card. That advanced technology hadn't reached this place either. He paid cash. She pulled the sliding tray under the window towards her, took out the money and threw in his ticket and change. He pocketed the change and felt the ticket. Thick, coarse yellowish paper about one inch by three like he remembered from when he was a kid and travelled to his grandparents every fortnight.  Elmkirk - Norwood it said in bold letters. And single fare under that in smaller ones. Apart from the price, that was all the information on it. He wanted to ask the lady if trains were running on time, but she had gone back to her magazine so he would only be talking to finger stained glass.

He walked to the door which gave onto the platform. There were only two tracks. He had to cross them to reach the platform where he could board his train. He was still feeling his ticket while looking at the signs on the platform. When he looked down at  the tracks he noticed how little used they were. The shiny strip that ran along the length was only half an inch wide. He had almost reached the other side when, very near, he heard the horn of a train. He looked up and saw it coming at him at full speed. How had he missed hearing it? Its horn sounded again, deafening. He jumped the final three feet to safety. When he was on the platform, he turned round and saw that he had narrowly escaped being run over by an old diesel engine. It was going so fast that he only saw its rear. It sounded its horn one last time.  The Doppler shift gave the sound an eerie, musical effect. His heart took its time returning to its normal speed. He tasted blood in his mouth. Had he bitten his tongue?

They had come up here by car - he, his wife and two kids. They had planned to spend a week in this remote part of the country to get away from it all. Both of them had been working much too hard lately and had seen too little of the children. They wanted to do things together, to be a family again. It had failed miserably. They had quarrelled, and as a result the kids had been demonic. Last night he and his wife had fought again and he had decided it was enough. Their plan had backfired, for instead of retrieving the old sense of intimacy it had only become evident that they  were now strangers. He would go back to their home a few miles outside Norwood. Both would try to answer the question if their marriage could still be salvaged. He had left the car for his wife and kids to use and come back in. He would go by train.

He spit into a tissue. It was a little pink, but he didn't think serious damage had been done. His tongue felt sore, though. He didn't think he would be able to speak much. He looked at the sign again. It was a flip-over enamelled one. Norwood and the time. A wait of fifteen minutes. Not bad, considering that only two trains stopped here every day and he had gone to the station without checking the times. He saw there were no overhead wires, so the only trains that could run down these tracks were diesel trains or steam trains. He had heard they were still used in some parts of the country.

All week the weather had been sordid but when he had woken up this morning the sun had been shining and by now it had warmed up nicely. He took off his coat and sauntered to a drinks machine. No one else was waiting for this train. He took a sip and felt his tongue where his own teeth had bitten down on it. The pain subsided quickly, though. When earlier that week his youngest daughter had grazed her knee she had not allowed them to forget about it for more than five minutes. He suspected his older daughter of making her sister fall deliberately. With a persistence that is characteristic of children the youngest had kept on about it. It had been typical of that week. Every little incident had been magnified by their inability to forget or forgive. Every tiny wound was kept fresh and raw. He didn’t see how they could live together again. They had forgotten how to.

When the train arrived he got on with a feeling of finality. As he had expected it was an old diesel train. There was a gangway and small compartments that sat six. As far as he could see, he was the only passenger on this train. He opened a narrow sliding door and entered. He put his coat on the seat opposite and sat down. There was a faint stale, musty smell. For the second time that day he was reminded of his grandparents’ house. Although he hadn’t seen a signal or heard a whistle, the train started moving. It wasn’t long before they had left the few buildings and houses of Elmkirk behind. He leaned against the headrest of the high seat. The bright sunlight warmed him. He dozed off.

When he opened his eyes, he realised they were pulling out of a station. For  a moment he panicked but he calmed down when it was clear that he hadn’t missed his stop. It had just been another small town. He checked his mobile to see if he had any messages, but of course he still had no signal. He had always assumed that the network would cover the entire country, but these parts were blind spots on the map. When he was putting away his phone, he caught a movement from the corner of his eyes. He looked up and saw someone standing in the gangway, trying to slide the door to his compartment open.  A young woman got in.
- Shall I sit here?
He nodded his consent. But why? He thought to himself. The entire train is empty, so why sit here? And what to make of the funny way she had phrased her question? She tossed her backpack in the overhead rack. It was an old-fashioned model, made of drab coloured material. With a smile she took off her coat and sat down.
- Hot!
Again he nodded, afraid that his sore tongue would make him sound like an idiot. While she opened the book she had been holding, he studied her. He guessed she was between twenty and twenty-five years old. She was wearing a pleated dress that covered her knees, a blouse with polka dotted lapels and a woollen cardigan. Her hair was done up in a style that he knew was called French pleats. The book she was reading looked familiar. He couldn’t see its title yet he knew that it was a book by Enid Blyton, called “The Boy next Door”. Now, how could he possibly know that? Which of the women he knew had been reading that same book?

Although he didn’t wish to be caught staring he looked at her again. There was something familiar about her, about her brown eyes, about her dark hair and especially about the curve of her lips. Her features, her mere presence, somehow made him feel good. The memory of the past few days – those horrible days – faded. In its stead a feeling of being at home, of belonging, came over him.

Then when she looked at him again, it came to him in a rush. Realisation swept over him. The impossibility of what he thought he knew was cancelled by her words:
- Do you promise to be a good boy when we get to Gramps and Granny?
- Yes Mother, he heard himself say.