Advent Calendar 3rd December
Branch Lines
Paula Harmon
That winter was the coldest on record.
Every morning, we shuffled like
cattle on the station platform, our breath vaporising. Each of us hunched in
silence as our mobile screens studded the gloom until the train arrived.
Sometimes an old lady was already on board, sitting with pursed lips, clasping
her handbag. She glared out of the window, come rain or gloom, in cold
disapproval. Looking at my own reflection, I practiced my smile and lifted my
eyebrows. At least she didn’t talk. I dozed until London.
One Monday in December, the wrong
kind of snow meant we had to change trains. At some back country station, I
climbed directly into a ancient carriage dragged from old rolling-stock. Two
banks of high backed seats faced each other and on the other side, a corridor
led to other carriages.
There was another girl inside. She
was a little younger than me, wearing a tweed skirt, red coat and low heeled
lace-ups. Curls and a brown trilby framed her face. She had a sort of
uniqueness that I envied, sitting opposite in my anonymous corporate clothes.
Fiddling with a bracelet, she turned to the door.
Outside, the whistle blew and the
girl tensed. With a clatter, the outer door opened and a young soldier
collapsed onto the seat.
He held her face and kissed her.
Discretely, she nodded towards me.
‘Sorry miss,’ he said, lighting a
cigarette and removing his cap. The girl glanced at it, her face dimmed, her
smile uncurved. Muttering excuses about leaving them in peace, I made my way to
another carriage. A few stations later, we changed back to a modern train.
On Tuesday and Wednesday, the train
switched twice at the same out of the way stations. I rode alone, watching the
dark approaching fingers of midwinter outside.
On Thursday, the girl got into my
carriage again. Her smile was hesitant as she faced the door, touching her hair
and pinching her cheeks. But the train pulled off and no-one else entered the
carriage. She wilted then slumped. Her shoulders moved but her jaw tightened
and her hands only unclenched her bag for the seconds it took to find a
handkerchief and dab at tears. She was still trembling as we climbed down onto
the platform but she held her breath, gritting her teeth to keep from making a
noise. Before I could speak, she marched into the snowy gloom. I was standing
unnerved, feeling I could be anywhere or nowhere, when the curtain of whirling
white parted and the soldier grabbed my arm.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I thought you were… Look,
if you see her, can you give her this?’ He thrust a letter into my hand and
stepped away. When the station became visible again, there was just me and a
few other commuters on the platform herding towards the onward train.
I pushed the envelope into my bag. I
would give it to the girl tomorrow.
On Friday, everything was running
normally: no more corridor trains, just modern ones with no-smoking signs,
wi-fi and refreshments. I rushed from station to underground to office, somehow
still late.
Christmas was nearly upon us, but
although we exchanged cards with scenes of snow and ice, in reality, all we had
was rain. A slow grey muddy drag towards the festive season began. Memories of
young lovers and old fashioned carriages thawed and melted away.
One morning, the grumpy old lady
joined me.
As we went through a tunnel, I saw in
the window reflections that she was staring at me.
‘I recognise you,’ said the old lady,
easing off her gloves and tutting as the threads of one caught on her bracelet.
‘I often catch this train,’ I said.
‘No, that’s not it.’ Her lips pursed,
her brows crunched together.
She looked down at my phone’s
screensaver.
‘Your young man?’
I nodded.
‘I hope he’s not the sort to leave
and not say goodbye. Not the sort who’d never come back because of a row.’
She stared at the tracks outside,
branched at the points, disappearing around embankments.
‘They said the war was nearly over.
Why did they need him to fight?’ she murmured.
Her eyes scanned my face. ‘Your
family from this way?’
I shook my head.
‘Thought maybe I once met your great
grandmother or something.’ The old lady was silent for the remainder of the
journey.
A few days before Christmas, the
temperature dropped. First frost, then snow. Just enough snow to bring back old
fashioned trains. I could live with it. In the New Year, I would be starting a
new job nearer home.
At the back country station, the girl
sat down opposite and glared. In two months, lines had become etched between
her brows. She clasped her bag as if daring me to take it. I glanced at the
door but she snapped: ‘They’ve shipped out. He left and never said goodbye.’
At that moment, I thought my phone
vibrated and rummaging in my bag, felt a crushed letter. The girl, glaring at
the aimless snowflakes, had loosened her grip on her own bag. As I hesitated,
the train lurched and … a ration book fell out. My face went cold, then hot. As
she leant forward, I caught her arm.
‘This is yours,’ I said, handing her
the letter, ‘he gave it to me a couple of weeks ago, but I didn’t see you
again. I hope…’
There was a clunk under the carriage
and a pause. As she took the letter, the train changed direction. The girl
opened the envelope and when we stopped, I climbed out onto a different station
altogether. But the girl stayed reading the letter, her hands trembling.
That was the last of the old carriage
journeys. On my last commute to London, an old couple sat opposite me. He held
her face in his hands and kissed it before grinning at me and lifting his cap.
The old lady was the one I’d met
before, only she wasn’t grumpy. The lines on her face were soft, her mouth
ready to laugh.
After a while, her husband dozing,
the old lady said, ‘I recognise you.’
‘I’m often on this train.’
‘No, that’s not it. Your family from
this way?’
I shook my head.
‘Thought maybe I once met your
great-grandmother or something.’
She took me in, my hair, my face, my
corporate clothes, my bag, my mobile.
‘Your young man?’ she asked, nodding
towards my screen saver.
I nodded.
‘Terrible winter,’ said her husband,
waking up, ‘Like when we met, isn’t it dear? Teenagers, right at the end of the
war. Fell in love on this train journey, then fell out, nearly finished, but
somehow it came right in the end. Terrible winter, like being in a dream. Felt
like anything could happen. Felt like life could have taken one wrong turn and
ruined everything.’ He looked at me a bit closer, his faded eyes twinkling
through the glasses. ‘Were you once our postwoman?’
I shook my head.
‘Funny. I look at you and think of
letters. Can’t imagine why.’
I caught the old lady’s eyes.
‘Not a postwoman,’ she said, ‘just an
angel passing through. Keeping things on track.’
And she put her hand in his, put her
head on his shoulder and winked.
***
We hope you enjoyed day 3! Here's a bit more about Paula and where to find her:
Paula
Harmon
Paula Harmon was born in North London to
parents of English, Scottish and Irish descent. Perhaps feeling the need to add
a Welsh connection, her father relocated the family every two years from
country town to country town moving slowly westwards until they settled in
South Wales when Paula was eight. She later graduated from Chichester
University before making her home in Gloucestershire and then Dorset where she
has lived since 2005.
She is a civil
servant, married with two teenage children. Paula has several writing
projects underway and wonders where the housework fairies are,
because the house is a mess and she can’t think why.
It’s AD 190 in Southern Britain.
Lucretia won’t let her get-rich-quick scheme be undermined by minor things
like her husband’s death. But a gruesome discovery leads
wise-woman Tryssa to start asking awkward questions.
Can everything be
fixed with duct tape? Dad thinks so. The story of one man’s battle against
common sense and the family caught up in the chaos around him.
Secrets and
mysteries, strangers and friends. Stories as varied and changing as British
skies.
Christmas without
the hype says it is - stories for midwinter.
When Katherine
Demeray opens a letter addressed to her missing father, little does she imagine
that she will find herself in partnership with socialite Connie Swift, racing
against time to solve mysteries and right wrongs.
Short stories from
this world and beyond.
See you tomorrow!
No comments :
Post a Comment