I used to
lie there and wonder who the people on these late night trains were. In my mind’s eye, I could see the sallow skinned
teenagers with their speakers, their street music, the cider cans in the
fingers of the boys and the hoop earrings on the hard faced girls. Their noise would disturb the exhausted
professional who having worked late and, not ready to face home, had stopped
for a gin and tonic and another and another, until the last train was
called. I also imagined a high class
crowd on their way back from a night out, the women in cocktail dresses, the
men in designer jeans and shirts. They’d
be buzzing from their night out, telling jokes, maybe planning to go somewhere
for a nightcap. In contrast would be the
nurse going to his nightshift. As he
listened to tunes with closed eyes, he’d be worrying about who was going to
come into A&E and desperately hoping that tonight at least, no-one would
insult him or spit on him.
Perhaps I
saw in my reverie, the woman sitting on a window seat, staring out at the
blackness with an enigmatic Mona Lisa smile.
Every now and then she checks her reflection in a little mirror. She sucks on a mint. Her eyes are deep with racing thoughts, her
red tipped fingers are fidgeting, her feet encased in long boots. She is protected from the cold by a long
coat. I can see her now, getting up
eagerly as soon as the station is called.
She passes the boisterous teenagers, the tired professional, the
revellers and the anxious nurse, some of them look up, others do not notice. No-one watches as she alights onto the
platform. There’s a man waiting for her
at the other side of the barriers, leaning against the wall smiling
broadly. He takes his hands from his
pockets and holds out his arms as she runs to him.
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