Leaves on This Line

He sat in an alcove at York.  The train slowed as the engine passed him. A, B, C, D… he counted, somewhere towards K he saw the train manager, leaning out of the window and waving to a colleague on the platform.  The crouching man waited for doors to open and passengers to create a crowd, then he nipped in a door behind the buffet car, hoping that the staff had not seen him.

He had no ticket but he had a plan.  His plan was to visit a relative before she dies.  He had not been to London in seven years but time was gnawing at him like the dilapidation of a cord suspending his old certainties.  If he didn’t see her soon, she would die without ever knowing what had become of him.

The train jerked slightly as the couplings took the strain.  He crouched in the toilet for as long as he could without raising suspicion, then straightened his jacket and headed for the canteen.  For a man with no pennies to feign interest in purchasing cakes and soups and lager it is necessary to pretend one is in the habit of taking such acquisitions nonchalantly.  The fact was, the last thing he had eaten was a pizza crust out of a box he had found in a bin eleven hours ago, weekends being ripe for such fare.

‘Can I help you, sir?’  The grizzled but friendly chef de partie enquired over the branded goods.  ‘Nah, cannae make up ma mind,’ he said.  ‘Cheers anyway.’  A turn, and then a turn again, ‘och, aye: can I take a bag, for ma rubbish?’

‘Certainly, sir.’

He took the proffered  paper item and puffed it out as he turned away.  Passing the guard with a carefully held bag full of possibility, the man took a seat behind the direction in which tickets were being checked.  A company magazine opened upon the seat beside him, his used paper bag crumpled on the fold-down tray, the brazen stowaway closed his eyes and slept all the way to King’s Cross station.  And thus, by taking his chances, his relative found the answer to her prayers.