Getting Home

Thursday Afternoon. I was walking to Portrush train station in the rain. I had been clubbing the night before and all I had left was the price of my fare home.

The bright yellow and blue golfing brolly I was currently struggling against the wind to keep, must have made me look a sketch to anyone watching from their window; I felt stupid. I had stayed the night at a friend’s and, instead of lending me a coat to wear to the station this was all I’d got. Halfway there I gave up and closed the umbrella. I walked down the street tapping it off the ground like a London gent, all I needed was the top hat to tip to passers by, not that there were any out in this weather.

Despite the oversized umbrella I was soaked before I reached the station. All I had to look forward to was the tin overhang of a roof to get me out of the rain while I waited. The roof always let the cold coastal wind blow under it and made standing in wet clothes even more uncomfortable. I wished that the station had a room with a coffee machine and a heater where I could get warmed up.

I walked through the gates into the grounds of the station to find that the ticket office and the gate onto the platform were both closed. There was a sign up saying that the line to Coleraine was closed for maintenance. How was I going to get to home now? It would have to be by bus. I hated travelling by bus.

I walked to the bus station back the way I came. It wasn’t far and the wind had died down a little so I was able to put my umbrella up again. I made the station just as the Coleraine bus was leaving. I waived it down as it came out through the gates. The doors opened and I got on board.

“Coleraine train station,” I said digging out my change.

“One fifty,” he replied.

I picked the fair out of the mass of silver and copper in my hand and put the little I had left back in my pocket.

I looked down the bus to see that it was almost full. I walked up the aisle to the only free double seat.

The rain in my jeans seeped through to the seat and I could feel the my skin numb and chaff. As I looked out the window I realised that we were taking the long route around the coast through Portstewart.

From the window at the west strand beach looked miserable. High waves and battering rain. It made me think of that Christmas song "I saw three ships go sailing by" that's what I always imagined the sea to look like in that song.
A few days ago the beach had been filled with body boarders and sunbathers but not today not in this weather. And I thought it was summer.

The first stop was a caravan park on the edge of Portrush. Two girls wearing ill chosen summer clothes ran for the bus. They seemed to have been waiting for it under one of the trees at the edge of the park due to there being no bus shelter. I recognised them from the year below me in school. They hated Catherine, and she hated them: she hated everyone but me. No one was talking to her anymore and our friendship seemed like something she had to have rather than wanted. I was glad to be going home.

As they walked up the bus towards me I realised that I didn’t know them at all.

The bus stopped at all the caravan parks along the coast and it was practically empty by the time we got to Coleraine Train Station.

I jumped off the bus in time to see the train pulling into the station.

I hurried through the front entrance and up the man at the barrier.

“Ballymena please,” I said.

“Four eighty,” he said.

“Four eighty? I thought it was only six quid from Portrush to Ballymena?”

“It is but this is Coleraine,” he said looking puzzled.

“Yeah, but I had to get a conecting bus.”

“There is no connecting bus,” he said shaking his head.

“I’m fifty pence short, could I not just get on anyway? I mean, the buses and trains are owned by the same company aren’t they?”

“Sorry, no can do,” he said shrugging, “you could get the next bus, it’s only four quid.”

“When’s the next bus?” I asked.

“Dunno lad, time tables are on the wall over there.”

I walked slowly over to the bus timetables. I knew the next bus wasn’t going to be anytime soon.

I found the right chart and scanned down the Monday to Friday section. The next one wouldn’t be for another two hours. I was so annoyed. How could I be so dumb? The hangover, that must be it.

I sat on the bench and counted my money. I put the bus fare to the side; that left me thirty pence in silver, it was enough to phone home and ask if someone could meet me from the train.

I found a phone and put my money in. I had dialled the first few digits of my home number when I realised, why didn’t I just stay another night in Portrush? It wasn’t as if there was anything I needed to hurry back to.

I pressed next call and redialed. The phone at the other end rang for ages but no one answered. Then a woman’s voice came on the line:

“Sorry but the person you are ringing is unavailable…”

I hung up and waited for my change but it never came out. Yet another great money making scheme by BT I thought.

The phone rang. I rushed to answer it.

“Hello is Karen there?” a voice asked.

“No,” I said annoyed. “Is this Catherine’s flat?”

“Who’s Catherine?” the voice asked.

I hung up, Karen wasn’t here. The only person in this whole station was me.

I sat down on the bench and watched the train for Ballymena roll off down the platform. A cold wind swept under the tin awning of a roof and made sitting in my wet clothes even more uncomfortable.

(First published in the Christmas edition of Delivered magazine).