The winner of the March Short Competition
was
Journey
by
Daniela I. Norris

He'd been waiting on the platform for five or six hours. He was dishevelled. His clothes were too big, and his black hair uncombed.

"The train is late, huh?" asked a man who'd just arrived on the platform, carrying a brown, battered case in his left hand. His right was searching for the return-ticket in his jacket's inner pocket. The boy just stared ahead, not bothering to answer.

"A bit rude, young lad, not to answer an adult when he's asking you a question," said the man, his hunched shoulders suddenly straightening, adding an inch or two to his stature. The boy shrugged, and kicked a small stone down into the rail-pit.

"No luggage, eh?" the man insisted. "Waiting for someone?"

The boy looked away from the man, away from the platform, into the distance. A few old houses, built right by the tracks, were visible. The once-white paint was now a nondescript shade of brown. Even from a distance, it was visible that no one lived in those houses – the open doors swung backwards and forward in the warm afternoon wind, the window frames like hollow eyes, staring onto the rails.

The man gave up, and looked for a place to sit down. There was a wooden bench on the far side of the platform, and he made his way towards it, limping slightly. His bag rocked in his hand with every step he took. When he reached the bench, he sat down and took out a plastic bag from his battered case. He opened it, and produced a sandwich wrapped in wax paper.

The boy looked from the corner of his eye, watching the man slowly unwrap his sandwich.

The man looked at it carefully, examined the contents and brought the unwrapped sandwich to his open mouth. Just before his teeth closed on it, he noticed the boy staring. He put the sandwich down, motioning with it towards the boy as if asking – would you like some?

The boy's eyes darted away and focused on the tip of his own shoe, embarrassed that he was caught staring.

"Don't be shy, lad, have a bite to eat," called the man. Wads of his thin hair were blown by the afternoon wind, exposing a vulnerable, balding scalp.

The boy raised his eyes for a split second and looked down the tracks only to look away again.

"Suit yourself, lad," said the man and bit into his sandwich. A drop of tomato juice leaked from the sandwich onto his light spring-jacket, staining it with a small, red circle. He ate his sandwich slowly, chewing every bite, curiously examining the boy who stood on the same spot, staring at the rails.

Another passenger arrived, an elegantly dressed elderly woman. She was dragging a small suitcase, her hair protected from the late afternoon wind by a green scarf tied under her chin.

She stopped and balanced her suitcase against the wall, then nodded in greeting at the man. He nodded back.

"The train is late?" she called towards the man, who jumped up, happy to have found someone to talk to. He shook the crumbs off his trousers, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grabbed his case and approached the elderly lady, his limp more pronounced this time.

"Yes, ma'am," he said cheerfully. "Been waiting for nearly thirty minutes," he added.

"Oh, I was worried that I missed it," said the woman in a soft voice, troubled about disrupting the silence around her.

"No, ma'am, should arrive any moment now. These trains normally run every half-hour, I reckon."

The lady smiled at him, relieved. Her hand played with the pearl brooch pinned to the lapel of her taupe jacket. He thought that she probably dressed like that especially for the journey, as elderly people often do when travelling.

"I'm not from around here, myself," said the man, "Been looking at a place for sale here in town, a good old pub. Hasn't been operating for years. You see, I'm retiring this year and it's time for me to do what I always wanted to do, renovate and open up my own pub, sit behind the bar and serve beer, have a good chat with my clients."

"Sounds like a wonderful plan," said the woman.

"The missus died six years ago, daughter all grown up and moved to France, so I'm looking to do something new, away from the stress of the city, you see."

She nodded in understanding. They both kept quiet for a few moments.

"The train is late," the lady commented, and sighed deeply. The man nodded, and scratched his head, looking for something appropriate to say.

"Yorkville seems like a nice little town," he finally said. "Far from the station, though.
Took me twenty minutes to walk here, couldn't see any buses or taxis," he added.

"I live close to the station now; wouldn't want to miss the train again," said the lady.

"That's my house, right there," she added, and pointed to one of the abandoned-looking houses, a few hundred yards away.

The man thought that a little strange. Perhaps she isn't as well-off as it seemed from her elegant clothes. Or maybe he misunderstood. He looked at the boy again. He still stood in the same spot, hands in his pockets.

"Strange young man," he whispered to the elderly woman. "No luggage, doesn't say a word. Quite rude, the youth these days, really."

"Oh, him," she said. "He always comes here. Likes to look at the tracks. His father used to work here, at this station. Horrible way to die, really. Fell right onto the tracks, the poor soul."

"That's terrible," said the man, suddenly feeling guilty for scolding the boy earlier. "What a shame."

"The train is late," said the woman, arranging a few hairs that had escaped from underneath her green scarf. She rubbed her eyes, as if bothered by the warm wind. She sighed again.

"I will go and check the timetable," said the man, gallantly. "I'll be right back."

He left his case on the platform, right next to the elderly lady, and walked inside the small station. There was no one around, and the ticket booth was closed. In fact, it looked as if it hadn't been open for a long time, thin cobwebs stuck to the edges of the window seal.

He looked around for an updated time table, but couldn't see one. He glanced back to make sure the train wasn't approaching, and decided to walk outside the station, to look for someone to ask about the timetable. Just as he stepped outside, he saw a man in his thirties, wearing blue overalls, approaching on his bicycle, pedalling slowly.

"Hello, sir," he called to him. "The train is late."

"Excuse me?" said the man, who now reached the entrance and got off his bicycle. He rubbed his hands together, to dry them from sweat.

"The train is late; do you by any chance know the timetable?"

The man looked at him and blinked once or twice, thinking about his reply.

"The train doesn't stop at this station," said the man. "Hasn't for ten years."

"But, sir, you are surely mistaken. There are two other passengers waiting on the platform!" exclaimed the older man. "We've been waiting for nearly an hour, now."

"Never seen a train stop here, and I've been cleaning here twice a month for six years," said the man, leaning his bicycle against the wall. "After the accidents, they shut it down. Said it wasn't safe, and there was no money for renovations."

"Accidents?" asked the older gentleman. The man in blue overalls nodded.

"First, the station manager's son chased his ball, then fell onto the tracks and got hit by the approaching train. Died on the spot, poor boy. A week later an old lady who was late for the train tried to get on it as it started moving, and got dragged a hundred yards before they managed to stop the train. It was too late for her. They shut the station down, and diverted the train through Liphook. Not enough people in Yorkville to need a station now, anyway."

The older man stared disbelievingly. He rubbed his head in confusion.

"I better tell the other passengers on the platform, then. We must find a way to get to Liphook!" he said, and started back into the station. The younger man followed him, with a bemused look on his face. The two men walked through the empty station, past the closed ticket window and towards the platform.

"I see no one, sir," said the cleaning man, suddenly distancing himself from the older gentleman. "Is that your case, there, on the platform?"

The elderly man stopped and looked around him in wonder.

"That's impossible," he said. "They were just here, both of them."

He looked around again, but the only thing he could see on the platform was his battered case, and dust flying around in the warm wind.

"I'm afraid there's no public transport from here to Liphook," said the younger man. "It's a twenty-minute walk back to Yorkville and then a bus to the Liphook station."

The older man was speechless. He stood on the platform for a few moments, the warm wind playing with his thin hair, blowing it from side to side. A green kerchief fluttered around in the wind down on the tracks.

The cleaner nodded apologetically and stepped inside the station. He unlocked a door with a key he produced from the pocket of his blue overalls and took out a broom and a bucket. He put the bucket to one side, and started sweeping the floor.

The middle-aged man picked up his case, and without uttering a word started limping away from the platform, towards the exit.

© Daniela I. Norris 2008
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Daniela I. Norris is a former diplomat and adviser to one of the Permanent Missions to the UN in Geneva. Now a writer and contributing editor with the Geneva Times, she is currently working on her second novel, set at the United Nations

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