Train Station The Begin, Passing Through or End of a Journey by Diana Lorenz, builders' tea

Kindness goes a long way and is much appreciated. Small change buy food and a scrap of dignity.

It is early afternoon and the train station is as busy as it gets. Judging by the passengers’ clothes it must be a hot summer day, inviting them to wear shorts or skirts. The smell of sweat, sun cream, and perfume tickles my nose. Despite the heat from the train station I’m cold from the inside out. I shiver, goosebumps creeping up my spine. I close the half zipper of my jumper. I’m watching her, the old lady with white hair and a beige handbag from last century. She struggled to disembark from a train, fighting with her bags and a large pink suitcase. The suitcase is festooned with heart stickers. She must have a grandchild who loves stickers. She is the most likely candidate for my purpose. She looks a bit lost in the big train station. Does she know how fragile her situation is? One small push and her bags will be unattended.

From the old lady my eyes fall on one of the pigeons walking between hurrying feet, scratching at the grey concrete for morsels of food. I envy them. Pigeons always seem to find enough to fill their hungry bellies, unlike Peter who tries to beg for small change. The passengers buy themselves mouthwatering baked goodies or the tummy-filling burgers, which Peter can’t afford. I see him nearby, dragging his feet in shoes that were broken a year ago. His trousers should have been replaced months ago and his coat can’t camouflage his tattered shirt. When he shuffles by my bench, he nods slightly in my direction. I don’t know what happened to Peter’s foot - was he born deformed, was it an accident, an illness? I don’t ask and he has never told me. I glimpse his hollow eyes that have seen too much and his matted hair that hasn’t felt the touch of a comb for days. He is not looking where he is going and trips over the old lady’s bags. To steady himself, he puts up his hand and leans against the train. He is lucky that the train is stationary. If it moved he would risk getting caught between the moving train and the gap of the platform. The old lady looks even more frightened as Peter lurches toward her. She opens her purse and thrusts some money into his hand. Peter looks confused then his face lights up and he shuffles back toward the food stands. I’ve known Peter for years now. He has a good heart even though he fell hard through no fault of his own. Regardless, he will remain overlooked by the people hastening by to catch a train in their polished shoes, with smiles on their faces and money in their pockets.

Watching Peter reminds me of Julia. When she arrived at the train station she was too young, too cheerful, too happy. She was a runaway. Running from poverty, neglect, and violence her dreams of finding a better life stalled out in a train station.

I’ve seen a lot over the years, but to see Julia’s spirit fade away hurt the most. A year of hunger, cold and heat took its toll on her young body, the wonder and hope in her eyes buried under despair that was always visible unless her body was shaken by nightmares. Her cheerfulness changed to frustration, then hate, and finally aggression. The pitying looks from the passengers changed to disdain and even loathing. People on the go to their holiday destination, to visit family or to work don’t want to be reminded of the dark side of life and society. They liked to pretend they had nothing in common with the hollowed out young woman who demanded money and spit at them when they refused as if they could never be as unfortunate as she.

One winter night, Julia collapsed outside the train station. She had become pregnant. But how can a body grow a child if the mum struggles to find food, has no basic hygiene, and the cold, grey, snow-laden, unforgiving winter sky is the only roof over her head. Red blood leaked out of her failing, broken body soiling the red hoody of a forgetful child. By the time the ambulance arrived, she was breathing her last.

After, a newspaper ran a story about Julia’s tragic fate. The good people of the city  honoured the young homeless woman with flowers and cuddly toys. What good to her after she had left this world? But even that small interest didn’t last longer than a few weeks. How quickly they forgot her. I will never forget Julia. I keep a shrine for her in my heart.

The old lady is still next to the train. She heaves a big sigh of relief after she had checked that all her bags are still there. Slowly, I get up and make my way to her. She looks at me warily, still upset by her encounter with Peter.

I’m grateful that people tend to lose things in train stations. The men’s jumper I’m wearing is on the big side but looks newish enough, the shoes are on the small side, but they are better than Peter’s,  and my jeans don’t have holes. My clothes make it easier to mask what I am.

The train starts to move and I grab the old lady’s arm to get her away from the abyss.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask.

‘I need to catch the 5:15pm connection train to the airport.’ The old lady’s pleading eyes rest on my wrinkled face. I see the unasked questions in her face. She's wondering if I'm like Peter, assuming he was a threat when he was only needy. I don't want to explain my situation.

‘Me too,’ I lie. ‘This way. I’ll take some of your baggage.’ I muster a smile and before she can protest, take the suitcase and one of her bags. She’s still clutching her beige handbag.

‘I normally don’t trust strangers.’ She’s forced to follow me or risk her luggage disappearing.

We walk across the train station - a fair distance - and for once, the train is on time so I quicken my pace. I can hear the old lady hurrying after me, breathing heavily.

‘Here we are.’ I help her onto the train. She falls onto a seat, trying to catch her breath.

‘Are you sure this train is to the airport?’ she asks me, but looks at the man sitting across from her. He’s wearing a neat suit and has a respectable haircut. He’s probably had a shower only a few hours ago and after that probably a healthy breakfast with coffee and fresh squeezed juice.

‘No worries.’ The man takes his cue. ‘You are on the right train.’ He gives the old lady a warm smile. He has sparkly white straight teeth.

I’m quite certain that the conductor will not check tickets so I stay near my prey.

Shortly, the train ride is over. Before the old lady can stand I take her bags  and step off the train.

‘Where are you flying to?’ I ask, guiding her to the escalator. She looks towards the lift. I hate lifts and before she can protest I’m on the escalator, her suitcase in hand. I turn around and see her step tentatively on it as well.

‘Ireland,’ she says. She seems to have relaxed, trusting I won’t disappear with her luggage. ‘My daughter moved there a couple of years ago. I’m on my way to see my grandchildren again. This is the first time I’m flying alone.’ I step off the escalator and wait for her to catch up, expecting her to tell me her whole life story. But she looks tired as if she just wants to be done with her journey.

After two more questions I know which airline we need for the suitcase and larger bag drop off. We make our way there and in no time at all we have the old lady’s luggage checked in. I show her the way to the security and then it’s time to say our goodbyes.

‘Thank you so much for your help.’ She looks at me uncertainly. ‘You don’t work for the airlines, do you?’ I shake my head, trying to keep my face neutral and unthreatening.

‘Thank you,’ she says again and I start to turn away. ‘Here,’ she says. A crumpled bill and several coins in her outstretched hand. ‘Have yourself a cup of tea and maybe some pastry.’ She turns and is gone.

I look at my hand and nod. It’s not much, but it will buy me some food and a shower. The airport is not the worst place to have a snooze and maybe I can find someone here who needs help navigating the train service, carrying their bags – my next target.

Begging has never appealed to me. I learned a long time ago that offering a service to vulnerable people and some kindness buys me the food I need and my dignity. I prey on their fragility and sometimes they pay me not only with their small change but with kind words and a smile that warms my belly and my heart. 

About the author

Diana Lorenz, grew up loving stories. Her inspiration comes from controversial societal topics. She loves writing short stories and works on a children's novel. 

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