Matthew loves trains, the best and only way to travel. The onboard tannoy alerts, engines discharge and the carriage shudders into life. He sits back into the release, massaged by the rhythm, pleased with his decision. Once out of the tunnel, shifting terrain demands his attention, nose pressed to the window. Houses shoulder to shoulder and car cluttered arteries transform into scruffy pasture and tracery of hedgerows. There’s company at his table, though that can be a mixed blessing.
It was spur of the moment, not put in the diary as required, and not shared with anyone. He was on one of his wanders, passing by the station. Kate came crashing into his head and his heart scrambled humdrum thoughts into long-erased desires. Memories of picking her up off the train, that must have set him off. Whimsical weekends to be played out just for them. Too long. He needed to see her, be with her. The Free Travel Pass, and the few euro for a cup of coffee and the newspaper, were enough to get him on his way. That was all they left him with these days.
She has the look of his grandmother, the woman across the table. The hair done in bleached curls, the make-up generous in its application, and the disciplined order to her outfit. It’s as if it is his granny sat opposite, watching over him again. There’s that same distant strained look in her eyes, not quite in tune with an amiable facial expression. As if holding back a store of pain. An inevitable fate, pain, once time has had its say. He knows that now. His granny had gone that way early, forever mourning a soulmate taken too young.
Every summer, as soon as the school gates closed, he’d be packed onto the train. Hair blown wild in the wind as the train rattled gleefully across the country. That’s his memory of it. Granny would be waiting, dutifully to attention beside her grey Morris Minor, those sad eyes set behind the smile that drew him to her. Always in the same place, just by the station door, a woman of stoic and insistent habit. Not one for hugs, she would usher him straight into the back seat without ceremony.
He’d be swept out of the city to that special place where the sun was ever high in the bluest of skies. Beaches of warm sand spread below her house, where foaming waves would flush up and around to tickle his toes. Car locked safely in the garage, bag deposited in his bedroom, they’d head straight to Mrs Forde’s sweet shop. Purposeful and without need for discussion, holiday money to hand. That first sherbet lolly of the summer was always the best. His granny would have one too. For the occasion she’d say. There wasn’t a summer would pass before a formal letter issued to his mother, seeking further funds to maintain the supply of sherbet lollies.
He realises he’s staring at the woman now, bent forward staring, which is embarrassing. It’s an unpleasant habit, though not meant to be rude or intrusive. The eyes lock onto the subject, then the head wanders off to explore whatever has been sparked, forgetful of the eyes left fixed and that they might discomfit. She tilts her head and frowns a smile of inquiry at him. He straightens up and coughs in awkwardness. He can’t help himself then, just blurts it out.
‘You know, you’re the spit of my granny. It’s bringing me back.’
She barks out a choking laugh, startling him. ‘Well aren’t you the right playboy. All the best chat up lines.’ She chortles more gently, shaking her head. ‘That’s a winner for sure.’
He’s confused, not sure what to make of her. ‘No, no. My apologies. I don’t mean to be forward. On the contrary, I’m married. I’m actually off up to see my Kate.’
A shout of laughter physically pushes him back in his seat. ‘Well, that’s nice for you. You’ll have a lovely time there for sure.’
He reaches for his newspaper, discomfited, as if patted on the head like the good little boy. The Irish Examiner, that’s what they call it these days, but it would ever be the Cork Examiner. His granny had initiated him into its allure. They would take turns of an evening, to read the latest news to each other. A chance to explore the world around and broaden that vocabulary of yours, she used to say. The spread of the broadsheet allows a retreat now, from the intricacies of interpersonal encounter. He stares listlessly, though, at the print in front of him. There’s little of interest in it these days. Still, he could never free himself of that daily purchase.
Flowers, he should have got flowers. Kate loves flowers. There had been beds of them she proudly tended around the house. She would roam the fields nearby gathering her pick, taking cuttings for the garden. He had always brought flowers, back when they were courting, just to provoke that slow gentle smile of hers. Not the manicured bouquets on offer from the shop, but wild and messy arrangements, carefully composed from the finest those fields had to offer. That suited her style, captured her spontaneity, mirrored her untamed charm. He can feel his face beaming, gone foolish with the memory. The past is generous sometimes. He knows he’ll get an earful for arriving empty handed, though. She’s never one to hold back her disapproval, nor, in fairness, her approval on those rare occasions he had got things right enough to earn it.
A young one sits in beside him. She flashes out her phone and is immediately lost to the world around, rapt in her attention to its imperatives. Two thumbs flicker deftly across the screen. Hard to tell if she’s composing messages for transmission or interacting with distractions offered by the machine itself. He used to have a phone. He’s no technophobe, but they determined it put him at risk of fraud. What there was to defraud him of, he could not tell. He peers over her shoulder to see what has her so absorbed He had never managed such furious dexterity with his phone, nor succumbed to its attractions beyond the purely functional. Feeling that stare clicking in, he pulls himself back in behind the folds of his newspaper.
Kate and himself had to make do with the landline. Cables hoisted on poles stretching across the land to truck words of wistful passion from one side of the country to the other. An amount spent on their transport too. They had met one summer outside Mrs Forde’s. Of an age then to have inherited his granny’s house, he had still not lost his fondness for the sherbet lollies and the memories they tugged at. She was down visiting friends and out for an explore. Choc-ices were her little addiction, she had confessed. Backs to the warmth of the shop wall, watching over a twinkling bay, they chatted with, for him, unaccustomed ease. Urgent affinity had flourished in their frivolous banter.
On the spur he had asked for her number as she roused herself to leave. Unaccountable temerity had him all of a stutter. She had gently teased as to why he might be needing her number. In the absence of any coherent answer, she had thrown it out over her shoulder as she marched off on her explore. No pencil to hand, he had to recite that number, over and over and over, as he hurried back up the hill to his granny’s house. His house then, of course, that had taken some getting used to. A relationship, hanging perilously on the thread of an ever-faulty memory, had survived.
When he wakes, it is with a jolt. He sees they are four around the table now. The three of them are watching him, seems like sternly. Even the young one has deserted her phone to glare alarm in his direction. He stares back, going for dignified denial, though he knows he must have been snorting. They have him on some sort of oxygen tank by night, impossible to sleep with a mask strapped to your face. Sleep apnea, they pronounce with gravity, puts him at risk, so precautions are to be taken, like it or not. The newcomer hooks his attention, a city slicker with suit and tie, and one of those flashy computers set up in front of him. It triggers his own man of the land temper, a disposition held fiercely to counter those expectations he had failed to meet as a young man. Even as his parents had despaired, so his granny had surely rejoiced from up above.
‘You had us worried there, man, you weren’t breathing’ the newcomer said.
‘Are you alright? You’ve gone all pale on us,’ his granny interjected.
The young one was back on her phone, more urgent tasks to hand.
Disconcerted at the interrogation, despite patent sympathy. Aggravated by the dapper moniker of ‘man’. He raises his arms. ‘I’m grand.’ Lowers them to insist. ‘Not a bother.’ Palms spread for added effect. ‘Just dropped off.’ He roots around his seat for the newspaper, in search of some dignity. How long had he slept? It can’t be far now to the station. She would be there waiting, for sure. She always was, ever would be. The best moment of any journey, arriving into that embrace. He settles in behind the paper, restored by the prospect.
The station is a confusing clatter. Shrill shouts and rasping machinery. People crowd the platform, pushing their way through and out towards the barrier. He has to hold still, tight up against a steel column, just to get his breath and gather his wits. She would be up there by the barrier. There’s an expectant crowd milling around it. Watching out for loved ones and waving noisy greetings their direction. He sees her. She’s there. He caught a flash of that bobbed black hair of hers. He’s ready, all good now.
The barrier negotiated, the crowd parts before him and he strides over to where he saw her. Not a sign of her. Puzzled, he stands alert, peering intently from side to side. The crowd swirls around him. What’s she up to, not a good time for games and tricks. Maybe she spotted him empty handed. He catches sight of her red coat over by the coffee stall. Relief assails and he heads over with conviction. The woman in the red coat is not Kate, though, doesn’t even have her black hair. He’s losing it. Ah, there she is, waving frantically at him from the ticket machine. He stumbles over towards her, excitement at bay, anxiety heavy across his shoulders. Closer inspection kills hope, it’s another stranger.
He finds an empty seat, sweating with the nerves. He has to sit down. She would come. She always meets him at the station. He should ring her. He can remember her number, rare for him, but the days of the landline are gone. What to do? He’s trembling now, bent over to hold his head in his hands for calm. There’s still the Free Travel Pass and the train back south, even without the few Euro for a cup of coffee. But that way lies recapture by care, and even punishment for reckless flight. Where is Kate? He needs her, has to be with her.
‘You’re looking a bit shook there. Has something happened? Can I help?’
His granny is standing over him, lips pursed, frowning concern through those overburdened eyes. He needs a moment to decipher the question posed.
‘I’m waiting. I’m waiting for Kate. She’s my wife, I told you. Always meets me at the station. It’s fine, it’ll be fine.’
‘Hmmph. Is there a number you could ring?’
He looks in puzzlement at her. She doesn’t get it, times have changed. The landline doesn’t work anymore. She looks exasperated back at him. He shrinks at patent disapproval. Moments of distress have a nasty habit of conjuring up memories he has carefully packed away to avoid scrutiny. The past can be cruel betimes. He can almost hear the scream, see the lights of the onrushing truck, feel his paralysis and inability to react.
‘It was on the spur of the moment. Our anniversary, a fancy meal and all the trappings. We were headed over to that forest above the village for the romance of a full-moon. I shouldn’t have been driving.’ Head bowed again, he peers up at his granny, pleading for absolution.
About he author
Niall Crowley works on equality and human rights. His fiction is published by CafeLit, The Galway Review, Spillwords, Pure Slush and The Writers Club. He was shortlisted for the From the Well short story competition in 2021, 2022, and 2023, and the Colm Toibín International short story award in 2022.
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