As the train pulled in, though desperate to climb down and deny his fate, James knew deep down that it was sealed. The door slowly drew open, he dashed to the screen showing the timetable, and sighed heavily as he proved his negativity right. The delay meant he had missed his connection, and he now faced a night on the tiles. He carried with him a large holdall, and despite wearing his warmest clothes he was still was apprehensive of seeing out the bitter midwinter’s night.
He had come from the north, and was heading south for Christmas. He felt entirely alone in the north, having few friends and working difficult hours, meaning he could rarely indulge in social occasions. He was returning to his family for a week, but headed south with misgivings about the whole affair. Adulthood had beckoned an uncomfortable pressure to leave the nest and make it on his own, and he subsequently felt rather unwanted, and these feelings grew and grew until he felt he was simply an inconvenience, not just to his family, but to everyone. Not unlike the majority of people left alone with his own thoughts for too long, he began to think thoughts of self-destruction. He didn’t know it, but he was a wreck of emotions, yet tightly bound by the restrictive ties of society.
After only a few minutes in the open he began to feel the December wind’s cold bite, and opted to buy a coffee. He knew he couldn’t really afford it, but he could afford no more another doctor’s prescription for the inevitable cold that would follow if he were to brave it out. Nor could he afford the taxi to his destination, which weighed in at around ninety pounds.
He walked into a strange kiosk at the front of the station which boasted fresh coffee, and shivered as the wave of artificial heat hit him. He ordered an Americano, and immediately after being handed it, he took a sip and foolishly burnt his tongue. He also bought a small roll of Murray mints as he disliked coffee lingering on the palate, and had not eaten since the early evening.
“You can’t stay in here, sir,” said the barista.
James left the cramped café, and walked back to the platform where he began to pace up and down aimlessly. Aside from the man at the ticket office and barista, there was no one else in the station and he felt hopelessly isolated. It was a town he didn’t know, he couldn’t afford to go anywhere, and he had no entertainment save for the final chapters of a very dry novel he was reading.
He soon grew cold again, and entered the station’s atrium. The ticket barriers were open, there was one tired looking man behind the ticket office, and the whole area was lit by a sterile white light. He dropped his holdall, pulled the novel from his coat pocket, and lay on the cold marble with his head resting into the soft sides of the bag. After a few phrases from the book he was distracted by the main departure board. Next train to Norwich, six thirty-five AM. He sighed again, and glanced over at the arrivals board, desperate to distract himself from the tedium of the volume. Next arrival, Twenty-two thirty-four from Ipswich, delayed by fifty-five minutes. Only one minute away if the board was to be believed.
Quite soon a gaggle of people strode through the atrium and left the station, destined for cosy living rooms and Yuletide cheer. James looked longingly at their smiles, and the vehicles which awaited them. He was soon distracted from this by a woman, carrying a smart suitcase and wearing a well-fitting coat and jeans, who entered the building. She looked up at the departure board, and after a few seconds, her entire body slumped as she had the same realisation that James had had before.
She sauntered over to him, and asked calmly:
“Are you here for the night too?”
James was caught off guard by her confidence, and by the fact he had interacted very little with people lately.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Where are you heading?” she asked, this time her accent becoming noticeable.
“Thetford,” replied James.
“I won’t pretend I have any idea where that is.”
“And you?”
“Stansted. I’m going home for Christmas.”
“And where is home?” asked James, suddenly feeling guilty for asking such a question to a stranger.
“Milan. I am Italian, though you probably noticed.”
“I noticed, but your accent is remarkably good.”
The woman smiled gently and said simply: “Thank you.”
James imagined at this point that she would walk away, and find somewhere to sit, but instead she lowered herself to the ground, and sat cross legged next to him, and unbuttoned her coat to relieve the tightness across her chest.
“Rebecca, “she said, putting emphasis on the second syllable.
“James. Pleased to meet you.” James felt foolish for being overly polite, but he pushed this perceived ineptitude to the back of his mind.
They continued to exchange basic details about each other until the man in the ticket office approached the two of them.
“I have to lock up now. You’ll have to leave the waiting room.”
Reluctantly the two of them lifted themselves from the floor, and ventured into the frosty night. It was only now that James realised how short she was. It would seem that his perspective from the cold marble was misleading.
“So what now?” he asked.
“We could try and hide out in that café,” she replied, gesturing towards the door James had previously entered.
“No chance there I’m afraid. We could go for a walk around the town?”
“English towns scare me at night,” she replied.
“If I’m honest they scare me too, “he said, and at this she let a small laugh escape her petite lips which were, like the rest of her features, free of makeup.
They opted to pace the platform once more, and aside from the occasional disruption from a freight train, they chatted and played word games with one another. They both struggled with these games, Rebecca on account of her language skills, and James because of his exhaustion. After a while though, they left these banalities behind, and began to talk seriously.
“So James, you live alone?”
“Yup”
“And your face doesn’t light up as it should when you talk of your family. You strike me as rather an isolated soul.”
James was totally aghast and at first uncomfortable on account of her perception, but as he talked to her, he felt an ease which he had longed for for a long time.
“I suppose I am.”
“Why?”
“I just work. And my family aren’t the most welcoming people.”
“And does this aloneness hurt?”
“No.”
Rebecca raised her eyebrows at the abrupt nature of his response.
“James, we almost certainly will never meet again, you can tell me the truth.”
James hesitated, but finally swallowed his self-spiting pride:
“It cuts me so deep. Without anyone around, my demons have free reign over my mind. I’m soon convinced that I have let down my family, I’ve let down my friends, and I’ve let down myself, yet I’m so tired, I’m not sure whether it’s true or not. My mind is turmoil.”
“And have you ever considered doing anything drastic about this turmoil?”
She was hesitant as she said the word turmoil, as it clearly was not part of her vocabulary.
James looked at his feet, pacing methodically along the platform.
“Yes.”
“What stops you?” She asked, her accent lending an unfortunate abruptness to the question.
“I couldn’t say really,” said James meekly.
“Ok. Take my phone number. Next time you feel hopelessly alone, call me. You are a good person, I like you, and next time you need to hear it, phone me, and I’ll tell you.”
She scribbled her number down on a scrap of paper from her pocket and handed it to him.
“Thank you,” he whispered as he slipped it into his own.
Soon their legs began to ache. They must have paced a fair few miles during the quiet hours, James thought. They both leant against the glass door of the atrium and slumped down to the floor. There was a gentle warmth from the still heated building, and James pulled a large jacket from his holdall which they spread across their tired legs. They chatted for a while more, before reverting to a comfortable silence.
Eventually, dazed with exhaustion, the two sets of eyes watched the sky gradually light up, and the train on the furthest platform from them lit up. James’ train was ready for him.
“Would you like me to wait with you?” he asked. “There’s another in two hours’ time.”
“No James. We’ve waited long enough. And I can manage another hour.”
She walked with him to the platform, they embraced, and as he climbed aboard she repeated:
“Anytime, James. Call.”
He smiled, and soon after his train pulled away and headed east.
James rang Rebecca four times altogether. At the moment where he could no longer take it, her firm yet calm voice soothed him, and reminded him he was not alone. They never met in person again, but James shared more with her, than anyone else until he married. At that point, He no longer needed Rebecca, but his mind still held in memory his guardian angel, with a great deal of fondness. She had saved his life more than once, and he felt hopelessly indebted to her as he realised there was no way he could return the favour. Rebecca however, was happy with the knowledge that she had helped, and this gave her too a sense of self-worth.
James named his first daughter Rebecca, that he might never forget her.
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