Passengers

Do not make eye contact. The primary rule for all city commuters. But nobody of import has noticed me for many years. 

The carriages were different in my early days of travel, darker, more wood grain, and benches upholstered in a deep red tartan. Each compartment formed a community, seating six people facing the direction of travel, and six more on the opposite bench. There were no corridors in our commuter coaches. The four window seats were prized possessions. Securing one of those meant you could stare out at the world and pretend to be alone. Briefcases and bags were stored on the overhead luggage racks, a strange design, halfway between a shelf and a fishing net.

I favoured a window seat, and I usually managed to secure one as the train would be sparsely populated when it arrived at my station. Nowadays it’s different, always crowded, always a challenge, and those interminably long carriages, all connected to each other with automatic doors.

I no longer display a preference for where I sit, but I do try to avoid being near anyone with headphones. And nowadays, when the train rattles into a tunnel, the lights come on – not always the case in the past. In my day you could be thrown into darkness for what felt like an eternity.

The vast majority of my fellow passengers do not notice me, I am invisible, just another lost soul on their daily commute.

There are, however, two regular travellers with whom I am familiar. We have been taking the same train for years. We nod, acknowledging each other, rarely smile, never engage in conversation. What would we talk about? The man is quite a lot older than I. We did try a little conversation, in the early days. I didn’t ask his age, it would have been rude, far too intrusive. My other constant companion is a young lady, not much more than a slip of a girl. Her name is Harriet, and she always looks sad and lost. I would like to comfort her, but I dare not breach the void between us. I fear a bond might be established that would be difficult to manage.

There was a woman knitting this morning, no more than thirty years old I would estimate. A common sight, it has recently made something of a resurgence. Her needles fascinated me in their complicated, repetitive dance. She may be knitting a scarf, or a shawl. Does anyone wear a shawl now?

The train will travel through eight stations before I disembark. At the third station, Falconwood, we never stop. I suppose there was once a wood there, where birds of prey were abundant. Now the ghosts of those birds only have a canopy of red, clay-tiled roofs to swoop and dive between. I really should ask the older gentleman, maybe he knows more.

Just before the ninth station, there is a long curving tunnel, after which, the train bursts out of artificial light and into the commotion of a platform crowded with grey people. I never travel as far as the ninth station, but I remember it well, and have no reason to suspect that it has changed in any significant detail.

It may have been fear of that sudden influx of people, of bodies pressed so close that you could smell the warmth radiating from their overcoats and every-day suits. I would be trapped, whether I remained seated or rose to offer my place to someone older, someone more deserving. It was fear of those small things in life that edged me towards my decision. 

Harriet is staring at me. I try to ignore her and study the woman knitting. I concentrate on the tapping of her plastic needles, the background rhythm to her journey. I can sense Harriet’s eyes on me, even though my back is turned to her.

“Why?”

Her question is simple, stark. It hurts me more than anything I have ever experienced. Maybe the fact that she has waited nearly a year to ask me that question, has made it even more impossible to answer. Any answer would demand more words than I have, more words than she probably wants to hear. She needs a simple explanation that I cannot offer, one which simply does not exist. I turn to her and see the sadness in her eyes.

“I had no choice.”

“I don’t understand. How could you leave us like that. No note. No explanation.”

“But you are here too.”

“Only because of you.”

The train lurches. My stomach heaves in empathy. I move towards the side of the carriage. There is nothing I can say today, there is no time. The tunnel approaches. Neither of us can see it but we both know it’s coming.

Harriet has moved too. We stand on opposite sides of the carriage, facing each other. I have watched her leave me over two hundred times. I lost track of the precise count and am grateful I did. It looks like she is leaning against the window, but her body turns, and she falls through the glass and steel walls of the carriage. Nobody except myself and the old man see her go.

He shakes his head slowly and looks at me, knowing the sequence of events. I used to wonder what happened to that elderly man with his slightly soiled, wing-collared shirt and worn black suit. I have never asked him, maybe I will tomorrow. But then, some things are best left unknown. I turn to face the window, waiting, but not for long. The train joins my past and my present.

Harriet is late. She is always late, but nonetheless, arrives before the train departs. If she had only been later that day, late enough to miss the train, might things have been different? She looks straight at me. Today I don’t turn away.

“Why?” she asks again.

Today I will search for the words, try to explain to my daughter why I left, why I had to do it. There is time to find the right words, all the time in the world. I presume it will take many attempts to explain my actions, and many attempts for her too.