Platform 13

Platform_13_smallStanley Smith had stayed far longer than he’d planned at the Kings Arms having a Christmas drink with his best friend Harry Wilson.
As usual, they’d been reminiscing about their escapades in the army, retelling the well-worn tall tales, laughing, joking and enjoying themselves so much that, “One more for the road?” became four more for the road.

By the time the old soldiers finally wished each other a “Merry Christmas” and went their separate ways, there was only one more train Stanley could catch home before the railway closed down for the two-day holiday break.

The biting night air forced Stanley to turn up the collar of his overcoat when he left the warmth of the Kings Arms. The freezing temperature didn’t surprise him, the fog did.
It had been a clear and breezy day when he arrived in town, and he hadn’t noticed the weather deteriorating while he was in the pub.

The thought of his train being cancelled because of fog filled him with dread.
He had just a handful of small change on him after the extra rounds of drinks, and less than ten pounds in cash at home in his empty flat.
A taxi was out of the question, even in the unlikely event he could persuade a driver to make the fifteen-mile journey on Christmas Eve.

The fog thickened noticeably during the short walk from the Kings Arms to the railway station. Stanley was mightily relieved when his train’s details flashed up on the giant information board revealing it was due to depart on schedule from Platform 13.

After retrieving his return ticket from the inside breast pocket of his jacket, he checked his watch. He had five minutes to catch his train.

The station was a beehive of activity and there were lengthy queues at every platform, but Stanley barely noticed the hordes of people around him as he made his way to Platform 13.
He walked past the gates for Platforms 10, 11 and then 12, but there was no sign of any higher-numbered ones.
He was on the verge of panic when he discovered Platform 13 hidden from view behind a bulky pillar and closed off from all the other platforms by a high brick wall.
The station had been redeveloped since Stanley’s last visit and it was clean and brightly lit, but Platform 13 was dank and gloomy, with the glow from the interior lights of the train standing at the platform the sole source of illumination.
The main concourse was noisy and throbbing with humanity, but this section of the station was eerily quiet and appeared deserted, except for a white-haired guard manning the gate at the entrance to the platform.
When the guard asked to see his ticket, Stanley said, “You’re well tucked away here. Is this part of the original station?”
The guard smiled as he clipped the ticket, but ignored the question and just said, “Hurry along please, Sir. Your train is ready to depart.”
Stanley did as he was bid and walked as briskly as his eighty-seven-year-old legs would allow to the nearest carriage. He was about to climb aboard when he heard a piercing whistle blast and noticed a figure shrouded in fog waving a red flag at the far end of the platform.
As he took the final step onto the train, the white-haired guard appeared behind him and heaved the door shut.
Stanley had expected the train to be packed, but he found himself alone in an old-fashioned wood-panelled compartment containing two rows of seats facing each other. He assumed the ancient carriage had been pressed into service due to the demand for additional rolling stock during the Christmas period.
There was another blast of the whistle when he sat down, followed by the familiar jerk of a train starting to move.

As the train pulled away from the station, Stanley looked out of the window at the fog swirling past in the darkness. With nothing else to see, except his reflection staring at him, he settled back into his seat, took a deep breath, closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

The engine picked up speed steadily until it was hurtling down the track so fast the wheels threatened to lift off the rails.

The train had drawn to a halt when Stanley was roused from his slumbers by another whistle blast.
He was peering through the window into clouds of fog trying to identify where they’d stopped when the compartment door swung open and a tall slender woman, wearing an ankle-length black winter coat, glided aboard.

The coat’s hood concealed her hair and cast a shadow over her eyes. A grey scarf wrapped tightly around her neck and mouth obscured the lower half of her face.
Stanley was mesmerised by the woman.
Childhood memories of picnics and sunny days at the beach flickered through his mind.

The woman sat down opposite him, removed the hood from her head and began to unwind the scarf from her face.

After folding the garment neatly and placing it on her lap, she raised her head, looked directly at him and said, “Hello, Stanley.”