Long before he vanished without a trace…
Paul stepped out of the railway station doors onto the platform, his shoulder sagging slightly under the weight of a bulky Adidas duffel bag. Sweat glistened in slick trails along his temples. He scanned the platform. A row of benches lined the station wall, occupied by waiting passengers and those there to meet them. On one bench sat an old man in a grey overcoat and a hat. Paul made his way toward him.
He set his burden down between them, pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his coat pocket, and wiped his face before finally sitting with a relieved sigh. A fast train roared past the platform without stopping, the gust of warm air reeking of railway ties and dust rustling Paul’s short hair.
He watched the train’s distant tail vanish, then leaned back against the bench, resting a hand on his bag. The murmur of conversations on the platform resumed, interrupted only by the train’s passing.
“Express service number… now arriving… Carriages numbered from the front,” crackled a woman’s voice over the tannoy, barely intelligible.
“Did you catch which train?” the old man asked, turning to Paul.
Paul shook his head. The old man sighed, checking his wristwatch.
“Third time they’ve announced it’s arriving, and still nothing,” he grumbled. “Why is it always impossible to understand station announcements?”
Paul said nothing, unwilling to engage.
“Going somewhere, are you? That’s quite the load,” the old man said, undeterred.
“What a Holmes you are,” Paul scoffed. “You’ve no luggage at all, so I’d say you’re meeting someone.”
“Right you are,” the old man said brightly. “My son. Haven’t seen him in years.”
“And I’m leaving mine,” Paul muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
“Aye, life,” the old man sighed. “Running away, then? But you can’t outrun yourself. You’ll take your troubles with you.” He nodded at the bag between them.
Paul shot him a sharp look and turned away.
“I did the same forty years back. My boy was eleven. Haven’t laid eyes on him since. I’m nervous, truth be told.”
His calm voice betrayed no such feeling.
“Doesn’t show,” Paul muttered, hoping he wouldn’t be heard.
“I am,” the old man insisted. “At my age, you ration your emotions. Too much joy or grief, and it’s the end of you.”
“Did your son live abroad, then?” Paul asked, seizing the chance to shift focus from himself.
He hardly knew how it had started—some trifling remark from his wife about coming home late. Words had flared, accusations hurled. Then, without cause, Nancy had accused him of infidelity. Once spoken, words couldn’t be unspoken.
He should’ve laughed it off, but instead, he’d grabbed his bag, stuffed it with whatever lay nearby, slammed the door, and fled to the station. Only now, hearing the old man speak of his son, did Paul remember little Jeremy.
The old man’s voice pulled him back. He listened.
“My wife was a practical woman. Not a beauty, but solid, you know? Never thought I’d lose my head, leave her and the boy. Yet there it was.”
Paul realized the old man was trying to tell him something—to explain.
“Had a bad hernia flare up. It’d been bothering me, but this time—blinding pain. Natalie—that’s my wife—sent me to hospital. They rushed me straight to surgery.”
“I’m in recovery, barely awake, when in she walks. All in white, blue eyes like the sky. An angel, she was. Even her name was heavenly—Alice.”
“She came with a syringe. Just a routine jab. But when her fingers brushed me—I trembled. Didn’t even feel the needle. I was spellbound. The night before discharge, I lay awake scheming—how could I stay? Thought of breaking my own leg.”
“Before leaving, I confessed my love. Expected her to recoil. Instead, she gave me her number. Two days later, I rang her while my wife was at work.”
“Met her outside the hospital with flowers, walked her home. I was handsome once, mind. It wasn’t love—madness, more like. I was ready to end it when she told me she was expecting.”
“Well, I thought, that’s that. My boy was grown; this child shouldn’t be fatherless. Went home, told Natalie everything. She wept—who wouldn’t? Like you, I packed a bag and left. Only mine was smaller.”
“Divorced my wife, but never married Alice. Something went wrong in labour. She died. Her parents blamed me—I blamed myself. If not for the child, she’d have lived. That’s fate for you.” The old man sighed. “They took the baby. Never even let me see her.”
“You said you never saw your son again. Your wife never forgave you?”
“Never. Could you? I hated myself. Thought of ending it. Judged other men for not keeping their trousers buttoned. And me—” He waved a hand. “Gone north I did, hoping the cold’d take me. Imagined Natalie weeping over my grave. But neither frost nor drink nor storms would have me. Sent nearly all my wages to her and the boy. What did I need it for?”
“She sent every penny back. That was Natalie for you. Once, she tucked a note in the post—just three words: ‘I remarried.’ Saved up over the years, bought a flat in York. Never sought out my son. Too ashamed. But he found me. Wrote recently to say Natalie had passed.”
The tannoy screeched again, the voice stumbling over clipped syllables to announce another train’s arrival.
This time, it stopped. Passengers spilled onto the platform, vanishing into the station. The old man stood, craning his neck like a goose, searching. No one acknowledged him. The train departed. Defeated, he sank back onto the bench.
“Maybe the next one?” Paul offered, moved despite himself.
The old man’s story had pushed Paul’s own troubles aside—until the announcement: his train was now at platform two.
“That’s mine,” Paul said.
Suddenly, the old man stiffened. Paul followed his gaze to a man in his fifties approaching, a stout woman at his side. They halted a few paces away. The old man rose slowly, removed his hat, fidgeted with it, then put it back on. The arriving train drowned out the man’s words, but Paul read his lips: “Father.”
Paul understood—he didn’t belong here. He hoisted his bag and headed for the train.
A young attendant stood by the doors, watching impatiently. Paul glanced back, caught a glimpse of the old man’s hat disappearing into the station.
“Are you boarding or not? We’re departing soon.”
A flustered man wheezed up beside them, checking his ticket. He became an unwitting distraction. Paul adjusted his bag, turned, and walked away. At the station doors, he fished out his ticket, hesitated, then crumpled it into the bin.
Shouldering through the crowd, ignoring angry shouts, he reached the street. Cabbies called for fares. He climbed into the first one and gave his address.
“Just back from a trip? In a hurry to see the family?”
“Yes. Faster, please,” Paul snapped.
“You’ll be holding your wife in five minutes,” the cabbie chuckled, then fell silent at Paul’s expression.
On the stairs, Paul barely felt the weight of the bag digging into his shoulder. He pocketed his keys and rang the bell. Jeremy opened the door.
“Dad?! Mum, Dad’s back!” The boy flung himself into Paul’s arms before he could step inside.
Nancy appeared, eyes red.
“Forgive me,” Paul managed before his throat closed.
She buried her face in his chest.
