Before walking away for good…
Paul stepped out of the station doors onto the platform, slightly hunched under the weight of a large sports bag with “Adidas” printed on the side. Beads of sweat traced shiny, damp trails down his temples. He scanned the platform. A row of benches lined the station wall, occupied by passengers waiting for their trains or welcoming arrivals. On one bench sat an old man in a grey overcoat and a hat. Paul walked toward him.
Approaching, he slid the heavy bag off his shoulder and set it down in the middle of the bench. He pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped his face before finally sitting with a relieved sigh. A fast train thundered past the platform without stopping, its whistle screeching. A warm gust of air—smelling of railway ties and dust—brushed Paul’s face, ruffling his short hair.
Paul watched the tail end of the train disappear into the distance, then leaned back against the bench, resting a hand on his bag. The murmur of conversations on the platform resumed, having paused as the train roared by.
“Fast train number… arriving… Coach numbering from the front…,” crackled a barely intelligible female voice over the loudspeaker.
“Did you catch which train?” the old man asked, turning to Paul.
Paul shook his head and shrugged. The old man nodded and checked his wristwatch.
“Third time they’ve announced it’s arriving, and still nothing,” he sighed. “Why is it station announcements are always so garbled?”
Paul stayed silent, avoiding being drawn into conversation.
“Going somewhere, lad? Looks like you’ve packed heavy,” the old man pressed.
“Sherlock Holmes, are we?” Paul snorted. “You’ve got no luggage—so I’d say you’re here to meet someone.”
“Spot on,” the old man said brightly. “Meeting my son,” he added with pride.
“I’m leaving mine behind,” Paul muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
“That’s life,” the old man sighed. “Running away, then? Trouble is, you can’t outrun yourself. The baggage comes with you.” He nodded toward the bag between them.
Paul shot him an annoyed glance and turned away.
“I did the same forty years ago. My boy was eleven then. Didn’t see him all these years. Nervous now.”
His calm voice didn’t match his claim of nerves.
“Doesn’t show,” Paul muttered, hoping it went unheard.
“Nervous,” the old man repeated. “At my age, you learn to ration your emotions. Anything too strong—joy or grief—could finish you off, son.”
“He live abroad or something?” Paul latched onto the chance to shift focus from his own problems.
He hadn’t even noticed how it started—just a passing remark from his wife about him coming home late. Then words flew, accusations piled up. Finally, Nadine had thrown infidelity at him, though there was no truth to it. Words once spoken can’t be taken back.
He should’ve laughed it off or stayed quiet. Instead, he’d grabbed the bag, stuffed in whatever was at hand, slammed the door, and headed to the station. Only now, hearing the old man speak of his son, did Paul think of Steven.
The old man’s voice pulled him back.
“My wife, Margaret—practical woman. Not a beauty, but solid. Never thought I’d lose my head over another woman. But there you go…”
Paul realized he was listening to a confession, an explanation.
“Hernia flared up. Been bothering me for years. This time, the pain near crippled me. Margaret sent me straight to hospital. They took one look, rushed me into surgery.”
“Lying there after anaesthesia, in walks this nurse. All in white, eyes blue as the sky. Like an angel—gorgeous. Even her name was angelic—Alice.”
“She came with a syringe. Had to give me a jab. When her fingers touched me, I shook like a leaf. Didn’t even feel the needle. Fell hard. Couldn’t sleep the night before discharge—scheming ways to stay longer. Even thought of breaking my own leg.”
“Right before leaving, I told her I loved her. Expected her to shove me away. Instead, she gave me her home number. Two days later, I rang her while Margaret was at work.”
“Met her outside the hospital with flowers, walked her home. I was a looker back then. Wasn’t love—some kind of madness. I’d already decided to end it when she got pregnant.”
“Well, I thought, that’s that. My boy was grown, but this child didn’t deserve no father. Went home, told Margaret everything. She cried—course she did. Just like you, I packed a bag and left for Alice. Mine was smaller, though.”
“Divorced Margaret, but never married Alice. Something went wrong during labour. She died. Her parents blamed me. Maybe they were right—if not for the pregnancy, she’d be alive. That’s fate.” The old man exhaled. “They took the baby—never even let me see her.”
“You said you never saw your son again. She never forgave you?” Paul asked.
“Never. How could she? Blamed myself too. Couldn’t stand the sight of other men who couldn’t keep it in their trousers… yet there I was.” He waved a hand. “Went up North. Half hoped I’d freeze to death. Imagined Margaret weeping at my grave, full of regret. But the cold, the drink, the storms—none took me. Sent almost all my wages back to her and the boy. Had no use for it.”
“She returned every penny. Even slipped in a note once—she’d remarried. Saved up, bought a flat in Manchester. Never looked for my son—too ashamed. He found me. Wrote recently… Margaret passed.”
Just then, the speaker screeched, and the same voice stuttered through another train arrival.
This time, the train actually stopped. Passengers streamed out, vanished through station doors. The old man stood, craning his neck like a goose. No one glanced his way. The train left. Defeated, he sat back down.
“Maybe the next one?” Paul offered, sympathy creeping in.
The old man’s story had gripped him, made him forget why he was even here. Then the speaker crackled—his train was boarding on Platform 2. Clearer now, as if clearing its throat first.
“That’s mine,” Paul said.
Suddenly, the old man stiffened. Paul followed his gaze to a man in his fifties approaching—beside him, a short, round-faced woman. A few paces from the bench, they halted. The old man stood slowly, removed his hat, fidgeted with it, then put it back on. The train’s noise drowned out the man’s words, but Paul read his lips: “Dad.”
Passengers boarded and disembarked. The man stepped forward. They stood like that—just looking. Paul understood. He shouldered his bag and headed for his train.
At the carriage door, a young attendant eyed him impatiently. Paul glanced back—the old man’s hat vanished into the station.
“Boarding or not? We’re leaving soon,” she snapped.
A flustered, wheezing man bustled up, confirming his carriage number, ticket out. Paul was almost glad for the distraction. Adjusting his bag, he turned and walked away.
At the station doors, he fished out his ticket, stared at it as if it were a foreign thing, then crumpled and tossed it into a bin.
Shoving through the crowd—ignoring curses hurled at his swinging bag—he burst outside. Taxi drivers clamoured for fares. Paul jumped into the first cab, gave his address.
“Just got in? Rushing home to the missus?” the driver chirped.
“Yeah. Step on it,” Paul said sharply.
“Five minutes, you’ll be hugging the wife.” The driver laughed—then silenced at Paul’s tense face.
Paul took the stairs two at a time, barely feeling the bag digging into his shoulder. He stuffed his keys back into his pocket, jabbed the doorbell.
Steven answered.
“Dad?! Mum, Dad’s back!” the boy yelled, hugging Paul before he could step inside.
Nadine appeared, eyes swollen from crying.
“Sorry,” Paul choked out, his throat tightening.
She buried her face in his chest.
