Before stepping away for good and never looking back…
Paul emerged from the train station doors onto the platform, slightly tilting under the weight of a large Adidas sports bag slung over his shoulder. Beads of sweat traced glistening trails down his temples. He scanned the platform. A row of benches lined the station wall, occupied by passengers waiting for their trains and those there to meet them. On one of the benches sat an old man in a grey overcoat and a hat. Paul made his way toward him.
Approaching, he slid the bag off his shoulder and set it down in the middle of the bench, then pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped his face. After a heavy sigh, he finally sat down. A fast train roared past without stopping, the gust of warm, dusty air brushing Paul’s cheeks and ruffling his short hair.
Paul watched the train’s dwindling tail, then leaned back against the bench, resting a hand on his bag. The murmur of conversations on the platform resumed as the train’s noise faded.
“The express service… now arriving…” A crackling female voice dribbled from the speaker, barely intelligible.
“Did you catch which train?” the old man asked, turning his head toward Paul.
Paul shook his head and shrugged. The old man nodded and checked his wristwatch.
“Third announcement, still no sign of it,” he lamented with a sigh. “Why is it train stations always make such a muddle of their announcements?”
Paul stayed silent, deflecting the attempt to draw him into conversation.
“Off somewhere, are you? That’s quite the heavy bag,” the old man pressed on.
“Sherlock Holmes himself,” Paul muttered dryly. Then, matching the old man’s tone, he added, “No luggage at all—must mean you’re waiting for someone.”
“Quite right,” the old man said, pleased. “Here for my son,” he added proudly.
Paul exhaled softly. “I’m leaving mine behind.”
It slipped out before he could stop himself.
“Ah. Life.” The old man sighed too. “Running away, then? Trouble is, you can’t outrun yourself. Those problems come with you.” He nodded at the bag between them.
Paul shot him an irritated glance and turned away.
“I did the same forty years ago. My boy was eleven then. Haven’t seen him since. Nervous as all get-out now.”
The old man’s calm voice betrayed no such feeling.
“Doesn’t show,” Paul muttered under his breath.
“Oh, I’m nervous,” the old man assured him. “At my age, you ration emotions. Too much joy or grief, and it might just do you in.”
“Was he abroad, your son?” Paul asked, suddenly glad to shift focus from his own troubles.
He hadn’t meant for it to escalate—just a passing remark from his wife about him coming home late had sparked the row. Words flew, accusations mounted, and then Nadine accused him of cheating, though she had no grounds. A word spoken is past recalling, as they say.
He should’ve laughed it off or held his tongue. Instead, he grabbed his bag, stuffed in whatever he could, slammed the door, and marched to the station. Only now, at the old man’s mention of a son, did he remember little Jeremy.
The old man’s voice pulled him back. He listened.
“My wife was a practical woman. Not a beauty, but steady. Never thought I’d lose my head, leave her and my boy. Yet here we are.”
Paul realized the old man was sharing his own story—trying to explain something.
“A hernia flared up. Had it for years, but this time the pain near crippled me. Martha—that’s my wife—sent me to hospital. They took one look and wheeled me straight to surgery.”
“Lying there, still groggy from the anaesthetic, in she walks. All in white, blue eyes like the sky. An angel in looks and name—Celia. She came over with a syringe to give me a jab. The moment her fingers touched me, I trembled. Didn’t even feel the needle. After that, peace was gone. The night before discharge, I lay awake plotting how to stay—even considered breaking my own leg.”
“Right before release, I confessed. Thought she’d push me away. Instead, she gave me her home number. Two days later, I rang her while Martha was at work. Picked her up outside the hospital with flowers, walked her home. I was handsome back then. Wasn’t love—more like madness. Soon enough I’d come to my senses, would’ve ended it… but then she fell pregnant.”
“Well, I thought, that settles it. My boy was grown—how could I let this child come into the world fatherless? Went home, told Martha everything. She wept, of course. Like you, I packed my things and left—smaller bag, though. Divorced Martha, but never married Celia. Something went wrong during labour. She died. Her parents blamed me. Truth be told, so did I. If not for the pregnancy, she’d still be here. That’s fate for you.” The old man exhaled slowly. “They took the baby. Wouldn’t even let me see her.”
“You said you never saw your son again. Martha never forgave you?”
“No. Would you? I blamed myself for everything. Didn’t want to live. Called men weak for not keeping their trousers buttoned. And yet there I was…” He waved a hand. “Went up North. Half hoped the cold would finish me. Imagined Martha crying over my grave, full of regrets. But frost, whisky, storms—none took me. Sent almost all my wages to her and the boy. What did I need money for?” He paused again.
“Sent it all back, she did. That was Martha. Once slipped in a note saying she’d remarried. Saved up, bought a place in Bristol. Never looked for my son. Too ashamed. He found me. Wrote recently to say Martha had passed…”
Just then, the speaker crackled again, and the garbled voice announced another train’s arrival.
This time, the train did stop. Passengers disembarked, vanishing into the station. The old man stood, craning his neck like a goose, scanning faces. No one glanced his way. The train pulled off. Bewildered, he stared at the emptying platform and sat back down.
“Maybe the next one?” Paul offered.
He’d been so caught up in the old man’s tale that he’d forgotten why he was there himself—until the crackling speaker announced his train’s arrival at platform two. Suddenly clearer now, the voice enunciated each word.
“That’s mine,” Paul said.
Just then, the old man stiffened. Paul followed his gaze to a man in his fifties approaching their bench with a short, plump woman beside him. Stopping a few steps away, they hesitated. The old man rose slowly, removed his hat, fidgeted with it, then replaced it. The rumbling train drowned out the man’s first words, but Paul read his lips: *Father*.
A few passengers boarded while others rushed toward the carriages. The man stepped closer. For a long moment, they simply looked at one another. Sensing he no longer belonged, Paul hoisted his bag and walked toward his train.
A young attendant waited impatiently by his carriage door. Glancing back, Paul spotted the old man’s hat disappearing into the station.
“Boarding or not? We’re leaving soon,” the attendant snapped.
A flustered, wheezing man pushed forward, ticket in hand, distracting her. Adjusting his bag, Paul turned on his heel and strode off instead. At the station doors, he fished his ticket from his pocket, stared at it blankly, then crumpled it into the bin.
Shouldering through the crowd—ignoring curses thrown his way—he spilled onto the street. Cabbies called for fares. He climbed into the first one and gave his address.
“Just arrived? Rushing home to the missus?”
“Yes. Quick as you can,” Paul snapped.
“Five minutes and you’ll have her in your arms!” The driver laughed but fell silent at Paul’s stony expression.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Paul barely felt the bag digging into his shoulder. He stuffed his keys back into his pocket and rang the bell. Jeremy flung the door wide.
“Dad?! Mum, Dad’s back!” Before Paul could step inside, the boy threw himself into his arms.
Nadine appeared, eyes red and puffy.
“Sorry.” That was all Paul could manage before his throat clenched.
She buried her face in his chest.
