The announcement for boarding had just been made, and Victor stepped onto the platform. After a week away on business, he was finally returning home. As he entered the carriage and found his lower berth, he heard someone approaching, breathing heavily. Turning, he saw an elderly woman with a wheeled suitcase—more like a rucksack—dressed in an autumn coat and a patterned headscarf, standing opposite him, trying to catch her breath.
“Here we go,” Victor thought. “An old lady, clearly my bunkmate, probably about to ask for the lower berth.”
“Look here, son, I think this is my spot—the lower one,” the woman said once she’d steadied herself.
Sure enough, it was. She fussed about, unpacking her things while Victor noted she must’ve been seventy. “Fancy that,” he mused. “At her age, still traveling. Why not stay home?”
Finally settled, she perched on the berth, her wrinkled hands resting on her knees. Passengers filed in, but no one claimed the upper bunks nearby. Victor resigned himself to the journey with this elderly woman, expecting little conversation.
The train pulled away, and soon the attendant brought bedding. The woman busied herself, smoothing the sheets with care before sitting back down. Then, she broke the silence:
“Not used to this sort of bedding. At home, I’ve a proper soft mattress—this’ll do my back no favours. Haven’t traveled like this since I was young. Never thought I would again.”
Victor nodded but stayed quiet.
“My name’s Ethel Whitmore. And yours?”
“Victor.”
“And your father’s name?”
“Matthew. Just Victor’s fine.”
“Oh, aye, you’re young enough for that. Visiting someone, are you?”
“Why visiting?” Victor frowned. “Heading home from a business trip.”
“Ah, home—that’s nice. Me, I’m leaving home at my age.” She fell silent, gazing out the window. Victor thought he saw tears, though she wasn’t weeping. A pang of guilt struck him for his earlier coldness.
“So… are you going home or leaving it?” he asked, softening his tone.
“Leaving, lad, leaving. That’s why it’s strange. Only a day’s journey, but it weighs on me.”
“Who are you going to see?”
“My daughter.” Ethel pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, dabbing her eyes.
“You should be glad, not crying.”
“Oh, I am glad. Five years it’s been. Thought I’d never see her again.”
“Lost touch, did you?”
“Aye, by choice. Stubbornness is a curse when you’re young. Pride gets in the way. Raised her alone after her father passed—always rowing, we were. First marriage, she did it to spite me. Didn’t last. I never gave her kindness, only blame. Turned my granddaughter against me too. Five years back, she sold her flat and left without a word. I went to the police, frantic—she’d taken the lass with her.”
“Then she wrote, said she was well, remarried, but not to look for her. Not ever. Carried that sorrow all these years. Came to see my own faults, though. She may not have listened, but she’s still my girl.”
“A year ago, a letter came. Said where she was, that she’d divorced long since, was a grandmother now, asked after my health. Cried all night, I did. Wrote back saying life was empty without them. Then we spoke—realised we’d both been wrong.”
“My granddaughter’s had a bairn—my great-grandchild. My daughter helps with the little one, couldn’t get away, so she asked me to come. Who knows how much time I’ve left? Health’s failing, the blood pressure’s wicked—but I needed to see her.”
Victor stayed quiet, the woman’s story settling in his chest. He thought of his own mother, visited so seldom. She lived in the countryside with his elder sister—always assumed his sister would look after her. But now, after hearing this, a heaviness pressed on him. He was her son. She missed him. Wanted to see him more.
The journey passed swiftly as Victor talked with Ethel. When they arrived, he helped her off the train, spotting a woman with anxious eyes hurrying toward them. He stepped aside. The two women locked gazes, embraced, and clung to each other, weeping. Their reunion was so raw, Victor had no doubt they’d mend what was broken.
He walked away, lighting a cigarette, suddenly restless. Pulling out his mobile, he dialled his mother. For no reason but the need to say:
“Mum, I’ve arrived. I’m here. I’ll come see you this weekend.”
Sometimes, a stranger’s sorrow holds up a mirror—makes you see the bridges you’ve left unbuilt, the time slipping away.
