Late Happiness
Arthur had wandered for hours through the unfamiliar sprawl of the city before finally reaching the station. His feet ached, and his mood was foul. He’d come so eagerly, never imagining he’d be leaving like this. Guilty of nothing, yet he fled like a scolded cat.
He spotted an empty bench in the waiting area and sank onto it. “Catch my breath first,” he thought, “then sort the ticket. Five minutes won’t change anything now. At least I didn’t book a return—planned to stay a week… Well, no matter.”
Once his legs felt less leaden, he hoisted his heavy duffel bag and shuffled toward the ticket counter. As he queued, he watched the station’s bustle, wondering what he’d do if no trains ran. But the clerk handed him a ticket—though he’d have to wait three hours. No matter. The important thing was he was going home.
Arthur tucked the ticket and his passport into his coat pocket and glanced around. His seat was taken. He stepped outside, where benches lined the station walls. A fast train stood ready at one platform, its digital board flashing departure details. Passengers had already boarded, leaving the benches empty.
The stubborn tang of creosote and dust mingled with cigarette smoke, stale beer, and the sweat of unwashed bodies. Even the open air couldn’t mask it. Thousands passed through daily—drifters, drunks, weary travelers.
Arthur settled on a bench with a clear view of the boards and platforms, steeling himself for the wait. His mind replayed the argument with Helen’s grandson, scrambling now for the right words he’d fumbled in the moment…
“Mind if I sit?” A young man’s voice broke his reverie.
Arthur looked up to see a fellow in a smart suit, wheeling a small suitcase.
“Plenty of room,” Arthur said, shifting slightly, though the bench was wide. He noticed others were occupied too.
The man sat at the far end, loosening his tie before settling his case beside him.
“Business trip?” Arthur asked, craving conversation, a human voice.
“Going home from one,” the man replied tersely, eyeing him.
“Same here,” Arthur sighed.
“Yours got cut short too?” Skepticism laced the question.
“No. Came to visit. Thought I’d stay the week, but…” Arthur trailed off.
“They kicked you out?” The man’s tone softened.
“More or less. Now I’m waiting for the Edinburgh train. You?”
“Bad luck for both of us. I had to change my ticket—leaving early.”
“What carriage?”
“Eleventh.”
“We’ll be neighbors, then. Not compartment five, by chance?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. He checked his ticket, nodded, and slapped his knees. “Bloody coincidence. Just bought yours?”
Arthur nodded.
“I was supposed to leave in two days, but my wife called—our daughter’s ill. Said she’s terrified to even say the diagnosis. Had to cut the trip short.”
“Flying’d be quicker,” Arthur remarked.
“Scared of planes, honestly. Trains are steadier.”
Just then, the man’s phone rang. He answered briskly. Arthur turned away, feigning disinterest.
“Hi. Yes, at the station… I hoped so too… Miss you. Don’t cry, I’ll try to sneak back—” A long pause. “Alright, I’ll call if things change. Love you. Bye.” He hung up, mood visibly darker. Silence settled between them.
“Don’t pretend you don’t get it,” the man suddenly said. “Don’t judge me, old man. You don’t know a thing.”
“Not judging. Not my business,” Arthur said.
“Good. I’d tear the world apart for my girl. But my wife… Fell for her like a stupid boy. Ever happened to you?” He turned, waiting.
“Once or twice. Never cheated, though. You marry, you owe the family loyalty. What if she strayed? Could you live with that?” Arthur met his gaze. “So the ‘business trips’ are a cover?”
“Sharp. Twice a year, I come here. Lets me breathe.” His eyes glazed over. “Then I can go on.”
“How old’s your daughter?”
“Twelve. And you? Kids boot you out?” The question carried a bite.
“My son’s in Bristol with his family. Always begs me to visit. Why? They’ve their own lives. I won’t intrude.”
“Smart,” the man nodded.
“My wife died three years back. Married her to spite myself, forget another. When she passed, I nearly followed. Couldn’t stand the quiet. Maybe I did love her—just didn’t know it. Love’s queer like that. But you manage. Leave the wound alone, it aches less.”
“Visiting family, then?”
Human nature—another’s pain distracts from your own. Makes yours seem smaller.
“No. Came to see the one person who ever mattered,” Arthur said.
“Go on. We’ve three hours. Name’s Oliver.” He offered his hand.
“Arthur.” They shook.
“Listen—Elena packed me roast chicken, pies. Cooks like a dream. Fancy a beer?” Oliver asked, as if they were old mates.
“Not for me. Nor hungry. You go ahead,” Arthur said.
“Fair. So—talk.” Oliver sprawled on the bench, knee propped.
“What’s to tell?” Arthur began. “Fancied a girl at school. Lost my head every time I saw her. Never noticed me. Never confessed. Joined the army—thought about deserting, mad with jealousy. While I served, she married… my best mate. Had a daughter before I returned. Met him once—asked if the kid was mine. Saw red. Laid him out flat.”
“Was it yours?” Oliver leaned in.
“Told you—never even kissed her. Loved her from afar.” Arthur glared. “Suffered for years. Bit my lips bloody watching them. Avoided their street for miles. Thought marrying’d fix it. Fat chance.”
“Margaret was a good wife. Knew I didn’t love her, still gave her all. Didn’t deserve it. Mum adored her. But the heart’s stubborn. Couldn’t forget Helen. Nearly moved cities to escape her. Then they left for London. Could finally breathe. Margaret had our son—never been prouder. But we weren’t a family. Still dreamt of Helen. When Margaret died, I nearly joined her. Life meant nothing without her.”
“My son wed, moved to Bristol. Left me a laptop—Skype calls. Taught me to use it. Got curious, browsed, hunted old friends. Found Helen once. Wrote. Waited. No reply. Thought she’d forgotten me. Then—a short note. ‘Remember you. Glad.’ We wrote for a year. Finally confessed I’d loved her since school. She asked why I never spoke up. Turned out she’d fancied me too.”
“Christ… All that time wasted.” Oliver whistled.
“Can’t complain. Margaret was good to me. Helen’d split with her husband years back. Lived alone. Suggested video calls. We’d talk for hours. Then her grandson moved in—‘closer to uni,’ he claimed. Suspect her daughter guessed, panicked. With him there, Helen grew shy. We spoke less. So I proposed visiting. Couldn’t bear the silence. She agreed.”
“Bought a ticket, nerves fit to burst. But meeting her—easy as breathing. Hugged like old friends. Talked all night. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t believe it. Didn’t need more—just her voice, her nearness.”
“Three days flew. On the fourth, the grandson ‘fell ill,’ skipped uni. Helen ran for medicine, groceries. He cornered me. Said he saw through me—I wasn’t here ‘just visiting.’ The flat was his, he said. His domain.”
“Told him I didn’t want it—I’ve my own place, no plans to move to London. He didn’t buy it. Shoved me toward the door. Threatened police. Said he’d have us declared mad, packed off to an asylum.”
“Fury like I’ve never known. Not for me—for Helen. The waste of it. Grabbed my bag (thank God I’d packed light) and left. Now I wonder—should I have stayed? What if he calls the authorities? Labels her unstable? I’m powerless now.”
“Bloody soap opera,” Oliver muttered. “What’ll you do?”
“Don’t know. Write. Explain. Rebuild what we had.”
“Think he’s scared you’ll disrupt his plans. Hate to say it—your Helen might be in danger.”
“Same fear. She’ll be home by now, wondering where I’ve gone. What lies has he fed her? You—protect your family. You’re needed. This Elena—she’s all charm now, but if you leave your wife, start paying child support? She’She’ll change, mark my words,” Arthur said, then rose with his bag as their train finally arrived, its whistle cutting through the station’s clamor like the sharp, sweet promise of a second chance.
