Late Happiness
Roger had been wandering through the unfamiliar sprawl of London for what felt like ages before he finally reached King’s Cross Station. His legs ached, and his mood was foul. He’d been so excited to come here—never imagined he’d be leaving like this. He hadn’t done anything wrong, and yet here he was, slinking away like a guilty cat.
He spotted an empty bench in the waiting area and sank onto it, sighing. *Just a few minutes to catch my breath, then I’ll check about the ticket. Five more minutes won’t change anything. At least I didn’t book a return trip in advance. Planned to stay a week… Ah, well.*
When the numbness in his legs finally faded, he hoisted his heavy duffel onto his shoulder and shuffled toward the ticket counters. As he queued, he watched the station’s chaotic rhythm, wondering what he’d do if there were no train tickets left. But the clerk handed him one—though he’d have to wait over three hours for the next train to Manchester. Didn’t matter. The important thing was, he was going home.
Roger tucked the ticket and his passport into his jacket pocket and glanced around. His bench was taken now. He stepped outside toward the platforms, where a few more benches lined the station walls. A fast train stood ready by one platform, its destination glowing on the digital board. All passengers had boarded—the benches sat empty.
The stubborn stench of creosote and track dust mixed with cigarette smoke, stale beer, and unwashed bodies. Even the open air couldn’t wash it away. A station like this saw thousands pass through daily—homeless folks, drunkards, everyone in between.
Roger settled on a bench with a clear view of the boards and platforms, resigned to the wait. His mind replayed the argument with Helen’s grandson, scrambling now for the right words, the perfect retort—too late, of course.
“Mind if I sit?” A young man’s voice cut through his thoughts.
Roger looked up to see a bloke in a sharp suit, rolling a small suitcase behind him.
“Plenty of space,” Roger said, shifting slightly even though there was room. He noticed the other benches were filling up too.
The man sat at the far end, loosened his tie, and tucked his case beside him.
“Business trip?” Roger asked, craving conversation, any human voice.
“Coming back from one,” the man answered tersely, eyeing Roger.
“Same. Heading home.” Roger sighed.
“You here for work too?” The skepticism was clear.
“No. Visiting someone. Thought I’d stay a week. Didn’t work out.” Roger lowered his head.
“Got kicked out?” The man’s tone softened.
“Something like that. Waiting for the Manchester train now. You?”
“Bad luck for both of us, long wait. Had to cut my trip short too. Change of plans.”
“What carriage are you in?” Roger asked.
“Eleventh.”
“Same as me. Which compartment? Not number five, is it?”
“Actually, yeah.” The man frowned, patting his pocket for his ticket. He checked, nodded, then slapped his knees.
“Funny coincidence. Just bought yours?” He studied Roger more closely now. They’d be sharing a compartment the whole way.
“Yep.”
“Was supposed to leave in two days, but my wife rang—our daughter’s ill. Said she’s scared to even say the diagnosis, crying down the phone. Had to drop everything and go.”
“Could’ve flown, faster,” Roger pointed out.
“Scared of planes, honestly. Trains are calmer.”
Just then, the man’s phone buzzed in his jacket. He answered, and Roger politely turned away.
“Hey. Yeah, at the station, got the ticket… I was hoping too… Miss you already. Don’t cry, I’ll try to get back soon—” He listened quietly, eyes distant. “Alright, I’ll call if anything changes. Bye, love you.” He hung up, his mood visibly darker.
Roger stayed silent.
“Don’t pretend you don’t get it,” the man suddenly said. “Don’t judge me, old man. You don’t know anything.”
“Wasn’t judging. Not my business,” Roger said.
“Good. I’d tear the world apart for my daughter. But my wife… Fell for her again like a schoolboy. Happen to you?” He turned, waiting.
“Once or twice. Never cheated, though. You marry, you take responsibility. How’d you feel if *she* stepped out? How’d you live with that?” Roger admitted. “So these ‘business trips’—just cover?”
“Sharp. Come up twice a year, breathe. Lets me keep going.” His gaze fogged over.
“How old’s your daughter?”
“Twelve. What about you? Visiting kids? Son show you the door?” There was a bite to it.
“My son’s in Edinburgh with his family. Always begging me to visit. Why? They’ve got their own lives. Don’t want to intrude.”
“Smart,” the man nodded.
“Wife died three years back. Married her to spite myself, forget someone else. When she passed, I wanted to follow. Couldn’t stand being alone. Maybe I loved her without knowing. Love’s funny like that. But I manage. Pain fades if you don’t poke it.”
“Visiting relatives, then?”
That’s just how people are. When you’re hurting, someone else’s misery distracts you. Makes yours feel smaller.
“No. But I *was* visiting the closest person in the world.”
“Go on. Three hours to kill. I’m Liam.” He offered a hand.
“Roger.” They shook.
“Listen, my Lucy packed me fried chicken, pies. Cooks brilliantly. Fancy a beer run?” Liam asked, like they were old mates.
“Not for me. Not hungry either. Go ahead.”
“Suit yourself. So—talk.” Liam crossed his legs, settling in.
“What’s to say?” Roger began. “Loved a girl in school. Lost my head every time I saw her. But she never noticed. Never spoke up. Joined the army after. Mad with jealousy, even thought about deserting.
“She married while I was gone. My *best mate*. Found out when I got back. They already had a baby. Met him, wanted to talk. He asked if the kid was mine. Saw red. Laid him out flat.”
“*Was* it yours?” Liam cut in.
“Told you, never even kissed her. Loved her from afar.” Roger shot him a look. “Suffered for years. Bit my lips bloody seeing them together. Took detours to avoid their street. Thought marrying someone else would fix it. Didn’t.”
Margaret was a good wife. Knew I didn’t love her, but she tried. Didn’t deserve her. Mum adored her. But you can’t force the heart. Couldn’t forget Helen. Even considered moving cities to escape her.
Then *they* left for London. Got easier. Breathed again. Margaret had our son. So proud. But we were never truly a family. Always dreaming of Helen. When Margaret died three years ago, I nearly followed. Turns out, life meant nothing without her.
Son was married by then, moved to Edinburgh. Left me a laptop to Skype. Taught me how. Got curious, started browsing, social media. One day, I found *her*.
Messaged her. Waited. No reply. Figured she’d forgotten me. Then got a short note—*I remember. Glad you’re well.* We wrote for a year. Finally confessed I’d loved her since school. She asked why I’d never said so. Turns out, she’d fancied me too.
All that time wasted. Life gone sideways. Not that Margaret deserved the blame. Helen divorced long ago. Alone all these years. Suggested video calls.
We’d talk for hours. Then her grandson moved in—closer to uni, he claimed. Think her daughter suspected something, got nervous. With him around, Helen grew shy on camera. We talked less.
So I proposed visiting. Couldn’t bear the distance. She agreed. Booked the train, nerves like a teenager. But when we met—easy as anything. Hugged like old friends. Laughing in her kitchen till midnight. Didn’t sleep. Couldn’t believe it. Didn’t need anything but her voice, her nearness.
Three days flew. On the fourth, her grandson ‘fell ill,’ skipped uni. Helen rushed out for medicine and groceries.
Then he cornered me. Said he saw right through me, knew I wasn’t just visiting. Flat wasn’t mine—it was his. *He* was in charge.
I swore I didn’t want his flat, had my own. Not moving to London now. He didn’t believe me. Started shoving me toward the door. Threatened police. Said he’d have us declared mad, shipped off to an asylum.
I was livid—not for me, for *her*. Heartbroken for us both. Packed my things (thank God I’dRoger and Helen settled into their seats on the train, fingers intertwined, knowing that whatever time they had left together was worth every second they’d lost.
