The train wheels tapped out the rhythm of my long-awaited bliss. For three months, Id saved for this holidaythree months dreaming of the sea, of salty breezes on my skin, of sunsets unspoiled by city towers. The compartment was empty for now, and I relished this rare luxury: solitude with my thoughts and daydreams.
Carefully, I laid out my provisions on the fold-down table: homemade pork pies wrapped in foil, a jar of pickled onions, sliced sandwiches with Cumberland sausage, apples, biscuits, and a thermos of strong tea. Enough for the long journey to the coast. I imagined leisurely lunches by the window, watching the countryside blur past, sipping tea from my favourite mug as I lost myself in a book.
The train slowed as it approached another station. I barely noticed the commotion in the corridorwhat did it matter, when the sea and two weeks of blissful idleness lay ahead?
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
A family barged in: a short, dishevelled man with a beer belly, his wifea stout woman with a voice like a foghornand their ten-year-old son, built like his mother. They clattered about, tossing bags onto bunks and bickering loudly.
“Finally!” the woman boomed, flopping onto the lower berth. “Thought my legsd give out hauling those suitcases!”
“Well, you insisted on bringing all that junk, Maureen!” the man snapped.
“Its not junk, its essentials!” Maureen huffed.
The boy clambered onto his bunk without a word and began noisily crunching crisps.
I clung to my goodwill. They were on holiday too, entitled to their excitement. Maybe theyd settle down.
Half an hour later, my hopes dissolved.
“Ooh, whats all this lovely grub?” Maureens eyes gleamed as she eyed my spread. “We brought bits toolook!”
She plonked two boiled eggs and a limp celery stick onto the table beside my neatly arranged feast.
“Shared table, like!” she announced, as if shed done me a favour.
Something inside me tensed, but I held onto hope.
In vain.
The manBarry, he introduced himselfunwrapped one of my pork pies and took a bite.
“Blimey, homemade!” he mumbled through a full mouth. “Proper good, this!”
“Barry, lets have some!” Maureen reached for the pies.
“Excuse me,” I tried, “but thats my food. I packed it for the journey.”
They stared as if Id said something obscene.
“Dont be daft!” Maureen scoffed. “You put it on the table! If its on the table, its for sharing! Basic manners, love!”
“We brought our bits too,” Barry added, gesturing at the dismal eggs. “Help yourselfdont be shy!”
Meanwhile, the boy dug grubby fingers into my jar of pickled onions.
“Nice!” he said, chewing loudly.
A wave of outrage and helplessness crashed over me. These people were shamelessly devouring my food, hiding behind some imaginary train etiquette. Worsethey acted as if I should be grateful.
“Listen,” I said firmly, “I didnt invite anyone to share. This is my food, for my trip.”
“Oh, give over!” Maureen slathered my pork pie onto bread. “Dont be tight! Were skint ourselveswere not forcing our measly scraps on you!”
Barry polished off my sandwiches, while the boy licked his fingers clean of the last onion.
Their audacity burned. Not for the foodfor the sheer powerlessness against such brazenness.
“Know what?” My voice shook. “I need some air.”
“Off you pop, then,” Maureen said magnanimously, still chewing. “Well sort the table.”
In the corridor, I let the tears come. Not for the lost mealfor the humiliation. Fields blurred past the window, and I wondered how people could be so entitled.
“Excuse meare you alright?”
I turned. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood there, his gaze kind.
“Fine,” I muttered, wiping my cheeks.
“Doesnt look fine,” he said gently. “Im James. You?”
“Emily,” I said, surprised my voice held steady.
“Emily, I wont pry. But sometimes it helps to tell a stranger.”
His warmth undid me. I spilled everythingthe holiday, the careful preparations, the brazen family devouring my food under invented rules.
James listened intently. When I finished, his face darkened.
“Right,” he said. “Which compartment?”
“Seven,” I answered, baffled.
“Wait here.” He strode off.
Muffled voices drifted outMaureens bluster, Barrys protests, then Jamess calm, firm tone. I caught no words, but the energy shifted.
When James returned, satisfaction flickered in his eyes.
“Theyll behave now.”
“What did you say?”
“Just clarified train etiquette.”
Back inside, the atmosphere had transformed. The boy was glued to his phone; Barry and Maureen whispered guiltily.
“Emily, love,” Barry began, “were proper sorry. Didnt realise you werent alone.”
“Course we didnt!” Maureen added. “If wed known your bloke was with you, wed never have touched your stuff!”
“Thought you were solo,” Barry said. “Were decent folkweve got families too, we get it”
I stared. What bloke?
At the next stop, they scurried off and returned with pasties, fruit, and a bottle of ginger beer.
“Here,” Maureen said sheepishly. “To say sorry. And for your feller too.”
“We were out of order,” Barry admitted. “Tuck in.”
Their grovelling almost made me pity them. The rest of the journey passed quietly.
That evening, I found James by the window, watching bridge lights streak past.
“James,” I said, “thank you. But what did you tell them? They keep going on about my bloke.”
He grinned. “Told a white lie. Doubt theyll fact-check.”
“Which was?”
“Said I was your travel companion. And mentioned my profession.” His eyes twinkled. “Explained that thefteven food on a trainis illegal. And that, as a police officer, I could file a report on the spot.”
My jaw dropped. “Are you really?”
“That,” he said mysteriously, “is a story for dinner. Theres a lovely spot by the sea where were headed. Fancy joining me?”
My heart skipped. This manwhod solved my problem so effortlesslywas going to the same place. Coincidence?
The train hurtled toward the coast, toward something new. I no longer thought of stolen food or bullies. Only that sometimes, the worst moments spark the best beginnings.
“Alright,” I said, meeting his gaze. “On one conditionyou tell me the truth about you.”
“Deal,” he smiled. “Ill tell you everything. Maybe more than you expect.”
The wheels kept their rhythmno longer just a holidays beat, but the pulse of a story starting here, now, thanks to a stranger whod appeared at just the right time.
