The announcement for boarding had just been made, and Victor stepped onto the platform. After a week away for work, he was finally heading home. As he settled into his lower bunk in the carriage, he heard someone breathing heavily behind him. He turned and saw an elderly woman struggling with a wheeled suitcase that looked more like a backpack, dressed in an autumn coat and a colourful headscarf, trying to catch her breath.
“Great,” Victor thought, “an old lady—definitely my bunkmate—probably about to ask for the lower berth.”
“Mind having a look, love? I think this one’s mine,” she puffed, once she’d steadied herself. Sure enough, it was hers. She fussed about, unpacking bits and bobs while Victor sized her up—seventy if she was a day. “Can’t believe she’s still travelling at that age,” he mused. “Why not stay put?”
Finally settled, she perched on the edge of her bunk, hands folded in her lap. Passengers filed in, but no one claimed the upper bunks nearby. Victor resigned himself to a quiet journey with an old woman he’d have nothing to say to.
The train pulled away. Soon, the attendant came by with bedding, and the woman set to work, smoothing the sheets neatly before sitting back down. Then, out of nowhere, she spoke:
“Can’t say I’m used to these scratchy sheets—got a proper soft bed at home. Haven’t travelled like this since I was young. Never thought I’d be doing it again.”
Victor nodded but stayed quiet.
“I’m Margaret Anne. What’s your name, then?”
“Victor.”
“And your middle name?”
“James. Just Victor’s fine.”
“Suppose so—you’re young enough for first names. Off visiting family?”
“Why’d you think that?” Victor frowned. “Just heading home from work.”
“Oh, home’s nice. Me? I’m leaving mine, at my age.” She trailed off, staring out the window. For a second, Victor thought he saw tears—though she wasn’t crying. A pang of guilt hit him for being so standoffish.
“So… are you going home or leaving it?” he asked, trying to soften his tone.
“Leaving, love. Leavin’. Only a day’s journey, but still, it’s a fuss at my age.”
“Who are you visiting?”
“My daughter.” Margaret Anne dug out a hankie and dabbed her eyes.
“You should be happy, not crying.”
“Oh, I am. Haven’t seen her in five years—thought I never would again.”
“Lost touch, did you?”
“On purpose, love. Young pride—hers and mine. Never let us live peaceful. Raised her alone after her dad left, and we rowed constantly. First marriage? Pure spite—ended badly. I didn’t help. Just nagged. Spent years at each other’s throats. Turned my granddaughter against me too—always winding me up. Then five years back, she sold her flat, vanished. Didn’t even say where. Went to the police, I did—worried sick, her and the little one out there alone.”
“Then out of the blue, a letter: ‘I’m fine, remarried, don’t come looking.’ Carried that weight for years. Eventually realised—I wasn’t blameless. Stubborn, the both of us. But she’s still my girl.”
“Then, last year, another letter. Told me where she was—divorced again, a grandma herself now—asked after my health. Cried all night, I did. Wrote back saying life’s empty without them. We talked, finally admitted we’d both been daft.”
“Granddaughter’s got a baby now—my great-grandchild! My Emily helps with the little one, can’t get away, so she asked me to come. Who knows how much time I’ve got left? Health’s rubbish—blood pressure’s a nightmare. Just want to see them.”
Victor stayed quiet, her story sinking in. He thought of his own mum, tucked away in the countryside, visited too rarely—always figured his sister would look after her. But now, after hearing Margaret Anne, his chest ached. His mum missed him. Wanted to see him more.
The journey flew by as they talked. At the station, he helped her off, spotting a nervous-looking woman scanning the crowd. Victor stepped back. The two locked eyes, embraced, and held on tight, both in tears. Something about it—raw, unshakable—told him they’d be alright.
Needing air, he wandered off, lit a fag, and pulled out his phone. No reason, really. Just dialled his mum.
“Mum? I’m back. Be round Sunday, yeah?”
Sometimes, a stranger’s story holds up a mirror—makes you see what you’ve been ignoring.
