THE TRAVEL COMPANION
The announcement for boarding had just been made, and Victor stepped onto the platform. After a week-long business trip, he was finally heading home. He found his lower berth in the carriage and was settling in when he heard heavy breathing behind him. Turning, he saw an elderly woman with a wheeled suitcase—more like a backpack—standing there, catching her breath. She wore an autumn coat and a colourful scarf.
*Great*, Victor thought, *an old lady, clearly my neighbour, probably going to ask for my lower bunk.*
“Take a look, son,” she said, still breathless. “I think this is my lower berth.”
Sure enough, it was. She fussed with her things, arranging them carefully. Victor noted she must be in her seventies. *At that age, why not just stay home?* he wondered.
Once seated, she folded her wrinkled hands in her lap. Passengers filed in, but the upper bunks in their compartment remained empty. Victor resigned himself to a quiet journey with an old woman he had little in common with.
The train pulled away. Soon, the attendant brought bedding. The woman made her bed neatly before sitting back down.
“Not used to this sort of sleeping,” she said. “At home, I’ve got a proper soft bed. Haven’t travelled like this since I was young—never thought I would again.”
Victor nodded but stayed silent.
“My name’s Margaret Thompson,” she continued. “What’s yours?”
“Victor.”
“And your father’s name?”
“Matthew. But just Victor’s fine.”
“Well, yes, you’re young enough for that. Going home?”
“Why do you say that?” Victor frowned. “Just coming back from work.”
“Ah, home’s nice. Me, I’m leaving home at my age.” She fell quiet, staring out the window. Victor thought he saw tears, though she wasn’t crying. He felt a pang of guilt for his earlier coldness.
“Are you… going home or leaving it?” he asked, softening his tone.
“Leaving, son. Just leaving. It’s only a day’s journey, but still, travel’s not easy at my age.”
“Who are you visiting?”
“My daughter,” Margaret said, pulling out a handkerchief to dab her eyes.
“You should be happy, not crying.”
“I am happy. Haven’t seen her in five years. Thought I never would again.”
“Lost touch?”
“By choice, son. Our tempers—pride got in the way. We never got along once she grew up. Raised her alone—her father gone—and we argued over everything. First marriage? Spite, that was. Didn’t last. And I… I never gave her a kind word, only blame. Even turned my granddaughter against me. Then, five years ago, she sold her flat and left without a word. I even went to the police—worried sick, her and the little one gone.”
She took a shaky breath. “Then a letter came. Said she was fine, remarried, but not to look for her—never to visit. Carried that weight for years. But time shows you things. I wasn’t right either. She may not have listened, but she’s still my girl.”
“A year ago, another letter. Told me where she was—divorced again, a grandma herself now. Asked after my health. Cried all night, I did. Wrote back—told her life’s empty without them. We called, talked… realised we’d both been wrong.”
“Now my great-grandson’s here. My daughter helps raise him—can’t get away herself—so she’s asked me to come. Who knows how much time I’ve left? Health’s not what it was. Just… wanted to see her.”
Victor stayed silent, the woman’s story settling in his chest. He thought of his own mother, living in the countryside with his elder sister. He rarely visited, always assuming his sister would take care of things. Now, after this stranger’s tale, an ache grew inside him. His mother missed him. Wanted to see him more.
The journey passed quickly—Victor and Margaret talked the whole way. At the station, he helped her off the train. A woman in the crowd caught his eye—lovely but anxious, scanning the platform. Their eyes met. They embraced, clinging tightly, both in tears. The sight was so moving Victor had no doubt—they’d be alright now.
He stepped away, suddenly needing air. Fumbling for his phone, he dialled his mother. For no reason other than the moment, he just wanted to say:
“Mum? I’m back. I’ll come see you this weekend.”
Sometimes, a stranger’s story makes us see ourselves—reminds us of what we’ve neglected, of love long overdue.
