Sands of Time

First-class Travel

As she rode the escalator up from the crowded District Line, Abi glanced furtively at her watch. Normally she didn’t allow herself to do that. To see the hands moving round as she fought her way through the crowds was to invite stress. If she left her time-check until she arrived on the teeming concourse of Liverpool Street Station she could see which trains were there on the departure board, and she could make a spot judgement. Run or saunter, or go grab a coffee. The stress was thereby minimised.

Today had been particularly bad. The crowds seemed heavier than usual and she had had an especially exhausting afternoon in court. A child custody case – the worst kind. The 5.42 was still alongside Platform 11 and she had four minutes to get there. With every step her briefcase and large shoulder-bag grew heavier, but on this occasion it was worth the hurry. To get home as soon as possible, to have a cool bath and a long, lazy gin and tonic on the terrace at the back of the cottage was the sole thing on her mind at this moment.

The cottage had seemed a sensible buy when she and Don split up: two small homes in exchange for the beautiful Georgian townhouse that had been sacrificed on the altar of divorce. Initially, she had been pleased with her purchase. Idyllically pretty, with a thatched roof in a charming, riverside village. But it was lonely. There was no one to share her frozen meals with. No time to meet the neighbours. No energy to go out and seek for company, male or female. No possibility, given her long, long hours of work, of even a cat or a dog for company… She sighed.

The first-class allocation on these trains was a joke. It was to be found at the end of the first carriage, a small glassed off section, only seating a mere sixteen people, presumably all the business travellers – people like her whose tickets were paid for by their firms because they needed to work in that precious hour or two on the way to and from home. If she were travelling Intercity there would have been a table to work at, and above all she wouldn’t have to wait till she got home for the G &T, but as it was even the token space and relative quiet provided in this small area was welcome.

She slid the door back and climbed into the one vacant place with murmured apologies to the other passengers upon whose toes she was treading. The train was hot and stuffy. The windows were dirty, misted with condensation, and closed. She leaned back wearily as the train pulled out of the station. What, she asked herself for the hundredth time that week, was it all for?

Her neighbour reached down into his own briefcase and brought out a laptop. Opposite her a mobile phone trilled importantly and was immediately silenced. She sighed and closed her eyes. If someone didn’t open a window soon they would all suffocate anyway, and that would be the end of all their problems.

At Chelmsford half the train passengers disembarked. Those who remained spread themselves more comfortably and someone at last lowered a window. Abi did not open her eyes.

When she awoke, the train was standing at a small station, the doors blessedly open. Soon it would be dark. Nearly everyone had gone now. She was the only person left in the first-class ghetto.

In the distance, she could hear an announcement over the station loudspeaker. Someone blew a whistle. The doors were actually closing when three young men, heavily tattooed, jumped on the train. Of one accord they turned towards the first-class compartment and slid open the door.

‘Hello, darling!’ The first one greeted her with a leer. ‘Not too proud for a bit of company, I hope!’ They sat down in the set of seats next to hers across the gangway.

Her heart had sunk to her shoes. The first-class compartment, in theory a haven, was a challenge to people like these, and it had become, suddenly, a trap. She smiled non-committally and closed her eyes again, hoping that a calm demeanour would bore them into looking for someone else to bait. It didn’t.

‘Come on, darling. Want a drink?’ A can of lager was waved under her nose.

She shrank back and shook her head. ‘No thanks.’

‘No thanks!’ The mimicry was mocking, the atmosphere of threat and barely suppressed anger increasing every second. She found to her surprise that she was thinking very clearly. What were they going to try? She doubted if they would actually hurt her. Best not to think about that. Concentrate on her belongings instead. Her briefcase was pushed back on the rack. Legal briefs. Court papers. Confidential memos. She doubted if this bunch could even read, but nevertheless their theft would compromise the case. She had little jewellery on. Earrings. A slim gold bangle, hidden under the cuff of her blouse. A couple of rings – one Victorian, which had belonged to her grandmother’s grandmother. That she would be devastated to lose. The rest, well, it could be replaced. Her shoulder-bag contained more papers. Some money. Credit cards. Mobile.

Mobile. She glanced at the bag, now lying beside her on the seat. Could she reach it and dial? The communication cord, so often glanced at, its position noted, just in case, was out of reach above the door, outside the compartment. No use at all.

Her chief tormentor had fallen back into his seat, amusing himself with draining his can of lager. Finishing it, he crumpled it up in one fist and hurled it suddenly and with enormous force at the window near her. She jumped back in her seat and he let fly a string of obscenities before reaching into the bag he had dumped on the seat beside him for a new can.

Abi glanced at the window. With it rapidly growing dark outside, it was hard to see where they were, but surely it could not be many minutes before they reached the next station. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than her heart sank. Whatever they intended to do, it would be before they arrived so that they could make their escape. If only she had a rape alarm, or something with which to defend herself.

The third young man had risen slowly to his feet. His hair was longer than that of his friends and lay greasy on his collar. Clutching his can, he staggered across to stand immediately in front of her, his legs actually touching her knees. ‘I think I’m going to throw up,’ he announced casually.

‘… In which case, I think it would be a good thing if you got off the train, young man. I doubt if any of you have first-class tickets – or any tickets at all. You leave the train at the next stop. Do you understand me? All of you?’

The sliding open of the compartment door had been sufficiently sudden, the deep voice sufficiently loud for the youth to spin round in surprise. His companions, who had begun to sing discordantly, fell silent.

Abi’s rescuer was tall and broadshouldered, casually dressed, in his forties, Abi guessed, and he was undeniably black. She took a deep breath and waited for the torrent of racial abuse she thought was bound to follow. It didn’t come. The stranger looked at each one in turn for several seconds as though memorising their faces, then, with a nod at Abi, he turned away without a word. She saw him resume his seat about half a dozen rows away. She did not dare look at her three persecutors.

She reached into her bag and produced her mobile. Aware that they were watching her, she pressed the 9 button three times and at last looked up at them directly. All three stood up.

As the train drew into the next station they jumped off and disappeared into the dark. Abi put away her phone. The only sound in the carriage now was the distant rattle of an empty lager can being kicked along the wet platform.

From her seat, Abi saw her rescuer glance up and register that they had gone. She caught his eye and smiled gratefully, wondering if she should go and thank him properly, but already he had looked down, immersed, she could see, in a pile of papers.

The last long haul before the final stop was blessedly peaceful. Abi reached her own briefcase down at last and withdrew a memo. The compartment still reeked of lager and the atmosphere of violence lingered, but she had left the door open and the sight of the distant, dark, slightly greying head bent so studiously over his own reading matter reassured her. She reached for a pen and began to make notes, trying to put the disturbance behind her.

‘I must speak to the driver!’ The woman’s voice behind her made her jump. She turned round, scanning the compartment. It was empty. The door behind her, locked shut, led only, she knew, to the empty driver’s cab and the rear of the train.

She frowned. She must have imagined it. Perhaps she had dreamed it, fallen asleep or been in that unreal hypnotic state when strange voices from time to time accost one loudly out of the ether. Rubbing her eyes she turned back to her papers.

‘Please. Help me! I must speak to the driver!’

Abi jumped to her feet, her papers sliding from her lap in all directions. The voice had come from the seat behind her – quite loud, perfectly clear, the accent elegant, almost over-refined. There was no possibility she had imagined it. She turned round slowly, clutching the back of the seat as the train sped northwards on the last stage of its journey, scanning every inch of the compartment, under every seat, the luggage rack, even the litter bin.

‘I don’t mean to pry, but are you all right?’ He had been watching her, and now he approached, a look of concern on his face. ‘Did they steal something?’

‘No, they didn’t take anything. It was a woman.’ Abi looked up at him, confused. ‘Did you see a woman in here? Sitting behind me?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’ Stepping into the compartment, he sat down and leaned over, rounding up her papers from the floor. ‘Yes, come to think of it, I believe a woman got on the train as those boys got off. I noticed her and thought it strange because she was wearing such an old-fashioned hat. But I didn’t see where she went. I was reading. I didn’t take much notice, I’m afraid, once they got off.’

Abi had watched them get off. She had seen no one get on. She shook her head. ‘She’s not here now. Look, you can see that the whole carriage is empty.’ She gestured wildly down the length of it.

‘She could have walked on through.’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘No, this is the last carriage. The end of the train.’

Far away, at the front, they heard the two-tone hooter as they rattled through an empty station without stopping.

‘Are you sure you weren’t asleep?’ He had the most wonderful smile, she realised suddenly. Gentle. Understanding. Inviting confidences. Slowly she shook her head. ‘I suppose I must have been.’ She gave an awkward laugh. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose those awful louts unnerved me so much I was hallucinating or something.’ She paused. ‘I haven’t thanked you for saving me. I was so sure they were going to rob me at the very least.’

He laughed. ‘Bravado, most of it. You showed no fear, so would probably have been OK. They’re often cowards, that sort.’

‘You handled them like an expert!’

He nodded. ‘So I should. I was head of an inner city school for sixteen years. I expect I dimly reminded them of some sort of authority figure.’

Abi laughed. ‘I should have guessed. Are you still a teacher?’

He shook his head. ‘No. I’ve done my bit for British youth. I’m a straight academic now. Writing books on education.’ He glanced at the window. ‘Nearly there.’ He handed her her papers. ‘Will you be all right now?’

She nodded. ‘Thank you again. I’m really grateful.’ He smiled again as he rose to his feet and then he was gone, back to his own seat, where she could see him busy packing his briefcase.

When they disembarked from different doors she saw him striding ahead of her, out of the station and into the darkness.

For the rest of the week Abi was nervous coming home. She watched jumpily as the train began to empty, aware that in her bag at last was the rape alarm she had always promised herself she would buy. And she kept her eyes open for her rescuer, unable to keep the image of his smile out of her head. Their mutual station served dozens of small villages. He could have come from any one of them, but there was no sign of him again. Until Friday.

It was on the last leg of the journey that he knocked on the door of the compartment where she was once more sitting alone, and slid it back with a smile. ‘May I join you for a moment?’ He was formally dressed today in an immaculate grey suit and sober silk tie. ‘I trust you’re none the worse for your adventure on Monday?’ He paused a second then, not giving her the chance to reply, went on, ‘I’ve discovered something about the woman in the compartment and I wondered if you would like to hear about her.’

She looked up and met his eyes. ‘You make her sound rather intriguing.’

‘She is. Or rather was.’ He paused. ‘Something about her disappearance puzzled me, as I think it puzzled you. It nagged at my brain until I began to remember a story I’d heard, and yesterday afternoon I had some time to spare so I went to the newspaper library to check. I found her. Or at least, I think I did. The woman who spoke to you was a ghost.’ His eyes held hers soberly, challenging her to laugh. She didn’t. A cold draught tiptoed lightly across her shoulders.

‘She was called Sarah Middleton. In the 1950s she was travelling on a train on this line when she was attacked. She managed to pull the communication cord but by the time they found her she was dead. When they interviewed the other passengers later someone who had been in the same compartment with her said she had been very agitated. That the man she was with was very aggressive. When the passenger got off, she tried to alight as well, but the man pulled her back. Apparently she was screaming, “I must speak to the driver”.’

Abi closed her eyes. She shivered. ‘Why on earth didn’t he help her?’

‘He thought it was none of his business. He assumed the man was her husband. He even thought she might be drunk. Didn’t want to interfere. And you weren’t dreaming. Apparently, she has been seen several times by different people over the years, travelling this stretch of line.’

‘Poor Sarah. Did they catch him?’

He shook his head.

‘So her spirit can’t rest.’ She shuddered. ‘That’s a terrible story.’

The train was slowing. He glanced at his watch. ‘I photocopied the newspaper stories. I haven’t got them with me – I wasn’t sure if I would see you again – but I could send them to you. Or perhaps I’ll keep them on me in case I do bump into you again. I go up and down this way several times a week to visit the British Library. I live in Seaton.’

‘So do I.’ She hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘You could always drop them in.’

They walked together to the car park and found their cars next to each other. Their houses, they discovered, were in adjacent roads. How they could have failed to meet or even see one another in the post office on Saturday mornings filled the conversation for the next five minutes.

‘After all, you could hardly miss me.’ Grant laughed. That was his name. Grant Stevenson. She glanced, suddenly a little shy, at his six-foot frame and the black face, unusual in this lonely part of East Anglia, and she laughed with him.

Before they parted, she had discovered that he was a widower with three children all in their twenties, that he was forty-five – twelve years older than she – that he had published three books, two on educational theory and one on local history – hence his memory of the story of poor Sarah Middleton – that she was invited to supper the following evening and that, undeniably, she found him astonishingly attractive.