Before stepping out for good…
James stepped through the station doors onto the platform, slightly stooped under the weight of a large sports bag slung over his shoulder, the Nike logo faded from wear. Beads of sweat traced shiny, damp trails down his temples. His eyes swept the platform. A row of benches lined the station wall, occupied by waiting passengers and those seeing them off. On one bench sat an old man in a grey trench coat and fedora. James made his way toward him.
He shrugged off his burden and set the bag down between them, pulling a crumpled handkerchief from his jacket pocket to wipe his face before finally sitting with a relieved sigh. A fast train thundered past without stopping, the rush of warm air smelling of iron and dust brushing against James’s face, ruffling his short hair.
He watched the train’s fading tail before leaning back on the bench, resting a hand on his bag. The platform chatter, paused during the train’s passing, resumed all at once.
“Fast train number… now arriving… Carriages numbered from the front,” crackled an indistinct female voice over the tannoy.
“Couldn’t make out which train, could you?” asked the old man, turning his head toward James.
James shook his head and shrugged. The old man nodded and checked his wristwatch.
“Third time they’ve announced it’s arriving, still no sign,” he sighed. “Why is it station announcements are always so garbled?”
James remained silent, resisting the pull of conversation.
“Off somewhere, are you? That’s a fair bit of luggage. Heavy-looking bag.” The old man persisted.
“Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?” James snorted. “You’ve got no luggage—so I’d say you’re meeting someone.”
“Spot on,” the old man said cheerfully. “My son,” he added with pride.
“And I’m leaving mine,” James murmured, almost involuntarily.
“That’s life.” The old man sighed too. “Running away, then? Can’t outrun yourself, though. You’ll carry your troubles wherever you go.” He nodded at the bag between them.
James shot him an irritated glance and turned away.
“I did the same forty years ago. My lad was eleven then. Haven’t seen him since. Nervous, I am.”
The old man’s calm voice didn’t match his claim of nerves.
“Doesn’t show,” James muttered, hoping he wouldn’t be heard.
“Nervous,” the old man repeated. “At my age, you ration your emotions. Too much joy or grief could finish you, young man.”
“He live abroad or something?” James latched onto the distraction.
He hadn’t even noticed how a throwaway comment from his wife about coming home late had spiralled into a row. Words flew, accusations followed. In the end, Emily accused him of cheating—no grounds for it. True what they say—words once spoken can’t be taken back.
He should’ve laughed it off. Instead, he grabbed a bag, stuffed in whatever was at hand, slammed the door, and headed to the station. Only now, hearing the old man talk of his son, did he remember Charlie.
The old man’s voice pulled him back.
“My wife, Margaret—practical sort. Not a beauty, but sharp as a tack. Never thought I’d lose my head, leave her and my boy. But there you are.”
James realised the old man was confiding in him, trying to explain.
“Had a hernia flare up. Been bothering me for years, but this—sharp pain in the groin, unbearable. Margaret sent me to hospital. Took one look and rushed me into surgery.”
“Lying in recovery, still groggy, in walks this nurse. All in white, eyes blue as the sky. Proper angel, she was. Even had an angel’s name—Claire.”
“She came over with a syringe. Light touch of her fingers, I was trembling. Didn’t even feel the needle. Fell hard. Couldn’t sleep the night before discharge—thought about breaking my leg just to stay.”
“Confessed my love right before leaving. Expected her to shove me off. Instead, she gave me her home number. Two days later, I rang her while Margaret was at work.”
“Met her outside the hospital with flowers, walked her home. Handsome chap back then. Wasn’t love—obsession, more like. Soon realised my mistake, tried to end it—then she got pregnant.”
“Well, thought I’d do right by the child. My boy was grown—should this one be fatherless? Went home, told Margaret everything. She wept, of course. Packed a bag—smaller than yours—and left for Claire.”
“Divorced Margaret, never married Claire. Something went wrong during labour. She died. Her parents blamed me—so did I. If she hadn’t fallen pregnant… That’s fate.” The old man sighed. “They took the baby. Didn’t even let me see her.”
“You said you never saw your son again. Your wife never forgave you?” James asked.
“Never. Would you? Blamed myself. Wanted to die. Judged every man who couldn’t keep his trousers on—yet there I was.” He waved a hand. “Went up North. Half hoped I’d freeze. Imagined Margaret weeping at my grave. But the cold, the drink, the storms—none took me. Sent most of my pay to them. Had no use for it.”
“She sent every penny back. That was Margaret. Once slipped in a note—she’d remarried. Saved up, bought a flat in Bristol. Never looked for my boy. Too ashamed. He found me. Wrote recently—said Margaret passed.”
The tannoy screeched, the voice stuttering through another arrival announcement.
This time, the train actually stopped. Passengers disembarked, vanishing into the station. The old man stood, craning his neck like a goose. No one noticed him. The train departed. Lost, he scanned the empty platform and sat back down.
“Maybe the next one?” James offered.
The old man’s story had moved him so deeply, he forgot why he was there himself—until the tannoy announced his train’s arrival at platform two. This time, the voice was clear.
“That’s mine,” James said.
Suddenly, the old man stiffened. James followed his gaze to a man in his fifties approaching their bench, a short, stout woman beside him. They stopped a few steps away. The old man rose slowly, removed his hat, fidgeted with it, and put it back on. The arriving train drowned out the man’s words, but James read his lips: “Dad.”
New passengers boarded as others left. The man stepped forward. They stood there, just looking at each other. James knew he wasn’t needed. He stood, slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked toward his train.
A young attendant waited impatiently by the carriage door. James glanced back—the old man’s hat disappeared into the station.
“Are you boarding? We’re leaving soon.”
A flustered man wheezed up, confirming his carriage number, handing over his ticket. James was almost glad for the distraction. Adjusting his bag, he turned and walked away. At the station doors, he pulled out his ticket, stared at it blankly, then crumpled and tossed it into a bin.
Pushing past protests and curses, he emerged outside. Taxi drivers called for fares. James climbed into the first cab, gave his address.
“Just got in? Rushing home to the missus?”
“Yes. Quick as you can.”
“Five minutes, you’ll be hugging her.” The driver chuckled, then fell silent at James’s grim expression.
James took the stairs two at a time, barely feeling the bag digging into his shoulder. He pocketed his keys and rang the bell. Charlie opened the door.
“Dad?! Mum, Dad’s back!” The boy flung himself into James’s arms before he could step inside.
Emily appeared, eyes red from crying.
“Forgive me.” That was all James could manage before his throat closed up.
Emily buried her face in his chest.
