Before he walked away, perhaps for good…
Paul stepped out of the train station doors onto the platform, staggering slightly under the weight of a bulky Adidas duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Beads of sweat traced glistening trails down his temples. His eyes swept across the platform. A row of benches hugged the station wall, crowded with passengers and those waiting to meet them. On one bench sat an elderly man in a grey overcoat and a battered fedora. That’s where Paul headed.
He dropped his bag onto the middle of the bench, tugged a crumpled handkerchief from his jacket pocket, and wiped his face before finally sitting down with a weary sigh. A high-speed train thundered past without stopping, a rush of warm air thick with the scent of railway ties and dust brushing against Paul’s face, ruffling his short hair.
He watched the train’s tail vanish into the distance, then leaned back against the bench, resting a hand on his bag. Conversations around him resumed as the noise faded.
*”Fast train number… arriving… Coach numbering from the front…”* A garbled woman’s voice crackled over the tannoy.
*”Couldn’t hear—which train was that?”* the old man asked, turning toward Paul.
Paul shook his head with a shrug. The old man nodded and checked his wristwatch.
*”Third time they’ve announced it’s arriving, but still no sign,”* he muttered with a sigh*. “Why is it always so hard to hear anything in train stations?”*
Paul stayed silent, unwilling to be drawn into conversation.
*”Heading somewhere? Looks like you’ve packed a fair bit. That bag’s heavy,”* the old man pressed.
*”Sherlock Holmes over here,”* Paul snorted. *”No luggage, so you must be meeting someone.”*
*”Right you are,”* the man said, brightening. *”My son. Haven’t seen him in years.”* There was pride in his voice.
*”I’m running from mine,”* Paul admitted quietly.
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
*”Ah, life,”* the old man sighed. *”Running, eh? Trouble is, you take your problems with you. That bag’s full of them.”* He gestured at the duffel between them.
Paul shot him an irritated glance and looked away.
*”Forty years ago, I ran too,”* the man continued, undisturbed. *”My lad was eleven then. Haven’t seen him since. Nervous, I am.”* His calm voice betrayed no hint of anxiety.
*”Doesn’t show,”* Paul muttered under his breath.
*”I’m nervous,”* the man repeated. *”At my age, you ration emotions. Too much joy or grief could finish you off, son.”*
*”Was he abroad? Is that why?”* Paul seized the chance to shift focus from his own troubles.
He hadn’t even noticed when his wife’s harmless remark about him returning home late had spiralled into a row. They’d shouted over each other, dredged up old grievances. Then Nadine had accused him of cheating—without a shred of proof. People were right: words were like sparrows—once let loose, you couldn’t catch them.
He should’ve laughed it off, stayed quiet. Instead, he’d grabbed the first bag he saw, stuffed in whatever came to hand, slammed the door behind him, and fled to the station. Only now, hearing this stranger speak of his son, did he think of Jeremy.
The old man’s voice snapped him back.
*”My wife was a good woman. Not a beauty, but sharp as a tack. Never thought I’d lose my head over another woman, leave her and my boy. And yet…”*
Paul realised the man was trying to tell him something—something important.
*”Had a hernia flare up. Been bothering me for years. But this time, the pain was unbearable. Nancy—my wife—sent me to hospital. They took one look and rushed me into surgery.”*
*”Lying there, half-drugged, and in walks this nurse. Dressed in white, eyes blue as a summer sky. An angel. And just as lovely. Even her name was angelic—Claire.”*
*”She came over with a syringe. Brushed her fingers over my skin—so soft, it near shook me. Didn’t even feel the needle. Fell hard. Couldn’t sleep the night before discharge—actually considered breaking my own leg to stay.”*
*”Right before leaving, I told her I loved her. Thought she’d laugh in my face. She gave me her number. Lasted two days before I called her—when Nancy was at work.”*
*”Met her by the hospital with flowers, walked her home. I was handsome back then. Wasn’t love, though. More like a fever. By the time I came to my senses, she was pregnant.”*
*”Thought, well, my boy’s grown—should this child be fatherless? Went home and confessed everything to Nancy. She wept—course she did. Like you, I packed a bag. Left. Mine was smaller, though.”*
*”Divorced Nancy, never married Claire. Something went wrong during labour. She died. Her parents blamed me—I blamed myself. If she hadn’t been pregnant, she’d still be alive. That’s fate for you.”* He exhaled heavily. *”Her parents took the baby. Never even let me see her.”*
*”You said you never saw your son again,”* Paul said. *”Your wife didn’t forgive you?”*
*”No. Could she? I blamed myself. Wanted to die. Used to curse men who couldn’t keep their trousers on. Then I became one.”* He waved a hand dismissively. *”Went north. Hoped the cold would kill me. Imagined Nancy weeping over my grave, full of regrets. But the frost didn’t take me. Neither did the drink. Sent most of my wages to her and the boy. Had no use for it.”*
*”She sent every penny back. That was my Nancy. Once slipped in a note—said she’d remarried. Saved up enough up north, bought a flat in Bristol. Never looked for my son. Too ashamed. He found me. Wrote not long ago… Nancy’s gone.”*
A screech from the tannoy cut through the station, followed by another garbled announcement.
This time, a train actually pulled in. Passengers streamed out, disappearing into the station. The old man stood, craning his neck like a wary goose. No one paid him any mind. The train left. He sat back down, bewildered.
*”Maybe next one?”* Paul offered.
The man’s story had moved him—so much so he’d forgotten why he was there himself. Then the tannoy crackled again, clearer now: his train was arriving at platform two.
*”That’s mine,”* Paul said.
Suddenly, the old man tensed. Paul followed his gaze to a man in his fifties approaching, a short, round woman beside him. They stopped a few steps away. The old man rose slowly, doffed his hat, fidgeted with it, then put it back on.
A train pulling in drowned out the younger man’s words, but Paul read his lips: *”Dad.”*
New passengers rushed to board. The two men stood facing each other, silent. Paul knew he didn’t belong there. He hoisted his bag onto his shoulder and headed for his train.
A young conductor waited impatiently by the doors. Paul glanced back—the old man’s hat vanished into the station.
*”You boarding or not? Departure soon.”*
A flustered man jostled past, wheezing out questions about coach numbers. Paul was almost grateful for the distraction. He adjusted his bag, turned, and walked away.
At the station doors, he pulled out his ticket, stared at it a moment, then crumpled it into a bin.
Shoving through the crowd, ignoring curses hurled his way, Paul burst onto the street. Taxi drivers called out. He climbed into the first cab, gave his address.
*”Just got in? Rushing home to the missus?”* the driver quipped.
*”Yeah. Faster, please,”* Paul snapped.
*”Five minutes, you’ll be hugging her,”* the driver chuckled—then fell silent at Paul’s expression.
Paul took the stairs two at a time, barely feeling the bag digging into his shoulder. He pocketed his keys and rang the bell instead.
Jeremy opened the door.
*”Dad?! Mum, Dad’s back!”*
Before Paul could step inside, his son threw his arms around him. Nadine appeared, eyes red.
*”I’m sorry,”* Paul choked out.
She buried her face in his chest.
