Cricklewood

We got to Cricklewood. The train was already fairly full, but I had a seat beside a window and near the door, so I saw the whole drama unfold. The two of them were there on the platform as the train drew in, a man and a woman, older people but not elderly – perhaps the kindest word would be “mature”. Probably about my age, in other words.  The man climbed on, and dragged a suitcase behind him, but there was nowhere for him to sit and so he was left standing beside the door. He was already wearing a backpack. I was expecting the woman to follow him on, but she didn’t. She had a bright, kind, intelligent face. They were saying their goodbyes and she was clearly telling him to take care, waving, smiling, as the doors closed and the train started to move. 

It was really only then that I looked at his face. It was a bit like hers – perhaps they were brother and sister, it seemed more likely than that they were partners – but his face was soft, blurred and flushed. I thought he was red in the face from the exertion of manhandling the luggage, but when I looked again I thought perhaps he was upset. 

So I started to wonder what the story was. Why was he upset? Had he been to stay with his sister and then, the visit over, was facing a return to a lonely life on his own? Or was he returning to an unhappy marriage, or to the duty of care for an elderly and cantankerous parent? Was his sister’s kind attentiveness genuine or was it a mask – was she pleased to see him go and was he aware of that? For her part, did she go home relieved that, duty done, she wouldn’t have to see him again for a while? Where was his journey going to end and would be back home by nightfall?

And I shall never know.