Dear Diary,
We locked eyes the moment the carriage doors swung open.
Room for one? I asked, trying to sound casual.
Of course! May I help with your suitcase? she replied, a hint of relief in her voice.
Thanks its getting rather stuffy in here.
Shall I crack the window?
Please, if you dont mind.
The wheels clattered, and night fell like a dark blanket outside the pane.
My names Poppy, she said, smiling shyly.
And Im Andrew.
And so the conversation begantwo strangers sharing a brief, ordinary journey. She was twentytwo, I was twentyfive. An hour passed. Then two. Then three. It felt as though wed been speaking for ages, though three hours earlier wed never even known each other existed.
What did we talk about? In truth, nothing in particular, yet somehow everything. As it always does on a train, the chat drifted from the weather to the price of a pork pie (£1.80 these days, can you believe it?), then, inevitably, to life itself.
I was the first to open up. I spoke of my childhood in the Midlands, of my parents, and of my work as a percussionist with the London Philharmonic. I rummaged through my old Diplomat photo album, pulling out pictures titled Blue Bird, Gemstones, and Merry Lads. Among those snapshots Id tucked myself in as a kid on a stage.
Wow, that sounds fascinating! she exclaimed.
And you, Poppy? I prompted.
I work for the Central Committee of the Young Conservatives in Westminster, she said, eyes widening. Right in the heart of London!
Really? I didnt expect that, I replied, curious. Im on holiday, back to my little hometown. My grandparents are from around here. It would take ages to explain how I ended up in London.
She laughed. Tell me then, where are we headed?
Later she told me how shed landed in that role, and I recounted how Id joined the orchestras drum line. The night stretched on, us sitting opposite each other, eyes locked, sharing stories until the first hints of dawn brushed the sky.
When daylight broke, I helped Poppy off at a deserted halt, waved goodbye, and vanished into the bustle of the platform. From that moment onward, no other woman could touch my heart; I kept seeing Poppys back in every passing stranger. Id apologize, cheeks burning, like a schoolboy caught cheating. I wrote endless letters that never left my deskwhere would I send them? To Westminster? To the Young Conservatives? I didnt even ask her surname, an utter fool.
It became a joke of sorts. Every concert I played, perched behind my drum kit, Id scan the audience through the stage lights, halfexpecting to see her there. Id sketch her portrait from memory, tucking the drawing under my pillow in every hotel. It was as if the whole world of women had faded, leaving only Poppy.
Time marched on. The country changedThatchers Britain, the miners strike, the fall of the old order. The old political clubs dissolved, the ministries reshuffled. Musicians, no matter whos in power, keep playing, keep dancing, keep living on the rails of life.
On another tour, I found myself in the dining car of a night train. And there, at a corner table, sat Poppyshed haunted my dreams for years. She was alone, no gentleman in sight. My heart stopped at the doorway. She lifted her gaze to meet mine.
Andrew, she whispered, as if from a film, Ive been looking for you forever.
Later, over a cigarette and a halffilled pint, I told Sam, Thats when I truly understood the phrase hit you like a hammer on the head. My ears were ringing, colors spinning, I felt I might collapse onto the floor. Yet Poppyshe rose, came over, rested her head on my chest and said, Ive finally found you.
I took her back to the Lake District, only to discover shed spent those years wandering city streets, watching countless concerts, always keeping an eye on drummers, hoping one day, perhaps tomorrow, shed meet the right one. The day came on that very train. My cigarettes ran out, so I fetched a fresh pack from the restaurant carriage. The rest, you know, Samour friend from art school, the one who told me the whole tale on his wedding day with Poppy.
Wed met by chance a few weeks before their wedding, and I was invited as a guest. And now, here we are, living our own railway romance, still together.
Life goes on. Who knowsmaybe right this instant, in a cramped compartment somewhere, the doors will swing open and another stranger will ask, Room for one?
Of course! May I help with your suitcase?
Thanks its getting rather stuffy!
Shall I open the window?
Please, if you dont mind.
And perhaps a new story will begin.
