They locked eyes the moment the carriage door swung open.
Seat available?
Of course! May I help with your suitcase?
Thank you Good heavens, its stifling!
Shall I open a window?
Please do, if you can.
The wheels clacked, and outside the panes night fell like a curtain drawn across the countryside.
Im Ethel, by the way, she said.
And Im Andrew.
Thus began a simple, railside chat between two strangers, two youths. She was twentytwo, he twentyfive. An hour slipped by, then another, then a third, as if time were a train that refused to stop. It was not the chatter of drunkards or colleagues, but the sudden intimacy of two people who had never imagined each other’s existence three hours earlier.
What did they talk about? In a dream, nothing and everything at once. As on every British train, the conversation started with the weather, drifted to the price of a cuppa, then, inevitably, to life itself.
Andrew spoke first, recalling his childhood in the Midlands, his parents, his job as a Philharmonic percussionist. He pulled out a wornin programme from his pocket: The Blue Jay, Gemstone, Merry Lads. He was one of the stars listed there.
Fascinating! Ethel breathed.
And you, Ethel? Andrew asked.
I work for the Central Youth Council in London, she replied, eyes bright. Its a proper job, though I havent brought any photographs. I was on leave, visiting my familys old village up north. My grandparents still live there. It would take ages to explain how I ended up in the capital.
Then tell me, where are we heading? he urged.
He later described how hed joined the drum line, how the nights stretched long as they sat opposite each other, eyes fixed, words spilling like steam from a kettle.
When dawn broke, Andrew saw Ethel off at a deserted halt, waved goodbye, and vanished into the brightening sky. From that moment he could not speak to any other woman without seeing the ghost of Ethel, the nighttime fellow traveller, hovering in the corners of his mind. No other woman could stir his heart.
He would call out to women whose backs reminded him of her, blush like a schoolboy and apologise. He wrote countless letters that never left his desk, wondering where to post themLondon? The Youth Council? He hadnt even asked for her surname or address, a foolish oversight.
It became absurd: at every concert, perched behind his drum kit, he scanned the audience through the stage lights, halfexpecting to glimpse her there, as if a child could draw her portrait from memory and pin it above his hotel bed. All other women faded; only one remainedEthel, the solitary figure haunting his world.
Life rolled on like a train in fastforward. The Thatcher years, the rise of private vouchers, the crumbling of old unions, the reshaping of parties and their loyal youth wings. No more central committees, no more Politburo. Musicians, however, survived any regimestill playing, still dancing, their lives forever on rails.
One night, during a tour, Andrew slipped into the dining car. And there, at a table near the window, sat Ethelstill the same dreamwoman who had visited him night after night. She was alone; no gentleman was in sight. Andrew froze in the doorway, his breath caught.
Just like that, SamAndrew muttered, lighting another cigarette, pouring the last of his pint into a glass, and continuing, thats when I finally understood the phrase like a hammer to the head. My ears rang, coloured circles spun before my eyes, my legs gave way, and I thought I would tumble straight onto the carpeted floor of the restaurant. Yet EthelEthelrose from her chair, walked over and rested her head on my chest. In a whisper reminiscent of an old film she said, Ive been looking for you forever.
And that was the whole story, Sam. I took her with me up to the Scottish Highlands, only to discover she had spent those years wandering the streets of countless towns, gazing at the faces of passing men, attending almost every variety show, always watching the drummers. Like me, she hoped that one dayon a perfect dayher longing would end.
My cigarettes ran out on the train, so I went back to the dining car for more. The rest, you already know, Sam.
I learned the rest of it from my old schoolmate, Andrew, on the second day of his and Ethels wedding. We were sitting in his kitchen, the guests had gone, and Ethel was resting in her room. We had bumped into each other on tour just a couple of weeks before the wedding, and I was formally invited to the ceremony among the other guests.
Thus ended their railway romance, and they live on, they say, to this very day.
Life rolls onward, and perhaps, at this very moment, a carriage door opens somewhere else and:
Seat available?
Of course! May I help with your suitcase?
Thank you! Good heavens, its stifling!
Shall I open a window?
If you will
