They lock eyes the moment they step onto the carriage.
Room to sit?
Of course! May I help with your suitcase?
Thanks Goodness, its stifling!
Shall I open a window?
Yes, if youd be so kind.
The wheels clack as the train rolls past the darkening countryside.
Im Emily, she says.
And Im David.
A simple, spontaneous chat begins between two strangers. She is twentytwo, he is twentyfive. An hour passes, then another, then a third, and they are still talkingnot the chatter of two drunkards or colleagues, but a genuine conversation between a man and a woman who, three hours earlier, had no idea the other existed.
What do they talk about? Almost nothing, and yet everything. As on any British train, they start with the weather, then drift to pricesHows the cost of a pint where youre from?and, inevitably, to life itself.
David is the first to open up. He speaks of his childhood, his parents, and his job as a professional drummer with the London Philharmonics chamber ensemble. He pulls out a battered programme from his satchel, pointing to headlines such as The Blue Sparrow, Gemstones, Cheerful Lads. Hes one of the stars on those pages.
Wow, that sounds fascinating! Emily exclaims.
And you, Emily? David asks.
I work for the National Youth Council in Westminster, she replies. Really? Right in the heart of London?
Yes, exactly there. I dont have any photos with me, though. Ive just finished a holiday and am heading back to my familys cottage up in the Cotswolds. My grandparents are from that part of the country. It would take forever to explain how I ended up in London.
Tell us then. Where are we heading? David urges.
She tells him about her journey, and he follows with his own story of how he joined the ensemble. Their nightlong conversation continues, faces turned toward each other, eyes locked.
At dawn, David helps Emily off at a quiet, deserted halt, waves goodbye, and then disappears into the bustle of the platform, never to speak to another woman the way he does with her. No other lady can touch his heart; every time he spots a woman who resembles her silhouette, he blushes, apologises, and mutters something like a teenage boy. He writes letters he never sendswhere could he post them? To London? To the National Youth Council? He never even asks for her surname or address, a foolish oversight.
It becomes almost a joke: at every gig, perched behind his drum kit, he scans the audience through the stage lights, hoping she might be among the faces. He sketches her portrait from memory, tucks the drawing under his pillow in each hotel. Every woman in the world fades for him, except oneEmily, the only woman who matters.
Life rushes on. The Thatcher years, the rise of privatisation, the fall of the old unionist parties, the end of the Cold War. Musicians, regardless of whos in power, keep playing, keep dancing, keep living on the road.
During another tour, David steps into the dining car andyes, dear reader, it really happensfinds Emily seated alone at a table. Shes been haunting his dreams for years. He notices shes by herself, no men nearby, and he freezes at the doorway. Emily lifts her eyes.
Right then, David lights another cigarette, pours the last of his pint into a glass, and saysThats when, in the restaurant carriage, I finally understood what like a hammer on the head really feels like. My ears are ringing, colours swirl, my legs give way, I could tumble straight onto the floor. Im standing there like a fool, vision dark. And EmilyEmilygets up, walks over, and rests her head on my chest. Like in that old film, you know? She whispers, Ive been looking for you forever. Thats the whole story, Tom.
He takes her back to the Scottish Highlands, only to discover she, too, has spent those years wandering city streets, watching men pass, attending almost every music hall, always keeping an eye out for drummers. Like him, Emily hoped one day a perfect moment would arrive. And it did.
Running low on cigarettes, David heads back to the dining car for a fresh pack. The rest, Tom, you already know.
Later, over tea in a kitchen, Davids old schoolmate, Mark, recounts the tale to me on the second night of his and Emilys wedding. The guests have gone, Emily rests in her bedroom. Mark and I had bumped into each other on tour a few weeks before the wedding, and I was officially invited to the ceremony.
Thats the storya railway romance that still lives on. And life goes on. The kettle hums softly on the stove, steam curling into the cool night air. Mark stirs his tea, smiling. They say some loves are written in the stars, he murmurs. But I think this one was written in the rhythm of turning wheels, in the silence between notes, in a glance that refused to be forgotten. Outside, the wind brushes through the heather, and somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaks under light footsteps. Morning will come soon, and with it, a new chapter. But this momentquiet, golden, full of breathless wonderbelongs entirely to them.
