They locked eyes the moment the carriage doors swung open.
Room free?
Of course! May I help with your suitcase?
Thanks Whew, its stuffy in here.
Shall I crack a window?
Please, if you dont mind.
The wheels clacked, the night fell outside the window panes, and the train lurched forward.
My names Poppy, she said with a shy smile.
And Im Andrew.
And so began a casual chat between two strangers sharing a compartment. She was twentytwo, he twentyfive, and what started as a polite smalltalk stretched into a threehour marathon of anecdotes, jokes, and the occasional philosophical musing.
At first the conversation drifted where any train chat does: the weather, the price of a pint, Hows life treating you?and then, inevitably, deeper matters. Andrew talked about his childhood, his parents, and his job as a symphonist for the London Philharmonic, where he kept the beat in the percussion ensemble. He pulled out a battered photo album from his bag, flipping through pictures titled Blue Bird, Gemstones, and Merry Lads, all taken during his school trips abroad.
Wow, thats brilliant! Poppy exclaimed.
And you, Poppy? he prompted.
Im a junior officer at the National Youth Council in Westminster, she replied, eyes twinkling. Actually, Im on a short break, back in my hometown to visit my grandparents. No photos on me, just a suitcase and a longing for a proper cuppa.
Tell us more! Where are we heading? Andrew nudged, genuinely curious.
They traded stories about how Andrew landed in the orchestra, about rehearsals that went late into the night, about the odd gig in a cramped pub where the audience was louder than the band. Their faces were inches apart, eyes locked, as the train rocked them through the dark.
At dawn Andrew pulled the train into a deserted platform, helped Poppy with her bag, waved goodbye, and vanished into the crowd as quickly as a London commuter on a rainy morning. From that moment on, every woman he met reminded him of that fleeting glimpse of Poppys back. Hed apologize, blush like a schoolboy, and write countless unsent letters addressed to… where? London? The Youth Council? He didnt even bother asking for a surnamewhat a fool!
It got to the point that, wherever he sat behind his drum kit at a gig, hed scan the audience as if she might appear in the front row. He even doodled her portrait from memory and stuck it above the hotel bedhead. In his mind, every woman became a standin for the one that matteredPoppy, the only real heroine in his otherwise ordinary world.
Meanwhile, Britain changed around them: the Thatcher years rolled in, the economy shuffled, the old Union Jack waved over a nation in transition. Yet musicians, as ever, kept playing, dancing, and travelling from venue to venue, their lives forever on wheels.
One evening, during a tour, Andrew slipped into the dining car for a quick drink. And there, perched at a table for one, was Poppystill the same girl who had haunted his dreams for years. She sat alone, no gentleman in sight, and when Andrews eyes met hers, time seemed to pause.
Fancy seeing you here, he whispered, lighting another cigarette, pouring the last of his pint into a glass, and swearing to himself that this was the moment the old saying like a hammer on the head finally made sense. He felt the world spin, his legs wobble, and Poppyactually Poppyrose from her seat, leaned over, and rested her head on his chest, murmuring, Ive been looking for you forever.
That, dear reader, is the crux of the tale. He whisked her away to his flat in the Lake District, only to discover shed spent the intervening years wandering city streets, peering at passing strangers, and attending almost every music hall, eyes always scouting for drummers. Like him, shed hoped one dayperhaps todayher perfect moment would arrive. And it did, right there in the restaurant carriage, just as his pack of cigarettes ran out and he chased after a fresh pack in the galley.
The rest of the story was recounted to me by my old schoolmate, also named Andrew, on the second night after his and Poppys wedding. We were sitting in the kitchen, guests had drifted home, and Poppy was resting upstairs. Andrew and I had bumped into each other during a tour a couple of weeks before the ceremony, and Id been invited to the wedding among the other guests.
So thats the railway romance, neatly tied with a bow of humor and a dash of irony. He stirred the dregs of his tea, smiled into the cup, and said, Funny, isnt it? All it took was a train, a suitcase, and seventeen years. Outside, the rain tapped the window like a distant rhythm, something soft and steady, like the beat of a heart that finally found its match.
