“Right. D’you know your changes,
then?”
I nodded.
He nodded.
He handed back my ticket.
Well. That was easy enough.
A boy who looked high school-aged
with slightly protruding ears, an upper lip that seemed to permanently stick
out over his lower lip, and a maroon shirt reading “College Athletics” sat down
across from me after one of the stops. He had a Dr. Pepper and became
thoroughly engrossed in a John Grisham novel as we pulled away from the
station. I stared out the window again. For some reason, I had never imagined
England having huge trailer parks.
The conductor announced our arrival
in Chester about five minutes before we actually pulled into the station. I and
several others, including the family across the aisle, jumped up as soon as we
heard the word “Chester” and began making our way toward the door. We stood in
a line as the train rolled to a stop and I caught some high school-aged boys
right in front of me—one with braces and a hand-rolled cigarette behind his
ear—looking me up and down and exchanging glances amongst themselves. I looked
away and avoided their eyes.
The train pulled in and I got close
enough to yank my blue bag off the luggage rack, then squeezed into the
entryway where I saw my bag behind a couple of others, beside the trolley with
refreshments that a guy with bleach-blonde hair and a silver earring had been
pushing up and down the aisle throughout the trip. As people squeezed around me
to get off the train, I tried to free my big red bag but couldn’t because of
the other bags that were in the way. The trolley man was standing next to his
cart in the entryway, and I entreated his help. He either didn’t hear or
ignored me, however, because he walked away without a word. So I kept tugging,
finally managed to get my big bag free, and pulled them both off the train. The
train just on the opposite side of the platform said Virgin Trains on it, and I
thought I recalled the conductor saying something over the speaker about the
train to Crewe being just the next one over. I decided to ask someone.
Conveniently, there was a man in a neon green vest standing next to a pillar
close by.
“Which
train to Crewe?” I asked.
“That one
just there,” he said, hints of what sounded almost Cockney leaking out of his
words as he pointed to the train I’d suspected.
“Thanks,” I
called, making my way to one of the doors. This time, I managed to get my bags
on the train without help and even found a space for my big bag on a luggage
rack. I kept my small bag with me, found two unreserved seats, and used one for
my bag. It felt like an extravagant thing to do, especially if the train ended
up being full, but right at that moment I didn’t really care a whole awful lot.
I asked the first people I saw, “Will this train call at Crewe?” My word choice
and inflection surprised me—I’d sounded almost British. But I’m almost positive
my utter lack of the “calm “ part of the “keep calm and carry on” attitude gave
me away. The older couple I’d asked looked at each other and said, “Yes, I believe
so.” Not extraordinarily comforting, but I’d take it.
I sat down
again, and looked around the train. On the wall beside me, a brightly colored sticker
announced “Free Wi-Fi.” I immediately dug out my iPhone and flipped the Wi-Fi
on. I waited in agony for a few moments before accepting the fact that it just
wasn’t going to work. Resigned, I turned the Wi-Fi off and slipped the phone
back into my bag. I frowned up at the sticker. Liar.
A voice
crackled over the speaker saying, “This is the 14:35 with service to
London-Euston, calling at Crewe…” I stopped listening after that. My stop was
the first one. I breathed a sigh of relief and let my head fall back against
the headrest. Okay. Okay. Okay.
After only
about twenty minutes, the voice on the intercom announced that we were arriving
at Crewe. I managed to get my bags off the train without too much of an
incident and stepped out onto a busy platform. According to the itinerary, I
had about 15 minutes before the train left for Lancaster. I looked upward and
scanned some signs, then followed one toward an information center. My bags—by
now beginning to accumulate parallels to difficult children—and I approached the
counter and I asked, “Excuse me, which train to Lancaster?” My inflections were
doing funny things again. I had pronounced the r on the end, but the question had
sounded slightly more Irish than American.
“Just that
one there,” he pointed to the next platform over. “Not the train that’s there just
now—the next one. 15:09.” I thanked him and dragged my bags back through the
door and across to the platform he’d pointed at. I decided to sit on a bench,
tucking my bags in around my knees. The train pulled away. I pulled out my
phone, just to see if there might Wi-Fi in the station, though I wasn’t hopeful.
There was. Oh glory, there was Wi-Fi. I shot off a message to my mother, but
that was all I had time for before the 15:09 with service to Edinburgh and
calling at Lancaster pulled up. I’m not sure whether my arms were just getting
tired or if the step was actually higher, but I struggled to get my bags on the
train again.
(To Be Continued...)
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