As I was mentally cursing every heavy item in my bag, a man
behind me offered his help. I acquiesced, and he pulled the bigger bag into the
entryway. He looked like a scruffier, slightly less handsome version of Robert
Downey, Jr., wore fingerless gloves, and his dark, curly, salt-and pepper hair
peeked out from under a brown cap. “Shall I drag it for you?” he offered.
“Sure, thanks,” I replied, grateful
for his kindness. I followed him and my red bag through the car with my smaller
blue one. “Is there a place for it, do you think?”
“Perhaps
back here,” he replied over his shoulder. He dragged it all the way through the
car, and I followed. There was room on the back luggage rack, and he hoisted it
up to perch on the second level.
“Thank you,
you’re very kind,” I told him, then sat myself and my blue bag down in a pair
of unreserved seats while he took another ahead of me and across the aisle. The
train started moving and I realized I was sitting facing backwards for the
third time in a row. Not that it mattered I guess. That wasn’t any sort of bad
omen. Right?
The man
came through asking for tickets, and I again produced my three little blue
slips of paper. He flipped through them and handed them back to me without
comment. Bless you, Irish Ferries SailRail ticket. Bless you. Never in my life
have I been fonder of three little slips of paper. They hadn’t failed me the
whole day.
Robert
Downey, Jr. got off at the first stop. I smiled at him as he walked past,
silently thanking him for his help. I reprimanded myself for not opening my
mouth to thank him again.
Now that I was comfortably sitting
on my last train, I relaxed more than I had all day. The knot in my stomach
still wasn’t completely gone, but at least it wasn’t forcing its way up my
throat anymore. I was going to get to Lancaster. Almost half an hour before my
cab had agreed to meet me. I marveled at how the timing of every step had
worked out. It certainly wasn’t the result of my own planning. At least, not
that I could tell. Now, if there was just an ATM at the Lancaster station, all
my worries would be taken care of.
After
several stops, I heard the voice over the intercom again—we were close to the
Lancaster station. The voice went on to announce changes and my ears caught
“Windermere.” Windermere! I’ve been there. It must not be too terribly far away
after all. Maybe it wouldn’t be too difficult to go and visit again?
I piled my
bags off the train without too much of an incident, and looked around for an
ATM but didn’t see one. I still had 20 minutes before the cab had technically
arranged to meet me, but I figured I’d poke my head out and check. Just in
case. I followed the signs for “Way Out,” and found the door. I looked outside
and saw several cabs, none of which read “Big Blue Taxi.” He probably just
wasn’t here yet. I dragged my bags back inside with me to a lounge area. Should
I wait here, maybe? I had to find an ATM. There was a little café at the back
of the lounge, and I left my bags by a chair, ensuring I could still see them.
The woman
behind the counter at the café was intently counting change with the cash
register drawer open. I approached rather slowly, waiting to see if she would
look up. She didn’t. Was she too busy counting? I hesitated to speak or make a
noise, in case doing so might throw off her count. Several seconds passed. She
didn’t look up. Oooookay. I shifted just slightly. She jumped. I apologized.
She laughed. I laughed.
“What can I
get for you?”
“Actually—could
you tell me—is there an ATM anywhere around here?”
“Yes, just
back over the bridge on the other side.”
I thanked
her, and went back to my bags. I really
didn’t want to have to haul them over the bridge. Well. Not just that I didn’t
want to. I wasn’t even sure I could, by this point. I decided to wait till the
cab came, load the bags in the car, and then ask if I could run across the
bridge to the ATM. Perfect.
I decided
to wait outside instead of in the lounge. Various people trickled out, getting
into cars or cabs or crossing to wait at the bus stop. I situated my bags
together and perched just on top of the small blue one, clutching my purse to
my chest. Anne of Green Gables was now blonde and sitting at Lancaster Station.
I watched
the minutes tick by on my phone. Cabs kept arriving and pulling in next to the
curb. The drivers would throw me inquisitive looks but I stared past them,
straining to see if perhaps the next car would be my ride. It was 4:25 before I
started formulating my backup plan: I would play Anne of Green Gables outside
the station until no later than 4:45, and if the cab hadn’t appeared by that
time, I would hire another cab, since there seemed plenty to spare.
4:30.
4:45.
(To Be Continued...)
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