York, 11:08

York, 11:08

         It was a windy, frosty morning in the middle of January. Marcus Bowman paced the passenger lounge, checking his watch every few minutes. He kicked distractedly at an empty juice carton and it slid across the floor, ending up underneath one of the plastic seats fixed onto a large metal frame on the far side of the cold, gloomy lounge.
         His feet were frozen from hours of pacing and his hands, though buried deep in his pockets, gloveless, were borderline frostbitten. For the first time in his entire life he fully understood the term ‘frozen to the core’. His train had pulled into the station at 7:08 that same morning, the earliest he had been able to catch. Now, it was a game of wait and see.
         The steady stream of commuters had dwindled to a mere trickle. Faced with continued delays which increasingly turned to cancellations, most resigned, turned around and walked home, talking animatedly on mobile phones with colleagues, childminders, partners. The speakers crackled and screeched at regular intervals, announcing yet more delays and cancellations. Merely a handful of persistent friends and relatives of travellers expected at the station remained, exchanging occasional knowing glances and shrugs of shoulders.
         He decided it was time for another cup of tea. Although barely palatable, it served two purposes: to warm his hands, and to make time appear to pass more rapidly. He ventured across to the kiosk, flicked through a few magazines and in the end bought a crossword magazine. Feeling his coat pockets, he realised for once and in the rush, he’d left his pens on the bedside table. Colin, the kiosk attendant, with whom he was now on first-name terms, kindly lent him a biro.
         Settling himself down by one of the littered tables, he sipped the scalding hot beverage, stirred in an extra sachet of sugar. The pages of his crossword magazine blew open as the door was opened to a sudden gust of icy wind. He glanced up; a young couple, still in their teens, had entered. They giggled, kissed quickly and parked their heavy bags by the radiator, flipping open a can of lemonade, which they shared between them.
         Marcus pondered the young couple for a short while until he discovered the young girl was smiling at him. Flirting? he wondered. Hardly, he was almost twice her age. Still, there was something about the girl, which reminded him of Bryony. Her smile, the way she threw back her head as she laughed. Conscious that he was staring, he forced his concentration back to the crossword puzzle on the shoddy table in front of him. His tea had cooled a little and he drank it in slow, deliberate sips, making it last til the next train was due to arrive at 11:08.
         He wondered if any further trains would make it at all, given the conditions. These thoughts were followed by an announcement over the station speakers, informing passengers of a twenty-five minute delay of what he hoped would be Bryony’s train.
         He sighed heavily, drank the remainder of the now lukewarm tea from the brown polystyrene cup and noticed that the biro leant to him by Colin had leaked and stained his hands. He rose, grabbed his bag and walked to the Men’s.
         The floor in the toilet was littered with discarded cigarette stubs, paper towels and fliers announcing the January sales at a local department store, trodden by muddy, wet shoes. It had the usual stench of urinals and he breathed through his mouth as he rinsed his hands, eyeing the remainder of an indistinct yet suspicious looking bar of soap. Continuing to rub his hands under the hot tap, he looked up to check his reflection in the mirror. His hair, having gone from wet to dry and back to wet again, several times during the course of the morning, clung to him like a soggy mop. Drying his hands, carefully placing the paper towel in the bin provided, he wondered again whether he should just call Bryony, wish her a happy birthday and ask her what she was up to today. If she said she was at work, then he would know not to wait for her. She may, for all he knew, have decided to go away with her friends for a long weekend. It was his own blasted fault for leaving it this long.
         He had been positive, but not exactly convinced that she would turn up, when he had first arrived earlier that morning. With each hour that passed, with each train that arrived without her disembarking, he became increasingly despondent, apprehensive and filled with doubt. He didn’t even know if Bryony was seeing someone else. In which case, why should she be in York today, if not with the same feelings, hopes, and dreams with which he had arrived? He checked his breast pocket; the small, square box was still there. Throwing his reflection a final, small smile, he returned to the waiting room.
         In what like seemed an eternity later, he braved the snowy conditions and ventured back onto the platform. He wanted to be there, to greet her, to wrap her in his arms and never let her go. If she did in fact turn up, and there was no guarantee she would. This trip, this weekend away together in York to celebrate her birthday had after all been a vague promise made several months before. Did she even remember that discussion having taken place, the hotel he wanted to take her to? He couldn’t blame her if she’d pushed everything to do with him to the back of her mind, hoping to block it all out and just move on with her life.
         He shuddered, in part due to the chilling wind, in part because he realised once more that he had hurt her beyond words and probably beyond forgiveness. The snow continued to tumble down. A further announcement bellowed across the platform; the delayed 11:08 from Birmingham was due any minute. In spite of himself, his doubts, his misgivings he was suddenly overcome by a surge of optimism; it was as though he had heard her whispering to him, telling him she was on her way.
         Once the train came into view, its two small headlights fighting for visibility in the falling snow, it made only slow progress towards the platform. Time seemed to stand still; it was as though he could hear the clock above him echoing each passing second. Finally, the train hissed and came to a standstill. A whirr followed by loud clanks and several of the doors pushed open. He craned his neck, shifting his weight from one leg to another, as he attempted, hoped to see her slender frame walking along the station platform.
         In his daydreams he had pictured her walking slowly, gracefully along the platform, eyes meeting, beaming smiles and running, stumbling into each other’s arms. He smiled at the thought, he could feel her arms around him already, smell her hair, and her smile perfecting an already wonderful picture.
         The passengers disembarking the train pushed past him, hurried, heads bowed against the blustery wind, shoulders, handbags, umbrellas pushing into him but he didn’t care. All he truly cared about was seeing Bryony, making things right for both of them, undoing all the wrongs he had done.
         Marcus watched the initial flow of people gradually wean to nothing, until only the silly man with the silly whistle was left on the platform. Bryony was nowhere to be seen. Dejected, he returned to the passenger lounge.
          ‘When’s the next train from Birmingham?’ he asked at the ticket office.
          ‘Sorry, no further trains today. Everything cancelled. Try again in the morning.’
         That was all he needed, the final straw. She didn’t come, and he had lost her for good. Now he had to go home and somehow face rebuilding his life without her.
          ‘All right. Have you got a number for a taxi? I need to get to the Quality Hotel.’
         The woman behind the perplex screen gave him a wry, knowing smile. ‘I doubt you will be able to get a taxi today, Sir.’ She watched the handsome man growing ever more desperate and her heart went out to him. She’d kept an eye out on him the whole morning but he hadn’t so much as cast a glance in her direction, he was clearly preoccupied.
          ‘Did you say the Quality hotel?’
         He nodded.
          ‘That’s only about a mile or so away, you could walk it in about twenty minutes.’ She drew him a map and, with heavy steps, he went on his way.
         Once he arrived at the hotel, he sat in the foyer drinking tea, trying to make plans for the remainder of the weekend. The hotel was booked till Sunday so he might as well make the most of his time. He tried calling Bryony’s mobile but it was switched off, so he left a message wishing her a Happy Birthday.
         Several hours later, after a refreshing bath, and a decent single malt whiskey, he now sat in the restaurant, surrounded by a comfortable fire and soft music while enjoying a seafood paella. He wasn’t a true fan of seafood but it was one of Bryony’s favourite foods, and eating it somehow made him feel closer to her.
         He poured himself another glass of the 2000 Pieropan wine he had ordered with his food, and sighed as he thought of Bryony, how he longed to look at her, hold her, even for one final time. He could envisage her, sitting in front of him, talking animatedly, laughing, holding his hand, complementing him on his choice of wine, smiling at him. If nothing else, he took with him some wonderful memories that he would always treasure.
          ‘Looks like your food is going cold’, he heard a voice behind him. In a flash, he turned around and there she was, in her long black coat, snow nesting in her long, smooth blond hair.
         He stood up and, at long last, they hugged.
          ‘You won’t believe the nightmare journey I’ve had!’ she exclaimed, removing her coat, scarf and gloves and passing them to the young waitress who arrived at their table in an instant. ‘Thank you’, she said with a smile and sat down. Another waitress arrived to take her order.
          ‘I’ll have whatever you’re having’, she said, grinning at Marcus. Her smile went straight to his heart and he saw their lives flashing before him, in a brief second. Everything would be all right, he could feel it in his bones, like a premonition.
          ‘First, my train was cancelled,’ she said, taking his hand across the table, ‘so I decided to drive. The motorway was just a joke, one accident after another. I was beginning to worry I’d run out of petrol before I could get to the next service station. And then, to top it all, the battery on my phone went flat. But what the hell’, she said, raising her glass in a toast, ‘I’m here now.’ After a brief pause, ‘I had to come.’
         They looked at each other for a long moment; no further words were required.
          ‘Actually, I’m a bit tired and could do with lying down. Shall we order room service instead?’
         He squeezed her hand and looked down at her delicate fingers, overwhelmed with joyful tears. Thinking of the small box, now in the bedside table, his face lit up and he nodded, ‘Let’s go.’