PLATFORM 2

I was frozen that January night. But not with cold. It was all I could do to stand there, feet rooted to the platform, watching my breath cloud into the air, then vanish, matching the rhythm of my heart, and forming an almost perfect metaphor for the hope that had just evaporated.

The sky over Bath Spa Station was a sunset-purple. A band of fading gold stretched over the silhouetted hills, and gentle stars hung above the twinkling valley.

We waited.

There were ten of us. From Platform 2, the train would take us to Paddington, to Waterloo, then on, under the sea, to Paris, to Lyon, Chamonix, and finally Samoens. Everyone was excited - Andy was on good form, and two of the Ruths were handing out sweets.

“Starburst, Matt?” said someone. I smiled weakly and took one with a thank you. It could have easily been the first thing I’d said that night. My voice felt croaky, as though straining with emotion. I knew though, that I had to get over it.

“Don’t worry about them,” said Andy, sidling up to me, and noting that my eyes were drifting towards the couple locked in an embrace, a little way off, “Rob’s just saying goodbye.”

And indeed he was. I couldn’t see his face; he had his back to me. I could see hers though. Her eyes sparkled as she looked into his, and she smiled that wonderful, nervous, open smile that she had - the same smile I had seen when she’d first asked me to come.

That hurt a little bit - I realised at that moment on the platform, that I would probably never know exactly why I had been invited, or just how her life had changed in the few weeks between that glorious moment, and the minute we’d gathered on Platform 2. I was spurious, an anomaly, a spare. I knew I had to let it go.

Her hands were clasped behind his neck and he held her, very gently around the waist. They kissed, as the train slowly tumbled in from the West. Then, we piled into a carriage and Rob stood waving meekly on the Platform. She sat opposite me, and pressed herself against the glass, fighting a tear. And then we left.

I often think back to that night, exactly twenty years ago. It was my first real experience of having to push through crushing disappointment. For ten days in the French Alps, in the clear air and the fluffy snow, I wrestled with it, fought it, reasoned and prayed, determined to bring good out of it, somehow. In many ways, it might be the best holiday I ever had - in others, it came to define a particular moment of learning and growth, snapshotted in my memory.

I’m much older now. And this will be the last time I write about it. I am thankful though, for that time. A few days later, as I strolled along an Alpine path on the early morning bread run, I saw the sun rise majestically into a clear pink sky. The snowy mountains glimmered in the distance as the earth burst into life and the day began.

Hope, I realised, is much more like the sunrise than it ever was like evaporating breath on a chilly station platform.

It is always there if you know where to look, and it is always new every morning.