NOT THE PLUCKY HERO

“That er, that doesn’t sound good,” said another passenger leaping up. I could see heads popping up over the train seats, and I flicked between their wild, puzzled expressions, and then out of the window.

Still moving. Fields rushed by, clouds hung in the air over trees and grass and telephone wires. The engine sounded normal. There didn’t appear to be anything wrong at all. Yet we’d heard what we’d heard - a great clanking of something underneath, clattering and bouncing along as the train sped over the top of it.

Tree branch was my guess. Next would be something falling off the front of the train, but that seemed a bit less likely. Within moments, the passengers on the 1734 from Oxford were cautiously back to their phones and their books.

I still have adrenaline though. What use would I be in an emergency? If the train overturned, or there were some desperate story of survival from a horrible accident, who would I be? Not the plucky hero the movies tell me to be. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again - I’m no Jason Statham.

No, heart pounding, fear burning and panic-mode activated, I’d be doing my best to get out. I hope I’d help others instead of smashing a window and rolling out into the fresh air, but I don’t think anyone can be absolutely certain.

I feel sure it was a tree branch. The driver didn’t bother to let us know, and the train kept rumbling into stations as it went. As long as: it goes, it can actually stop, and it can start again, I don’t think there’s much more really that I can expect from a train. Perhaps that the doors open? That’s a good one.

Anyway, nearly home now. The sun dipped below the hills of South Oxfordshire, the train whizzes and rumbles in its evening glint. I’ll be there soon, and I tell you: that really does sound good.