LAST TRAIN OF THE YEAR

Last train of the year for me today. It was dark until Didcot on the way in, and it’s dark all the way home on the way back. That’s the worst thing - knowing that beyond that hazy reflection of me and the inside of the carriage, there’s beautiful countryside out there, lost in the winter night.

Smooth sparkling river, tall dark trees, silvery grass and distant hills over silent fields. They’re all hidden. And inside it’s a different story.

The man opposite is reading a book called ‘Indecent Theology’. It looks like a thin volume, probably some textbook on gender and the Bible, which, I would love to be able to ask him about. But we don’t live in that kind of world.

On the other side, a girl is typing on a laptop that’s balanced on her knees. She types fast. A pair of purple headphones hang around her neck and she’s wearing a smart blue coat. A novel perhaps? The coat has anchor-embossed buttons. Perhaps she’s in the navy. Her fingers fly across the keys, pink nails tapping firmly as she writes. Email, I reckon.

A man in a face mask looks up at me. Is he on to me? Does he know what I’m doing? Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second before he realises that eye contact is against the basic rules of train travel in this country - of course. Who knows whether he smiles. Perhaps he has Covid.

Another guy is buttoned up in a thick blue coat. He’s dark-bearded and has a long face, peering down at his phone. Russian agent? Is he typing in code on his way to a safe house? Probably not.

Theology guy shifts and lifts his book up.

“Theological perversions in sex, gender, and politics” is the subtitle. Perhaps I don’t want to talk about it. What’s wrong with an Agatha Christie? I wonder.

Out there, I suppose, the trees are waving. You know, the world is so utterly beautiful. In happier times the sun sets over the fields and the whole train is bathed in golden light. You can almost breathe it in.

I look out at the darkness of the last train of the year. My grey reflection peers back. I’m holding a phone, fingers poised to type. What will that grey man say next, I wonder? What will he write?

Sigh. I’m old. The next stop is approaching through the black of night, and the train begins its slow, squeal of deceleration. But of course.