End of the Line

Carys inches forward until her toes dangle over the edge.

One more step.

She rams her hands into her coat pockets and stares at her tatty trainers, scuffed and speckled with mud.

One more step.

“Move back, move back,” calls the guard, sweeping along the platform, shouldering her out of the way.

One more step.

She squeezes her eyes shut as the train roars into the station, its brakes hissing and squealing. The crowd surges forward, picking her up and carrying her along. Her knees buckle as she stumbles over a pair of polished leather boots, her hands clutching at air.

‘Watch out,’ hisses the woman as Carys slams into her back. The man to her left, barking instructions into his mobile phone, glares at Carys when his wayward briefcase catches the side of her leg. She freezes as the commuters’ swarm round her, elbows raised, jabbing, and jostling to reach the carriages first.

The conductor blows his whistle sending the stragglers hurrying across the platform, the synchronized slamming of doors and then…

… Silence.

Carys stands alone on the concourse, blinking, her eyes blurring as she watches the train rattle away, the tunnel swallowing the last carriage. She peers into the darkness. No light at the end for her.

She shuffles towards an empty bench, recoiling as her hand touches the ice-cold metal. She pulls up the collar of her coat and lets her head slump. An empty crisp packet cartwheels past her, pausing at the edge of the platform before the wind whips it up and hurls it onto the tracks below.

So easy.

Carys pulls a tissue out of her pocket and swipes at her face. Glancing round she checks nobody is looking at her, that she’s still alone.

Alone.

Carys lets the tears slide down her cheeks. She’s tried. She really has. Tried everything to shake off this gloom; those feelings of despair that skewer her confidence and make her fear she isn’t good enough. Will never be good enough. She hasn’t got the energy to fight anymore. Even on the sunniest of days, she can’t outrun the black clouds, they stalk her every move.

“You just need something to look forward to,” her friend Rory told her when he’d forced her out of the house for a walk. “Come on. We’ll be in Ibiza in July. It’ll be such fun.”

But she can’t think that far ahead. July is a lifetime away. She can’t see beyond this station. This bench. She can’t picture herself anywhere other than here, her future airbrushed out. No, she’s reached the end of the line. This is her stop.

It’s not like anyone will even notice…

"Are you a trainspotter?”

Carys startles at the voice, her head jerking upwards. A young girl hops from foot to foot in front of her. Where did she spring from? She didn’t hear anyone approach.

“I wasn’t sure,” said the girl. “Because you don’t have a notepad, but then I thought you might have a good memory and be able to remember all the numbers.”

Carys shakes her head. She can’t think what to say, her lips moving uselessly as she struggles to find the words.

“I’m Polly,” says the girl, wrenching her satchel over her head and flopping onto the bench next to her. “Are you waiting for a train?”

“No,” mumbles Carys. “Not really. I mean, kind of…”

“And you’re not a trainspotter either?”

“No.”

Polly giggles: “Well, you’re in a funny place if you’re not waiting for a train. You do know you’re at a railway station, don’t you?”

Carys nods, attempting to smile, her lips snagging on her teeth and stretching her mouth into a grimace.

“Ooh so itchy,” says Polly, reaching under her bobble hat and scratching her head. “Granny knitted it for me, and my mum would be so mad if she saw me without it, but…”

The girl rips her hat off, cramming it into her bag. She flicks her fringe out of her eyes and wrinkles her nose: “My mum would say: ‘Polly, if you catch a cold and get sick, then you only have yourself to blame. Please wear your hat.’ I’m always getting told off. Oh, look another train…”

Carys digs the heel of her palms into her eyes. The change in conversation is dizzying. She can’t keep up. She slumps back in her seat, shivering as the cold metal seeps through her jeans.

“Do you want a sweet?” says Polly, waving a packet in front of Carys.

“No, thanks. I’m okay.”

“You should, they’re good. Go on, have one.”

Polly keeps her arm outstretched until Carys reaches for the packet and pops a sweet in her mouth. The chocolate coating melts away, and Carys rolls the caramel centre round her tongue. Weird. It’s the first thing she remembers eating in months. Everything else has been grey and tasteless. There’s been no pleasure in cooking or buying food. She can’t even remember what she threw in her basket at the supermarket the other day.

“I told you they were good,” says Polly, smiling and shoving another sweet in her mouth. “Where do you live?”

“Not far away. How about you?”

Polly swallows the last of her sweet and wipes her mouth on her sleeve: “I live with my mum just down the road.”

“Does she know you’re here?”

“Probably,” says Polly, shrugging her shoulders and rummaging in her bag. “I am nine though. That’s pretty old.”

Carys shifts in her seat. Nine seems awfully young to be wandering round so early in the morning.

“Do you want to see my book?” asks Polly. “I’ve written down all the numbers of the trains I’ve seen.”

Jesus Christ no. Please just leave me alone. Carys puffs out her cheeks, the air whistling through her teeth.

“Sure,” she says, closing her eyes.

Polly slides across the bench until she’s pressed up against Carys, the open book balanced between them. She flips through the pages, chattering and giggling as she recounts the stories behind each one.

“This was one of my favourites,” says Polly, resting her hand on Cary’s leg. “Mum and I got the train all the way to Devon. Well, we had to change in London first. Have you been to Devon?”

Carys shakes her head.

“Well, it was lovely. We had lots of cakes with jam and cream, and we played on the beaches. I even swam in the sea. Anyway, mum said we deserved to have lots of fun. I heard her telling Granny it did us the world of good after the year we’d had.”

Carys wants to ask what’s been going on with her family, but Polly hasn’t paused for breath. Will she ever stop talking, she wonders, stretching her legs out in front of her as the girl traces her finger down the page.

“Oh, and this is the one we caught when we moved here,” says Polly. “My mum doesn’t drive so we had to get the train from Peterborough to Stowmarket. It’s closer to where Granny lives. She’s the one who knitted my hat and picks me up from school.”

“Right,” says Carys, glancing at the station clock. It’s not even eight o’clock yet.

“I don’t know the number of the train that hit my daddy.”

“What?” says Carys, jolting forward, her feet slamming onto the concrete platform. She must have misheard.

“My daddy. He was hit by a train,” says Polly, jamming her notebook back into her bag. “He died.”

Carys opens and closes her mouth.

“Mummy told me it was an accident,” she says. “But I heard her talking to Granny about it. He hadn’t been feeling himself. He was really sad about lots of things.”

“Right,” whispers Carys, her eyes burning. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s why I took up trainspotting,” says Polly, swinging her legs back and forth. “It makes me feel close to him. And I can keep an eye on people too. Make sure they aren’t sad like daddy.”

Carys swallows the lump in her throat. She reaches across and pats Polly’s hand. There’s so much she wants to say.

“I wish my daddy was still here you know. I wish he knew how much we all miss him.”

“I’m sure he does.”

“Polly.”

“Oh bother, that’s my mum,” says Polly, yanking her hat out of her bag and pulling it over her head. “You won’t tell her I haven’t been wearing it will you?”

“Of course not, your secret is safe with me.”

The lady reaches the bench and shakes her head at her daughter: “Polly Jackson, I just saw you putting your hat back on.”

“It was only for a minute,” says Polly, jumping up and wrapping her arms around her mum’s waist. She nods in Carys’ direction: “We were just talking about trains.”

“Okay, well let’s get you home for breakfast or you’ll be late for school. Again,” she says turning to look at Carys. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, fine,” says Carys,

“Sure?” asks Mrs Jackson, resting her chin on top of Polly’s head and looking over the top of her glasses.

“Quite sure,” nods Carys. “Your daughter has been great company this morning.”

Carys follows the pair out of the station, smiling as the girl leaps over the cracks in the pavement, her pigtails escaping from her hat.

She pauses by the bus stop, wishing she’d thanked Polly. Told her how much she’s helped, how much she…

“These are for you,” says Polly, appearing at her side, red cheeked and breathless. She presses the packet of sweets into Carys’ hand. “See you soon?”

Carys stares down at the crumpled wrapper and smiles: “Yes. Yes, see you soon.”

** Note:

It’s been almost 20 years since my friend killed himself.

I hope that anyone who finds themselves in a similarly dark place encounters a ‘Polly’ – someone who makes them stop, just for a moment.

This story isn’t about condemnation or judging the actions of others. I just wish my friend had known the impact his death would have. How much he was loved and would be missed. How much he is still missed.