A Mint and a Goodbye

It was still barely light when Kerry and I set off for the station.

That strange time of morning when the darkness is beginning to lift, but the sun hasn’t quite made up its mind whether it’s getting out of bed.

After such a lovely stay with Kerry and Trev, I was sad to be leaving.

We sat at the station exchanging those last-minute bits of conversation you have when you know you’re about to say goodbye.

Nothing particularly important. Just things you suddenly remember to say because you’ve run out of time to say them.

We shared a mint.

I’m not entirely sure why that detail sticks in my mind, but it does.

Perhaps because it was such an ordinary little moment in a rather sad departure.

Then the train appeared.

We hugged, briefly but tightly, and I gathered up my belongings.

One last wave, and I was off.

I climbed aboard and discovered I was in Carriage Three of Eight.

Oh, marvellous.

I’d already had my previous encounter with the Borg on British Railways.

Apparently, I was now being reassigned within the Collective.

Resistance was futile.

The 7.20am Drinking Club

What I hadn’t realised was that this particular train had come from Portsmouth.

And it was full of football supporters.

Not just any football supporters.

Pompey supporters.

Skinheads, beer cans, football shirts and enough testosterone to power a small industrial estate.

They were on their way to the local derby against Southampton.

At lunchtime.

It was 7.20 in the bloody morning.

And they were already drinking.

I found myself wondering whether some of them would remember why they’d come to Southampton by the time the match started.

Or, indeed, whether they’d remember they were in Southampton.

Perhaps they’d simply wake up on Monday morning with a sore throat, a mysterious bruise and a vague recollection of shouting at somebody in a different coloured shirt.

I located a seat as far away from the festivities as possible.

Fortunately, I only had a short journey into Southampton Central.

What could possibly go wrong?

One Last Wave at Peartree Green

The train rattled onwards through places I knew so well.

Places I hadn’t seen for years.

Old stations.

Familiar stretches of railway.

Little glimpses of a life I’d once lived here.

Then we left Woolston.

And as the train glided through Peartree Green, something caught in my throat.

Because suddenly, in my mind, I could see myself.

Not as I am now.

But as I was all those years ago.

A young mum, walking with my little son in a backpack on my back.

And two dogs alongside us.

A Doberman-Labrador cross and a Rottweiler.

We used to walk there in the mornings.

And every day, at about the same time, we’d wave to the passing train.

I could see it so clearly.

My little boy up on my back.

The dogs beside me.

The train going past.

And us waving.

And I realised that this train was passing through at almost exactly the same time of morning.

For a moment, it felt as though the years had folded in on themselves.

I wanted to look out of the window and see us standing there.

My younger self.

My little boy.

My two dogs.

All waving at the train.

Oh, how I wished I could go back for just one last wave.

Of course, there was nobody there.

Just the landscape passing by.

But for a few seconds, I could see us as clearly as if it were yesterday.

It’s extraordinary how a place can hold a memory so tightly that all it takes is a glimpse from a train window to bring it rushing back.

And then we were gone.

The train carried on towards Southampton Central, leaving Peartree Green and that little piece of my life behind.

Southampton Central and the Suitcase Challenge

We arrived at Southampton Central without incident.

Well, physically without incident.

Emotionally, I’d been on a bit of a journey already.

I gathered my belongings and prepared to get off.

My suitcase, which had apparently been eating bricks during the night, was proving particularly enthusiastic about staying on the train.

Did any of the football supporters offer to help?

Of course not.

They were far too busy preparing themselves for the important sporting occasion ahead.

Possibly by opening another beer.

Eventually, I managed to wrestle my luggage onto the platform and made my way to the waiting room.

I had around 45 minutes before the London Waterloo train.

So I settled in.

There is something about sitting in a railway waiting room with a large suitcase that makes you feel like a character in an old film.

Although in those films, somebody usually arrives carrying a newspaper, wearing a smart hat and offering to take your luggage.

In my version, I was just hoping the next train had somewhere to put the bloody thing.

The Long Road to Waterloo

Eventually, the London train arrived.

And this time, a lovely gentleman helped me get my case aboard.

Thank goodness.

Although I was slightly baffled to discover there appeared to be nowhere obvious to store luggage.

On a train going to London.

From Southampton.

A major city.

Apparently, British Railways assumes everybody travels with nothing more than a small handbag and a packet of sandwiches.

We managed to position the case beside me, and I settled down for the journey.

It was surprisingly busy for a Sunday morning.

People got on.

People got off.

Stations came and went.

And gradually, the countryside began giving way to the outskirts of London.

The buildings grew closer together.

The railway lines multiplied.

The city started appearing through the train windows like a dirty grey patchwork quilt, stitched together with railway tracks, rooftops, warehouses and the backs of buildings that nobody had ever intended to be admired.

London was announcing its arrival.

Not with a grand entrance.

More with a collection of graffiti-covered walls and an increasing number of railway signals.

And finally, we pulled into Waterloo.

Waterloo – Not an ABBA Moment

Now, you’d think arriving at Waterloo might have inspired a little ABBA moment.

Waterloo! Couldn’t escape if I wanted to…

As it turned out, that was rather appropriate.

Because escaping Waterloo station was about to become my next challenge.

The last time I’d been here was more than 20 years ago.

And things had changed.

Quite considerably.

For a start, there were now automatic ticket barriers.

Great banks of them.

All standing there like electronic prison guards, deciding who was allowed to leave.

Apparently, you now have to present your electronic QR code to the correct reader before the gates will release you.

Simple enough.

Unless you’re me.

With a suitcase the size of a small wardrobe.

I approached a barrier and attempted to scan my ticket.

Nothing.

I tried again.

Still nothing.

I was beginning to wonder whether I’d accidentally booked myself into Waterloo for the rest of my natural life.

Then a woman’s voice rang out.

“YOU CAN’T DO THAT THERE!”

Oh!

Right.

Apparently, I was attempting to use the wrong sort of barrier.

Silly me.

I hadn’t realised the station required specialist qualifications in barrier operation.

Fortunately, a very helpful member of staff came to my rescue.

I don’t know his official title.

Ticket inspector?

Barrier controller?

Director of Passenger Liberation?

Whatever it was, he took one look at me and my enormous suitcase and opened a much wider gate.

Freedom!

I escaped into the main station.

Only to discover that the next part of my journey involved the London Underground.

Oh, joy.

The Waterloo Whirlwind

Waterloo station was absolutely heaving.

People everywhere.

Coming towards me.

Going away from me.

Crossing in front of me.

Appearing from unexpected directions.

Everybody seemed to know exactly where they were going.

Except me.

I was standing there with my suitcase, trying to work out which direction might eventually lead to Middlesex.

The whole place was like a giant human washing machine on the spin cycle.

I found the signs for the Underground and eventually located a lift.

Wonderful.

For a few precious seconds, as the doors closed, I was shut away from the noise and chaos.

Peace.

Quiet.

A little metal box descending into the bowels of London.

Then the doors opened.

And I was back in it.

Sliding Doors and Warp Speed

I made my way towards the platform and discovered yet another modern development.

Glass doors.

A whole bank of opaque glass doors standing between the passengers and the railway tracks.

Apparently, you stand in front of them and wait.

Then the train arrives behind the glass, and the doors open to reveal your transport.

Very futuristic.

Rather like the film Sliding Doors.

Although in that film, Gwyneth Paltrow’s entire future depended on whether she caught a train.

I couldn’t help wondering what alternative future awaited me behind these doors.

Would I emerge in Middlesex?

Or perhaps find myself in an entirely different dimension?

The doors slid open.

And I stepped aboard.

Good grief.

The train took off as though somebody had accidentally engaged Warp Factor 12.

It rattled.

It roared.

It hurtled through the tunnels.

And the noise!

I don’t remember the Underground being quite this deafening.

Other passengers were actually putting their fingers in their ears.

Which seemed an excellent idea.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t.

Because I was holding on to a pole with both hands.

Letting go would almost certainly have resulted in me being launched down the carriage, possibly taking several innocent passengers and my suitcase with me.

So there I stood.

Clinging on for dear life.

Unable to protect my hearing.

Being propelled through the London Underground at a speed that suggested we were attempting to escape the gravitational pull of Earth.

I half expected Captain Kirk to appear and announce that the engines couldn’t take much more.

Eventually, I changed onto a more civilised train.

One that appeared to have been designed for transporting human beings rather than testing the structural integrity of their skeletons.

And at last, I reached my destination.

The Last Twenty Minutes

I was particularly pleased to discover that the lift at my destination was working.

Earlier information had suggested it might not be available.

And after everything I’d been through, I really didn’t fancy dragging my suitcase up several flights of stairs.

I emerged into the morning sunshine.

And suddenly, everything felt different.

No crowds.

No roaring trains.

No automatic barriers demanding proof of my existence.

Just a familiar road.

And a twenty-minute walk.

A road I had first walked when I was 15 years old.

All those years ago.

I knew where I was going.

I remembered the houses.

The turns.

The little details that somehow survive in your memory even when decades have passed.

As I walked, I thought about how strange this journey had been.

I’d started the morning saying goodbye to Kerry.

I’d travelled past a memory of myself as a young mother.

I’d survived an early-morning football supporters’ drinking session.

I’d negotiated Waterloo’s electronic border control.

And I’d been transported through the Underground at a speed previously reserved for science fiction.

And now, here I was.

Walking along a road I had known since I was a teenager.

Eventually, I reached the house.

And there it was.

The same old tin number plate, screwed into its familiar place.

I recognised it immediately.

After all these years.

I stood there for a moment, looking at it.

Then I rang the doorbell.

I’d arrived at my aunty’s house.

And after a morning involving three trains, a football invasion, a near-death experience on the Underground and an emotional encounter with my younger self…

I was rather hoping she’d put the kettle on.

Because I was definitely ready for a cup of tea.