The Sleeping Train

“Anyone need tickets?” A bellowing voice comes rumbling down the train corridor and wakes me with a surprised jump, slightly embarrassed, I glance around to see if anyone is looking, but everyone seems too engrossed with their own thoughts. My heart is racing slightly from the shock. I fumble through my bag, a journal, a little wrapped up box with a bow on top, a packet of cigarettes and a pair of soft pale blue gloves but no ticket.

Did I buy a ticket? I can’t remember.

The train conductor walks swiftly down the narrow train, using a minimalistic approach to check tickets by simply darting his eyes from side to side. He stops beside me, arms folded, he’s dressed in a white short sleeved shirt and white trousers, a peculiar uniform for a train conductor. Whilst still only looking at me through the side of his tired eyes, he asks, “No ticket?”

My gaze is focussed on the rain outside, fascinated by the raindrops that chase one another down the windows, the sound is calming, like white noise.

The man in front of me interrupts my daydream as he hands me a small white ticket with a number on it.

“Here, this must be yours.” His voice sounds velvety and smooth.

He doesn’t really smile but he holds eye contact with me for a few moments once he takes a second look. My breath catches a little in my throat, his eyes like two deep blue pools of mystery. I thank the man, take the ticket and hand it to the train conductor, he punches a hole in the left corner, hands the ticket back to me and walks on without uttering another word.

This man in front of me has dark, messy tousled hair, he seems to be travelling light with no bags and he’s dressed quite smart, in a crisp shirt, fashionable tie and expensive cuff links. I assume he’s travelling for business. The rain lightens up and stops almost instantly, the grey mist turns to a dark navy sky with the fleeting bright flashing coloured city lights of the buildings and signs shimmering as the train rolls relentlessly along the tracks. It could be the tiredness, but it seems as if the scenery is almost flickering.

The other passengers on the train seem to be sleeping peacefully as their slumbering bodies move around in their seats, heads bobbing up and down, their necks struggling to support their dreaming minds. I’m tired but also very awake, a frustrating oxymoron, drowsy like I’m just about to give in to the sleep but I can’t quite get there. The man in front of me sits alert, his head does not bob but instead he sits rigidly straight.

“Thank you for earlier.” I speak quietly so not to disturb the sleeping train, but loud enough to be heard through the thoughts in his head.

“Haven’t you noticed that we haven’t stopped yet?” He asks without looking up.

“What?” I ask in a startled voice. His question throws me.

“We haven’t made a single stop, this train has been moving constantly for hours, without stopping. I’m not sure if I even know where I’m going.” He looks up now, a confused look scribbled across his face. He looks quite sweet. I look out at the glittering lights of the city night and then look back at him, scrambling to remember why I’m here or where I’m going.

“You have no idea where you’re going either do you?” His tone an unusual blend of comfort and panic.

“No,” I respond softly, “I don’t think I do.”

I feel an overwhelming urge to reassure him that he’s not crazy, that he hasn’t lost his mind, but I don’t think I can do it with any conviction as I am now wondering am I crazy? If I don’t know who I am then I could very well be insane. Maybe I’m schizophrenic. Do I have split personality disorder? Am I dreaming all of this? I think about the contents of my bag; the cigarettes. I’m pretty sure I don’t smoke. I peel off the packaging, open the packet and hold one of the cigarettes between my fingers to see if it feels familiar.

“Oh, can I have one of those?” He interjects, gesturing to the packet of cigarettes.

He automatically pulls a lighter from his pocket and stares at it.

“So, you smoke then?” I say, sliding over the packet. He smiles as he remembers something about himself.

“I must do.” He responds, his smile infectious, he takes the packet in his hand, “Probably something that could have stayed forgotten, but I’ll take it.”

The sky turns blue almost instantaneously. The concrete buildings are swapped out for fields of fresh green grass, tall trees, and vibrant flowers, it’s stunning. With the light of the new sun on my face, I close my eyes and try to make sense of this all, I run through my blank mind searching for some clue as to where I am. I can see images but they’re all in a blur, I can see people, but they are hazy figures, no faces. A melody plays, it’s familiar, happy.

‘’Why are you smiling?’’ The man with the tousled hair and the cigarettes in his hand looks like he should be sweating, but he isn’t, I can see his nervous energy radiating. The delight of remembering something fading quickly.

“Because I love this song.” I say with my eyes closed and my ears joyful.

“What song? There’s no music playing.” He looks concerned. How can he not hear it?

A woman with bouncy golden curls and a smile pulls up beside us and shifts our attention to a glamorous cart of sugar dusted pastries and the most exquisite modern glass teapot and coffee pot.

“Can I interest you in any refreshments?” Her voice soft and soothing, a good voice for reading stories, I think to myself.

The smell from the pastries reminds me of a bakery my grandparents used to own.

A memory.

I know that my grandparents used to own a bakery, but I don’t remember who my grandparents are. Again, I can hear music playing and the murmur of someone’s voice, maybe it’s coming from the intercom? But this quiet murmur sounds so familiar. I think I’ve heard this voice before.

Mum? It couldn’t be.

As we drink our cups of coffee and tea and suck the powdered sugar from our fingers, I look at the other passengers on the train. Everyone looks so different. I see an old man with white hair and a gold music note badge sitting proudly on his lapel. He sits with his arms folded, smiling subtly to himself, looking very amused by his own thoughts. My eye wanders from the happy man to a tall more troubled looking woman, she wears the same expression as the man who sits across from me, confusion, and slight panic, although she doesn’t wear it quite as well.

“How’s your coffee?” I ask, observing the amusing way he licks the foam from his top lip.

“I may not know who I am or where I’m going, but I do know a decent cup of coffee.” He replies, his voice a little more relaxed, his energy a little less frazzled.

“And?” I smile in retort.

“Aye, it’s a decent cup of coffee.” He trades his worried look in for a smug half smile.

Time is moving very strangely on this train, the moments in time aren’t fluent but instead more scattered and individual. I’m not sure if I’m falling in and out of sleep or if I’m drifting in and out of reality. My fingers skim through the contents of my bag, I can’t get the strange combination out of my head. I slip the pale blue gloves on even though it’s not cold on the train.

“That’s a good colour on you.” This time when the man sitting across from me speaks, it feels like every part of my body is listening.

“Say that again.” My chest starts to rise and fall more dramatically with my breathing as my heart beats a little stronger. The words trigger a memory that fills my chest with warmth, the warmth spreads from my chest through my arms to my fingertips, and down through my stomach to my legs to my feet. Outside the train window a gentle sleet transforms into a glorious down pour of snow. The memory plays on the window like I’m at a drive-in movie. The man with the tousled hair smiles and hands me a festively wrapped present in the movie, in my memory, when I unwrap the gift, I can see two pale blue gloves.

“That’s a good colour on you.” He has said those words to me before, last Christmas when he gave me these gloves.

I grab the journal from my bag, frantically page turning through entries, I come to a page with the word ‘vows’ written romantically at the top of the page. I look down for the first time since I’ve woken up here. I’m wearing a silky white dress, glamorous, expensive. I empty the contents of the bag on to the table in front of me. Something old, the diary, something new, the gift in the little wrapped box, something borrowed, the cigarettes, and something blue, the gloves.

“Are you okay?” He asks, the sound of his voice now louder than ever, echoing through the train carriages.

My heart sinks and hits the bottom of my stomach with a heavy thud.

‘’Something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue.’’ I breathe the words, maybe if I don’t say them loud enough, they won’t be true.

I squeeze my eyes closed and when they reopen, I’m surrounded by clinical white walls and I’m hooked up to a machine. My favourite song playing on my earphones to comfort me. My mum sleeps in the armchair beside my bed. Flowers and cards line the little bench at the side of the room, I get up and walk over to read the cards. I’m slow and I wince when I move, my arms and legs are bruised but I move without hesitation. Some of the cards read ‘congratulations on your wedding day’ and the others a variation of ‘thinking of you’.

The accident. The crash on the way back from the ceremony. My body aches more intensely with the realisation pulsing through my veins.

The tears that have been welling up in my eyes drop. My mum wakes up and stares at me, her mouth ajar with stun. She throws her arms around me and we both buckle to the floor.

“Where is he?” I sob, terrified of her answer.

She breathes deeply.

“He hasn’t woken up yet.”