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Platform 13
by D.B.Adams

The October moon shone through the dirty glass roof of Liverpool Street station. Having missed the last train to Southend, I spent about an hour trying various cold and uncomfortable benches, until the milk train pulled in on platform 13 to await the morning.
This was the mid seventies and the train was the type we used to call cattle trucks, which had small compartments with a bench seat on either side, just wide enough for five and a half people to sit on. The lights were off and so was the heating but it was marginally warmer than the station.
I lay on one of the seats, pulled my coat around me and tried to sleep. At first the bangs, crashes and shouts from a nearby mail train that was loading kept me awake, eventually the station quietened and I began to doze off.

About three o'clock I awoke, it must of been the noise of the carriage door closing that disturbed me. A young man in uniform stood silhouetted just inside the door, my first thought was that it was a British Rail official about to have a go at me for laying on the seats or worse check my ticket which would now be yesterdays. However he didn't say anything, just sat down in the opposite corner. I could now see that the uniform was not British Rail, but cut in a more military style. Fully awake now I sat up and studied his face, he was in his early twenties, at least ten years younger than myself.
"Hi." I said.
"Morning" he replied looking startled, as if he hadn't realised I was there.
Having been woken up I felt the cold more intensely, it seemed to be inside my bones, I began to shiver. "It's bloody cold" I said, trying to start a conversation. "After a while you don't feel the cold" he answered. "I've been here since half past one" I said. He smiled patronisingly.
Assuming he was a security guard who had just finished a late shift, I said "This is an ungodly hour to be going home from work". "I'm not going home" he replied.
"It must be even worse starting work at this time"
"I'm not going to work" he said.
"Well what on earth brings you out at this time of the morning?" I asked.
"I'm seeing my son" he replied, looking straight at me "I don't get the chance very often, I was separated from his mother".
This brought the conversation to a halt. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, around 4.45 the train moved off, I opened my eyes briefly the uniformed man was sitting by the door looking back at me.
The next time I looked up, the train was pulling into Stratford station and he had gone, I sat up, the train wasn't due to stop before Stratford, I couldn't see where he had got off.

As I said this happened in the mid seventies, the reason I mention it now is recently I visited my Aunt Rose, she produced an old shoebox full of yellowing family photographs. One showed her and my mother with a young man wearing R.A.F uniform. I suddenly felt cold, it was the man from the train, goosebumps were creeping up my legs. "Who's this Auntie?" "Why that's Cousin Bertie, " she had a far away look in her eye "so handsome in his uniform, us girls used to get all unnecessary over him", she said "He died just before your parents had to get married." with a wink "because of you."
She sighed "Tragic really, Bertie was on leave, on his way to stay with us, as he often did, when the train he was on was hit by a doodlebug".

Copyright D.B.Adams 1999