They locked eyes the moment the carriage doors hissed shut.
Got a seat?
Of course! May I give you a hand with your suitcase?
Cheers Blimey, its stuffy in here!
Shall I crack a window?
If you dont mind.
The wheels clattered, and outside the coach the night fell like a thick blanket.
Im Poppy, by the way, she said.
Andrew, he replied.
And just like that a simple chat began, the sort of idle banter two strangers might share on a crosscountry train. She was twentytwo, he twentyfive. An hour slipped by. Then two. Then three. It wasnt the kind of conversation youd expect from two people who, three hours earlier, hadnt the faintest idea the other existed.
What did they talk about? Honestly, nothing and everything at once. As is tradition on a British train, they started with the weather, drifted to the cost of a cuppa, asked each other how life was treating them, and then, inevitably, to the big stuff.
Andrew was the first to spill. He spoke of his childhood in a small town in Yorkshire, his parents who ran the local corner shop, and his job as a percussionist with the London Philharmonics chamber ensemble. He pulled out his battered diplomaa stack of glossy programme photos titled Blue Bird, Gemstones, and Merry Lads. He was, in a word, a star among them.
Wow, that sounds brilliant! Poppy exclaimed.
And you, Poppy? he asked.
Me? Im a coordinator for the National Youth Council in Westminster. she said, eyes widening.
No kidding! Right in the heart of London? Andrew laughed.
Thats right. I dont have any snazzy photos to show, though. Ive just finished a break and am heading back to my grandparents cottage up in the Cotswolds. Its a long story how I ended up in Westminster, but Ill save that for later.
Then tell us where are we headed? he prompted.
She told him about her work, he about how hed landed the gig with the ensemble, and the conversation stretched long into the night, each leaning forward, eyes locked.
At dawn, Andrew helped Poppy off at a lonely halt, waved goodbye, and vanished into the bustle of the station, never to speak to another woman without picturing the nighttime passenger beside him. No lady could quite touch his heart again.
He started calling out to women whose backs reminded him of her, apologising with a sheepish grin each time. He penned countless letters that never left his deskwhere would he send them? To London? To the National Youth Council? He hadnt even asked for her surname or addresswhat a prat!
The absurdity peaked when, perched behind his drum kit at every gig, hed scan the audience through the spotlights, halfhoping shed be somewhere in the crowd, sketching her portrait from memory as best he could, then tucking it under his pillow in each hotel.
All other women faded into the background. In his mind there was only onePoppy.
Life kept barreling on. The Thatcher years, the Winter of Discontent, vouchers for food, the unraveling of the old empire, the split of the Labour Partys old guardall the big political dramas that made the news. Musicians, though, kept on keeping on. No matter who was in power, they played, they sang, they kept the wheels turning.
One evening on another tour, Andrew popped into the dining car for a drink. You guessed itthere she was, Poppy, sitting alone at a table, no gentlemen in sight. He froze in the doorway, cigarette hanging from his lips, and she lifted her eyes.
Fancy seeing you here, Sam, Andrew said, lighting another cigarette, pouring the last of his pint into a glass, and continuing, That was the moment I finally understood the phrase like a hammer to the head. My ears were ringing, colours danced in front of me, my legs felt like jelly, yet shePoppystood up, walked over, and laid her head on my chest. And, as if straight out of a romcom, she whispered, Ive been looking for you forever.
Thats the whole tale, Sam. I whisked her off to the Lake District, and it turned out shed spent those years wandering city streets, eyeing drummers at every concert, hopingjust like methat one day, perhaps, the right moment would arrive. It did. I ran out of cigarettes on the train and had to dash to the dining car for more. The rest, you know, is in the family album.
I learned all this from my old schoolmate, Andrew, on the second night of his and Poppys wedding. We were sitting in the kitchen after the guests had left, Poppy relaxing upstairs. Wed bumped into each other on tour a couple of weeks before the wedding, and Id been invited as a guest.
So thats the railway romance for youstill going strong, they say. And who knows? Right this very second, perhaps a carriage door swings open somewhere, and:
Got a seat?
Of course! May I help with your luggage?
Thanks! Blimey, its stuffy!
Shall I crack a window?
If you dont mind
