Strangers on a Train

Wednesday 23rd February

Day 308

It’s half term. The train to Salisbury is packed with young families in wet coats and dripping umbrellas. Four little fingers creep over the top of the seat in front of me followed by two big blue eyes and a fringe of feathery gold hair. I smile at her and she ducks away.

‘Tamsin, the lady’s reading,’ says her mother from between the two seats.

I smile at her too, meaning I don’t mind a game of peek-a- boo with her daughter. But Tamsin doesn’t reappear and they get off at Sherbourne.

Coming home later after an exquisitely cooked lunch with a dear friend at the Fisherton Mill Cafe, the carriage is jangling with children’s voices. In the seat behind me a small curly red-haired boy is crying. He won’t sit on his grandmother’s lap or hold his grandfather’s hand and pulls away into the corridor. A woman opposite tries a game of peek-a-boo with him, half covering her face with a newspaper. But he’s inconsolable, his misery palpable.

Tiny lives brushing mine for a moment - strangers on a train.