I am in someone else’s seat. Coach C 32. Window Seat, looking out to the right, my preferred side for this journey but not my perferred coach. The front coach. My return ticket is dated 16.10.10 which means it was bought before I’d even envisioned this journey taking place, before the leaves had turned golden and the the sun was still warm. How poetic. but that’s how it needed to be, one final summer in Scarborough, one more artisitc cliché. How romantic. And now I am travelling home on ‘The Party Express’. After today, in the words of Maya Angelou, I can never go home again.
A man on his laptop, casually dressed drinking station bought red wine, no on second glance a small marks and spencers bag. He probably got on at Leeds. Opposite him a man engrossed in his book.
The ticket collector.
“tickets from York please”
Today a small star piercing the bottom right hand corner.
Through the crack in the seat, the classified section of the Metro. The paper of train travellers. Secondhand pass me down sheets of well thumbed world news. The risk of reading when the flu season begins again.
15.51 the flat expanse of the Malton approach, soon small hills and dips in the land will cause all signals to be lost, fading in and out.
A house perched right on the line and a small level crossing.
A solitary bird.
Striped green field, housing a solitary Oak.
A forest on a hill. Hamlet or is it Macbeth?
3 large black cows or bulls and 2 smaller ones.
Brown turned earth. Rich. This is fertile earth.
The stream flows into sight, flickering between the trees and soon the house.
gone. past. behind
gone. past. behind.
What now? What future? What for?
School girls discuss life and work and boast and play at being older than they are.
The man reading his book picks up his can of Fosters and sups in unison with the red wine drinker. A dance, a performance of pedestrianism for an audience of one.
Our red wine drinker packs away and finishes his glass, but not the small bottle, stowed away for later? No wedding band, meal for one?
Today I am also the sort of person I’d like to observe. Furiously writing, frequently observing and occasionally a tear slips down my cheek. “If you are leaving the train at Malton please make sure you take all your luggage and personal belngings with you”
Failure. Personal Belongings. Personal Baggage.
The school children and the wine drinkers and the metro classified man exit the train.
I can only see people in the glass above. A blonde haired woman, navy jacket, white blouse, metallic badge or broach. A turquoise bag, cheap fashion on top of a table and the bubble of chit chat from its owner, a girl talking to a boy. Both dark haired, I can see the frame of his dark glasses.
A baby or toddler, coughing spluttering, protesting in a way that I can imagine it straining out of a buggy. A high painful yell like a kettle boiling, a giggle.
I’m just going to look for a while now.
16.20 Replacement Bus Service