the morning train

Clemmie always sat by the window on the train, head resting against the glass, so she could stare at the country for a little bit longer. The dry, sunburnt meadows, littered with untamed wildflowers and the quiet creek, hidden by golden grass. From the train window she could just about see the forest nearby her Gran’s house; the house itself couldn’t be seen through the dusty train window but she knew it was there. Just behind the trees. 

Clemmie had been making the journey from her house to her Gran’s twice a year since she was a child. When she was young, she would go with her mother to visit Gran. Her mother would always kick up a big fuss about the visit. She would pack and plan and make to-do-lists for days prior to the trip, despite them always packing the same things and visiting the same places. They always visited the creek, not the section by the station but further upstream, where the water ran clearer, and the stream was wider. Clemmie’s mother would help Gran to pack a beaten-up wicker basket with bread, cheeses and jams. Sometimes, if Gran had any, they’d bring a bottle of cheap sparkling wine. They would walk through the golden meadows, with Clemmie running behind them, until they reached the creek. Clemmie’s mother would spread out a patchy picnic blanket and the three of them would sit on the blanket until the sun went down that evening. Without fail, Gran would point at the fish swimming in the stream and name them as they swam by. When she was younger, Gran loved biology. She said she used to curl up next to the window and stare at books with drawings of animals. 

Clemmie’s mother was gone now, she had died a few years ago, but Clemmie still visited Gran every three months. It was her mother’s schedule and neither of them saw any reason to change it. But Gran was getting older now and Clemmie’s visits were quieter. Gran couldn’t make it down to the creek anymore, her balance wasn’t steady enough and the land was too uneven for her walking frame, so they had the picnic in the kitchen instead. Clemmie spread out the tatty old blanket and Gran fussed over the bread, cheese and jam. If there was an occasion, they would open a bottle of cheap sparkling wine and toast Clemmie’s mother. They would talk about whatever little goings on they had in their lives; Gran would tell Clemmie about a new cake she bought at the Farmer’s market and Clemmie would tell Gran about a beaten-up book she had found collecting dust in the corner of a charity shop. 

Clemmie always took the Sunday morning train when she visited Gran. There were fewer people in on the first train because most were having a lie-in, but sometimes someone would sit next to Clemmie. They would sit together in silence like old friends who have exhausted all conversation, content to sit in familiar silence. Sometimes they would introduce themselves to one another, sometimes they would crack a joke. It was always the same one: ‘ah, hello, another one mad enough to get the morning train.’ They would smile at each other knowing they’d both heard that line a million times before they settle down to a harmonious existence for the next ten hours. 

That Sunday a young man sat next to Clemmie, maybe late-twenties, early-thirties. He wore a smart suit and carried a briefcase which he checked incessantly as he walked down the carriage as if he were afraid that it was going to burst open and spill its contents onto the floor. As he sat down, he looked at Clemmie.

‘Ah, hello, another one mad enough to get the morning train.’ They both shared a knowing smile as they settled into their seats. Clemmie sipped the cup of cheap, plastic-tasting coffee which she bought from the quiet little kiosk on the on the platform earlier. The man there had run it for as long as she could remember. He arrived before sunrise and sat on a little stool behind the kiosk, reading the paper, and chewing on a matchstick. He told Clemmie when he was younger that it was helping him to quit smoking, but it had been years and he kept up the habit.  

‘Teacher,’ he said suddenly, when he noticed Clemmie watching him check his briefcase. The clasp was weak and kept opening. ‘I have this big lecture in the city. Way above what I usually do. I’m horribly underprepared.’ He smiled sheepishly.

‘What subject?’ Clemmie asked, grateful for the conversation. She had been thinking about Gran when she got on the train—feeling guilty for leaving. She always had after her mother died; she felt sure that every time she left it would be the last time that she saw Gran. 

‘English.’

‘Shakespeare?’

‘Yeah and all that crap.’ He sounded tired, bored maybe, so Clemmie let the conversation rest there. The train was still very empty, there were just a few other passengers in the carriage. Mostly businessmen by the looks of things, all sucking down coffee and typing furiously on computers like the world was going to end if they didn’t finish their email reply. Maybe it would. Maybe their worlds would close in, but Clemmie was content with staring out the window at the trees and bushes and the rising sun. 

They didn’t speak again until they were eating breakfast around an hour into the journey. Gran had given Clemmie the leftover bread, cheese and jam from their kitchen picnic, wrapped up in an old cloth. She dunked the crusts of bread into the coffee to soften them before spreading on a layer of Gran’s homemade strawberry jam. The man had some sort of breakfast sandwich, solidified scrambled eggs and some bacon by the looks of it.

‘I got it from some 24-hour café I passed on the way here. It’ll do.’ He said suddenly. 

‘It’ll do.’ Clemmie repeated. She offered him some bread and jam. ‘It’s a bit stale. You’ll have to dunk it.’ The man shook his head politely.

‘No, no. You have it. Is it homemade? It looks homemade.’ 

‘Gran’s own,’

‘That’s nice. Real sweet of her. My ma used to make jam like that—raspberry though, not strawberry. The beginning of summer she’d start wondering around the fields, looking at the raspberry bushes. Then she’d make a huge batch of jam and give the family all a jar to take home.’

‘Gran’s the same. She has a patch of strawberries in her garden that she can still just about reach. She can’t pick them without me now, her knees are too bad. Making the jam is our thing now.’ The man smiled. 

‘Edward. My name’s Edward. Well, Eddie.’

‘Clemmie.’ A familiar sort of silence washed over them, like they had known each other for years. Best friends who didn’t know the first thing about one another. 

By the first station Clemmie resorted to reading to try and fill the time. She was anxious and fidgety on the morning train. Too much caffeine. She was reading To Kill a Mockingbird, Clemmie’s mother’s favourite. Her copy was battered and well-worn, dog-eared corners, coffee stains and creased spines. Her mother used to read it to her to help her sleep when she was little. When she left the room she’d always say: ‘Night, Scout. Sleep well.’ Eddie was pouring over papers he’d pulled out of his suitcase. 

‘Is that your speech?’ Eddie looked up and nodded, a grim smile stretched on his face. 

‘What’s there of it anyway. I only started last night. Like I said- horribly underprepared.’

‘Well, best of luck.’

By the next station, after sighing heavily and muttering to himself about writer’s block, Eddie had given up on his speech and Clemmie had been staring out of the window for the best part of an hour. They were still in the middle of nowhere as far as Clemmie was concerned. She’d lost count of the number of times she had made the journey, yet for the life of her she could only recognise where she was during small parts of the ride. She thought about Gran again. She wished she could take her with her back to the city, but Gran could never leave the burnt meadows or the creek or the forest near her house. And Clemmie couldn’t move there. She had university to finish, and a job in the city. There wasn’t anything in the small village Gran lived near, so she had no choice but to make the journey. When she looked back at Eddie, he was pouring over his speech once again, apparently having gotten over his writer’s block. 

‘If you want, you can read it out to me.’ Eddie turned towards Clemmie. ‘I heard it helps. I’ve never made a speech before, but I think it helps.’ Eddie muttered something about it not being finished as he flipped through papers frantically. 

By the time they reached the city, it was already evening. Dinnertime. The perils of a long journey. The two were sitting in comfortable silence. They hadn’t spoken much more after Clemmie offered to listen to the speech. Eddie talked about his parents and Clemmie told him more about Gran. She talked about the bookcase under the stairs where Gran kept all the books she’d collected over the years. She’d go to charity shops and pick the ones with the nicest covers—Eddie had laughed at that: ‘Never judge a book by its cover,’ he said, amused. Clemmie hadn’t thought of it that way before but after that she remembered Eddie every time that she bought a new book. She told Gran over the phone when she got back to the city and she laughed too. 

Eddie was going straight to his lecture when he got off the train. It was after a big dinner at an old university, so he spent the last few minutes frantically tying a red nylon tie and tucking in his shirt. 

‘Get home safe,’ Eddie said, standing as the train doors opened. 

‘Good luck for your speech,’ Clemmie told him. She watched as he dashed off the train, disappearing into the station. They had boarded as strangers and left closer to old friends who had drifted over time, but in end Eddie was just another one mad enough to get the morning train.