When The Thunder Started

A two-toned brogue stuck out into the aisle as we pulled away from King's Cross at 21.33. My late grandfather had worn those shoes, just not in funky green and tan.

‘I am sorry, I think I trod on your foot.’ It wasn’t entirely on purpose.

‘No problem, I’m made o' stern stuff.’ He rubbed his knuckles on his lapel and made a show of blowing on his fingernails. A welcoming smile escaped his full, red lips, betraying his attempt to look cool.

‘Stern, eh? You strike me as rather approachable.’ I offered a shrug and a cheeky grin.

‘James.’ He said. ‘Getting off at Leeds. End of the line. Let me move my bag so you can sit down.’ I could have drowned in that warm, Yorkshire accent.

Sit down? I very well did. Next to those two-toned shoes and deep, chocolate eyes. My gaze sank into him like a fluffy cat on a forbidden pile of freshly laundered sheets. That smile could have stopped a Sherman tank. And product-free hair – so refreshing; and damp. I could have towelled it dry myself and not made anything sticky but my...

‘Hi James, I’m Sara. Wakefield. I’ll try not to drip on your lovely suit.’ I brushed beads of water off my hell bunny coat.

‘What? This old thing?’ he gestured to the stain on his tie. ‘Top quality ketchup that, Heinz. It’ll take more than second-hand rain to relieve me of it. Unfortunately.’ He gave a mock frown.

‘Ah, your wife won’t be happy?’

‘Subtle, subtle.’ He rubbed his stubble with one hand and shifted his lower jaw to the left. ‘No wife, no girlfriend, no kids. You?’

‘I don’t have a wife either.’ I winked at him. I actually winked. And then there was heat in my cheeks. The sun rose on his face too.

‘Well, Wakefield?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Gives me 'bout two hours to persuade you to take my number.’

The rain flowed north as freely as the conversation. By Peterborough, the storm was the only thing louder than our laughter. We kept remembering our fellow passengers and shushing each other. The woman across the table from us raised her glasses a few times, but the gesture was accompanied by a knowing smile.

Just after Doncaster, I stared past James, through my own reflection, and out into the dark. I allowed his comforting Yorkshire lilt to envelop my consciousness like a welcome hug.

'Filthy weather.'

‘I love the rain. Is that weird?' I asked. 'Something about the external rhythm and the feeling of nourishment.’

He followed my gaze. ‘I actually love a storm. The only place I appreciate unnecessary drama is in the sky. My heart races when the thunder starts.’

‘I'm the same. I get up in the middle of the night to watch the lightning from my bay window. Sometimes I’m joined by a brandy.’

‘Brandy? Good choice. Warm the soul while the weather rages. Any other creature comforts you need while you watch?’

‘I have a favourite armchair, perfect for collapsing into. It’s so soft it's like falling through clouds.’

‘What about being out in it? The storm? Wind whippin' your hair, rain lashin' your cheeks?’

‘You know, I’ve never tried it, not intentionally, anyway. I’ve always admired from a safe distance.’

‘Oh, it’s great. Then you come home, soakin' wet, and strip off in the hallway. Jump into a hot shower. Nothin' beats the shower you have after a walk in a storm.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Maybe one thing would – but I’ve yet to meet the right girl.’

‘Intriguing.’

‘Well,’ he tilted his head towards me and cupped his hand round my ear. ‘I’ve never kissed a girl in a storm, you know, with thunder and lightning crashing around us as we embrace.’

‘I'd be up for that.’ I whispered back. ‘Sounds perfect.’

‘We are now approaching Wakefield Westgate. Wakefield Westgate is our next station stop.’ Came the tinny voice over the speaker. ‘Please remember all personal belongings and mind the gap when stepping from the train to the platform edge.’

‘Bollocks.’ James exclaimed under his breath. ‘Sorry. I don’t usually swear. But this is such bad luck.’

‘Well, you did promise me a number.’ I pulled my phone out of my pocket. ‘But you’ll have to be quick.’

‘I’ll key it in.’

‘Thank you, James, for a wonderful journey. I’m not one for games. I’ll call you tomorrow night.’

'Perfect!'

The woman opposite him looked up and nodded her approval.

Chilled platform air drifted into the carriage and people piled out into the station as I hit Save. I stopped for one last look at those big brown eyes. In the last few seconds I had, to leave the train, I stepped down onto the concrete and caught my heel in the turned up hem of my trouser leg. I skipped forward a step and spun round to catch one last glimpse of James as the doors beeped shut.

My phone slipped out of my hand. It skittered across the platform and over the edge onto the tracks. My breath stopped dead. The train, that had brought me so much joy, destroyed my chances of a reunion as it rolled out of the station.

Did he see what happened? Will he know why I didn’t call? Or will he just assume I’m a disingenuous tease? These questions got stuck on a loop. Along with a few others. What was his last name? How often was he on that train?

The train from Kings Cross to Wakefield at 21.33 on a Monday cost £37.80. London was not one of my frequent haunts, but I could make it one. A return ticket was £73. How many times could I try that journey looking for James? And what were my chances he would even be there? Loop. Loop.

I booked Monday afternoons off work whenever I could, and made the trip to London. I spent time in parks, museums, galleries; anywhere I could go for free. I’d catch the 21.33 back to Wakefield, getting on at the front and walking all the way through to the back after every station call. I even checked first class for those chocolate eyes and two-toned brogues. Nothing.

Eighteen months and nearly five grand later, I stopped chasing that perfect kiss. He would be kissing some other girl who’d trodden on his foot by then. Kissing her. In the rain. She was probably prettier than me. Loop. Loop.

I got up, went to work, came home, ate, slept, got up, went to work, came home, ate, slept. Loop. Loop. Was he stuck too? In the same fruitless repetition?

...

'It's been over three years since you even had a date, Sara.' Penny brushed the curls from my shoulder in that pitying style that only a big sister can get away with. 'It's time to get out there. Train boy is long gone.'

'I don't know.' I stared at her glowing laptop screen. 'Aren't dating sites full of desperate weirdos?'

'Only one way to find out! We've come this far. Just hit "publish". You desperate weirdo.'

Seconds later, a couple of photos and a few lines of text were representing my entire personality and deepest desires to the world. Hopeless. How could anyone understand the essence of who I am, from that?

'You'd better hope I don't attract anyone creepy.' I scanned my profile again. 'I'm holding you fully responsible for anything that might happen because of this!'

'Great! I might be fully responsible for you finding your happiness.'

Over the next few weeks, I scrolled through hundreds of profiles. I continually updated my own in an attempt to capture what I wanted, and who I really was. But the truth of it became clear. The man I wanted had been on a train to Leeds nearly four years ago. Loop.

I settled on just one line to define myself...

Looking for that perfect kiss.

One Wednesday evening, hands wrinkling in the washing-up bowl, my jeans' pocket vibrated. For the first time in years, I didn't stop what I was doing to look. James was gone. The loop was over. It came as a relief.

I dried the dishes and sat in front of University Challenge. King's College London versus Leeds University. Really? OK then.

By way of distraction, I pulled my phone out. Perhaps I was ready to check that message. It was the dating site. It often was. I prepared myself to send another polite 'No, thank you', and forget about them.

It was from someone with the username "Perfect Storm"... my neck prickled.

I don't suppose you were on a train to Wakefield a few years ago with a charming Yorkshireman?

My heart stopped. I went to his profile. There were three pictures, one of a lightning strike over a desolate hill, one of a pair of two-toned brogues, and one of a smiling man with product-free hair and deep, chocolate eyes. A rush of heat crossed my chest.

James? From the train? Seriously? My typing was flurried. I'm so sorry, I dropped my phone! I lost your number. I was horrified.

I held my breath and clicked Send. The response was almost immediate.

Sara! It's you! I saw what happened. Saw the look on your face as your phone disappeared off the platform edge. I've been looking for you all over the internet.

We chatted until yawning became more frequent than typing a complete sentence. It was nearly 4am. He wasn't in Leeds anymore. He'd moved to Sheffield a few days after we met. Different train line.

Let's meet! Here's my number again...

I saved it in my phone and wrote it down too. I found him on WhatsApp and sent a message.

It's me, Sara! Sorry to be so forward but are you free on Saturday? I don't want to lose you again.

I'm free, for you. I can come over to Wakefield Saturday morning if that's any good?

Great! There's a Starbucks by the station. I'll meet you there at 10.30. Mine's a gingerbread latte! 😉

I'll be there.

Two days felt like a decade. The messages got more frequent and interrupted my work, dinner with my mum, everything. I was unperturbed.

I called my sister. She told me what to wear, how to do my hair, to be myself, be myself, be myself. So I pulled on skinny blue jeans, a push-up bra, and my favourite black polo neck. I topped it off with that old hell bunny coat, walked across town to Wakefield Kirkgate and trotted my knee-high boots into the Starbucks. It was empty.

I watched the door for an hour before I picked up my phone.

Er, James? Are you ok? Still coming? I can't sit here much longer without ordering anything and I thought that was your job? 😉

The message sent but didn't get delivered. I waited.

I sent a text, like a caveman.

Er, James? Are you ok? Still coming? I can't sit here much longer without ordering anything and I thought that was your job?😉

Sara! I can't see you! I'm in the Starbucks at Wakefield Westgate, been here over an hour. No data connection.

Westgate! Of course, he'd gone to the station I got off at that day. Here I was at Kirkgate, closer to my house but on a different line.

I'm so sorry! I'm at the other station! Can you wait there for twenty minutes?

I'm going to have to go by then. I'm playing football this afternoon in Sheffield, can't let the team down. Can we reschedule? I've already drunk your latte! 🙂

The excitement drained from my chest and my heart fell into my favourite boots.

Where's the football ground? Can I come watch? We could get a drink after?

Sure! Great idea. It's at the university, 2pm kick off.

Google showed me the Goodwin Sports Centre, 45 minute walk from the station but totally worth it. I got on the next train to Sheffield and trekked across town to the uni. I found a map of campus, grabbed a coffee, and headed to the football fields early. No spectators or soccer teams to be found. And none came. I messaged James at 1.55pm.

I'm here but can't see any players. Am I in the right place?

No reply.

I waited another thirty minutes and some students turned up. None of them had a team mate called James. They weren't even there for a proper match. Just a kick about.

Head low, cheeks pale, I had a look around town before I slunk back to the station and got on another train home. The match would be over by now, if it had ever taken place. Had he set me up? As I queued for a final coffee at the Starbucks by Kirkgate, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

'Wow, are you difficult to find!'

'James! There was no match at Sheffield uni. Where were you?'

'Ah. Not just you who's scant on directions. I should have said, we were at Sheffield Hallam. Don't tell me you went all the way across town and back?'

'Maybe we're stuck in one of those awful movies. Will they? Won't they?' I rolled my eyes.

'I think they will.' James showed a coy smile. 'Look, it's starting to rain, and it's my fault you missed me at the football. Can I walk you home?'

'Sure, yeah, thanks.'

The clouds rolled in as we rounded the corner onto my street. I pulled up my hood against the downpour. A flash of light across the sky stopped us both in our tracks.

'Want to watch from my bay window?'

'How 'bout you take your hood down and we watch from out here?'

I pulled back my hood and let the rain wash over my hair. Tiny rivers met and trickled down my cheeks, liberating a huge grin across my face.

'Let's do it properly...' said James as he reached for my top button. My heart pounded as he slowly undid each button and then parted the sides of my coat with his fingers, until he'd exposed the front of my sweater to the elements. 'It'll be the best shower you ever had!' He unzipped his own jacket and slid his arms out of the sleeves, letting the water shrink-wrap his shirt onto his muscular torso.

As the wind got up and whipped my hair, he reached forward and wrapped his arms around my shoulders, but I wasn't aware of the cold. I stepped forward into his embrace, tilted my face upwards towards his, and breathed in the magic of the storm.

We were kissing in the rain when the thunder started.