The Station Master
by Andrew McIntyre
Twelve o'clock. It was too cold to sleep. I stood up, flapping my arms, stamping my feet. Nine more hours. Something caught my eye, a lamp moving beyond the signals. Through the snow, I perceived an old man with a long white beard, impeccably dressed in a uniform, his watch chain shining.
“Good evening,” I said. “Cold night to be about.”
The old man stopped and stared, “That it is lad, that it is, and what would ye be doing here this late, if I might ask?”
“Waiting for the Edinburgh train that's due in at nine, I’m visiting my aunt for Christmas,” I explained. “I was told to change trains here.”
He frowned, “Ah, the Edinburgh train, ye've a long wait, thy'll be catching your death out here if you don't get in.”
“Is there a hotel nearby?” I ventured.
He scratched his head, “Only thing like that round here is the Eight Bells down the road in Metherby, and they’ll be fast asleep by this time.”
“Well,” I mused. “It's only another eight or so hours.”
He pondered the situation, “Tell ye what, just this once, I'll let you into the station house there and you can rest some, and get out of the cold. How does that sound?”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I mean, I don't want to cause any inconvenience.”
He smiled, “Nay lad, don't worry, it be right as rain as far as I'm concerned, and anyway, I'm the station master, come on.”
We walked along the platform to a small building. He pulled out a wad of keys, “Ye'll do better inside, there ye go.”
“I can't tell you how grateful I am,” I said. “It really was getting rather cold.”
“Think nothing of it,” he insisted. “I can see you're a good lad, ye remind me of me own, me only dear son, what was killed in t' Great War. The Somme, 1916. Ye get on now, get some rest, Edinburgh train'll be here in t' morning.” He wandered away.
“Thank you again,” I called.
He turned and waved, disappearing into the night. I settled down in the shelter, pulled a scarf over my head, and promptly fell asleep.
Someone was shaking me. Bleary, I turned over, thinking I was still in my rooms at Cambridge and I mumbled, “What on earth do you want?”
Then I snapped awake. I was looking into the face of an angry young man, uncannily similar to me, dressed in the uniform of a station master. It was starting to become light.
“Aham, I am sorry,” I apologized, sitting up. “I must have been dreaming, by the way, what time is it?”
“I'll say so,” said the man. “And I'd like to know who you are and what you're doing and how you got into the building. And don't be asking me the time, I've a mind to call the constable, we'll be having no tramps here you know.”
“My good sir,” I replied. “Despite the appearance of my greatcoat, I am no tramp, merely a traveler waiting for the Edinburgh train, waiting since ten last night I might add, and I'm heartily sick of the whole thing.”
“Ye still haven't told me how you got in,” persisted the young man. “This place is locked at night, no-one allowed.”
I stood up, attempting to appear respectable, “The station master let me in, because it was so cold, if you really must know.”
“The station master?” Quizzed the man. “The station master? I am the station master.”
“Then you must be the junior station master,” I countered. “The man who let me in was quite old, in fact he was very old, he had a long white beard.”
The young man went pale, “A long white beard you say?”
“Exactly,” I continued. “A long white beard, now if you'll kindly tell me whether the Edinburgh train is on time because I am thoroughly sick of this journey, and I just want to reach my destination.”
Clearly upset, the man ignored my question, “Ye don't know what you're saying, ye've just described my father, the old station master, he died three years back, and I've been station master since. Ye saw my father, you did. How can ye know?”
Briefly, I reached round for my suitcase. “Now listen here,” I said turning, but the man had vanished.
Looking about, wondering where he had gone, thinking I was losing my mind, I stumbled outside. A train was approaching. I waved frantically. Scrutinized by curious passengers, I scrambled aboard. Shaking with fear, I breathlessly asked a businessman where the train was going.
“Where d'you think? Edinburgh, of course,” he replied as if I were a madman.
I peered around, expecting to emerge from a bizarre dream. But the train shunted off, and I glanced at my watch. It was nine o'clock precisely.
Years later after the war, another world, another era, I was on a motoring holiday with my wife. We found ourselves near Metherby, and I insisted we visit. “It's very lovely,” I explained.
After driving through the tiny hamlet, past the station and the woods beyond, we ate lunch at the Eight Bells Inn. We were the only ones in the pub, and I started a conversation with the publican. Eventually, after a couple of pints, I described the circumstances I have related, the first time I had told anyone for fear of being institutionalized.
Far from being incredulous, the publican laughed and said, “Ye saw Old George and his son Arthur. Very sad about the boy, killed on the Somme he was like so many lads from the area. Always wanted to be station master like his father. People encounter them now and then. They're always there to help.”
“Who's the present station master?” I inquired.
The publican grinned, “That'd be Jonas Flimby, and very much alive he is, aren't you Jonas? That's him over in the corner.”
I looked, but I saw no-one.
Previously published in EWG Presents in February, 2003.
After years of traveling, Andrew McIntyre has found a settled existence in San Francisco, which has allowed him to concentrate more on writing short fiction. His stories have appeared in numerous magazines, including The Mississippi Review, 3:AM Magazine, Long Story Short, The Copperfield Review, and Pindeldyboz. In 2002, he was a finalist in Ireland’s Fish Short Story Prize. Contact Andrew.
