Last train to nowhere

The window was open just enough to let in the cool night air. I sat back in my seat, as well as I could, making the most of what small comfort I could find and trying to ignore the crowd about me. It was the end of the day and we were squashed like socks in a drawer inside a train carriage built for half as many people. The train was always busy at this time, but this evening was particularly bad and, being one of the first to board, and in doing so find a seat, was feeling like less of an advantage now that I was sandwiched between an overweight and under-washed city trader and the window which was marked with a mix of scratches and grease.

In this state, staring out of the window seemed to be the best activity available to me. It was then, at somewhere approaching half way along my journey, that I saw him.

It was not unusual to see a man in a fine suit in London, but very few people wear bowler hats these days, or stand at abandoned platforms. He stood with his briefcase in one hand and an umbrella in the other. He was perfectly straight and perfectly still, looking to his right for a train that surely would never come.

The track by the platform was very old and little more than twenty metres long. It stretched just a little beyond each end of the platform before stopping in jagged, broken ends. Other than the man, the platform held a single bench and a single bin. Above the man, in white letters on a blue background, was the platform's name: NOWHERE.

It was odd, I thought, to name a platform 'Nowhere', and it must have done little for the desirability of the area. Thinking about it further, the piles of jagged metal could not have helped either.

Sitting back in my seat, I dismissed it as a trick of my mind or an unusual and elaborate prank. On my journey home that evening I saw neither man nor platform, and filed the memory away as a mildly amusing anecdote to be used only when an evening out became extraordinarily dull.

By the next morning I had almost entirely forgotten about the man, so I was surprised to see him again, standing exactly as he had been, in exactly the same place as before. As I passed him my own train slowed and I saw him reach into his jacket and consult a pocket watch. He seemed to be impatiently awaiting his non-existent train.

The man was there the next morning, and the morning after that. After three whole weeks I began to wonder if he had been there forever and I had previously sped by without offering him so much as a glimpse.

On the fourth Friday my curiosity and imagination got the better of me. I phoned in sick from work but nonetheless dressed as usual and boarded my morning train. However, on this day I alighted at a much earlier stop and carefully climbed down from the platform and walked alongside the tracks in the direction of the mysterious man and his platform.

I had to pick my way through barbed wire and past discarded pieces of machinery that would have looked outdated in the war. I was careful to keep out of view of any railway official as I knew the price of trespassing near the tracks.

Fine! Imprisonment! Public humiliation!

None of these were punishments I would like to have endured, but I was willing to risk them for the satisfaction of my curiosity. Fortunately, security was either very lax that morning or otherwise engaged.

As I neared the platform I began to have second thoughts as to the wisdom of the endeavour. I may have been about to fall for some elaborate con, though I could not imagine what a supposed con artist's next move would be from standing at a useless platform. Alternatively, what if the man was quite mad? The more I thought about it, the more likely this seemed. My imaginings of the ensuing conversations ranged from the slightly awkward to the downright dangerous.

As I approached the platform however, my fears vanished in a wave of renewed befuzzlement. The man stood as he had before, facing away from me in a direction from which no train could ever come. A hopeless jumble of metal and rubbish formed a massive pile before the tracks even finished.

I climbed up on to the platform and approached the man. He did not hear me coming or, if he did, he did not take any notice.

'Ahem,' I said, and when the man did not turn I followed it with a polite, 'Excuse me.'

The man ignored me.

'Excuse me sir,' I said, and when he still did not turn around, I tapped him gently on the shoulder.

He jumped a little and faced me. 'Oh,' he said, 'you mean me.' His face wore an expression of slight surprise.

I looked around at the deserted platform.

'Well,' I said, 'yes I do.'

The man smiled. 'How can I help you?' he asked.

'I was wondering,' I said, 'And please forgive my curiosity, but what are you doing here?'

The man laughed and raised one eyebrow. 'Are you joking?' he asked.

I shook my head.

He raised the other eyebrow. 'I am doing what any other man would do on a train platform,' he said in a calm and humouring manner. 'I am waiting for my train.'

I glanced past him at the pile of junk that blocked the short track. 'Where from?' I asked.

'I believe it comes from Baker Street. The stop before this one is Kensington I think. I have to say that I rarely travel in that direction beyond this very platform.'

'Where are you headed?'

'I get off at 1863,' he replied.

He had misheard me. I was about to ask him again but I decided that he was quite mad. With little else to do that day and a small air of amusement I thanked the man for his help and found a bench near the sign to rest my legs.

'You are waiting for a train as well then?' the man said.

I shrugged. 'I suppose I am,' I replied. I was interested to see how long he would wait before he gave up.

'I have not seen you here before.'

'New job,' I lied.

'Ah,' said the man. 'I hope it goes well.'

'Thank you.'

The man turned back to look down the tracks. I watched him for a while but soon grew bored and examined my further surroundings. The platform was surrounded on all sides by debris from a hundred years of rail travel, all of it dull orange with rust. I began to imagine what it once must have looked like when all of these pieces were in their prime and serving the public in great clattering brilliance.

I did not have time to contemplate such wonders however, as I was pulled from my musings by an almighty shriek, followed by a hissing sound that sounded like a thousand angry serpents. I looked up to see a large red steam train slowing to a stop before me. Behind it were several wood panelled carriages with commuters sitting, calm as you like, at every window.

I stood up in surprise. 'It... it's a train,' I stammered.

The man looked at me. 'You are standing at a station,' he said.

'Yes but... Where did it come from?'

'Baker Street. I did tell you.'

'But the track...'

The man waited a moment for me to finish. 'Yes?'

'It was covered in... in stuff.'

'Back there, yes. Not here.'

'But... But there aren't any steam trains on the circle line.'

'This isn't the circle line. Are you getting this train or not? The conductor looks rather impatient.'

He did indeed. He was leaning out of a window and tapping his flag against the side of the carriage. I looked up and down the train a number of times.

'Are you getting on or not?' the man repeated.

'I... I don't know.'

The man raised an eyebrow for the third time since I had met him. 'What about your job?'

'Yes, I mean no, I mean...' A moment's thought told me I had little better to do. In any case, should it be a con, surely one worth this much effort was worth falling for. Opening my mouth but unable to say much else, I boarded the train.

The carriage was not busy, but neither was it empty. It was an older looking carriage. The seats were wooden with tastefully patterned cushions attached. They were set in pairs, each facing the other with a table in between. A luggage rack ran above each window and there were pale pink curtains furled at every beam.

The majority of the seats were taken. I sat by the man. He made no complaint, which I took to mean that he had no problem continuing our conversation.

'So,' he said. 'You have a new job.'

'Yes,' I said, 'Well, no. I don't. I mean I have a job, just not where I'm going.'

The man seemed surprised by this. 'Oh,' he said. 'Where are you going?'

'Uh... Where are you going?'

'I've told you that already. 1863.'

'No,' I said, 'Where? Where are you going?'

'1863.'

'Oh. Is that a house number?' I asked, 'A building?'

'No,' the man said, '1863. The year. I work in 1863. I get the train from Nowhere station to 1863.'

'Oh,' I said with a nervous chuckle, 'I'm going to the next stop. 17...' I stammered for a moment as all knowledge of numbers left my mind. '1767.'

The man laughed. 'You can't get the train to 1767!' he said. 'You have to get the carriage past 1829.'

'Of course,' I said. 'The replacement carriage service.'

'Do you know where you're going?' he said.

'No.'

'Do you have a ticket?'

'I don't, no.'

'Have you travelled this line before?'

'What line is this?'

'Baker Street and 1829.'

'No. I haven't, no.'

The train pulled off, a fast juddering movement so different to our modern, diesel trains. I could feel a gentle tug with each puff of steam and I watched as the platform slid by me and then vanished. The train went dark as we entered a tunnel.

'I don't remember a tunnel,' I said.

'You don't?' said the man.

'No,' I said, 'In fact, I'm sure there wasn't one. I walked to the platform. There weren't any tunnels.'

'Not that you walked through. Do you usually walk through train tunnels?'

'No.'

'Then I'd wager it's fair to say that you rarely notice them either.'

'But I walked along the track.'

'Not this track.'

'Yes it was. The track with all the junk on it.'

'Oh!' The man waved his hand dismissively. 'The tracks intersect at the platform but the train goes through the tunnel before it gets to the junk. I know it doesn't look very nice but that’s someone else's responsibility. If they don't want to clean up their section of track then it's their fault if they can't run a train on it.'

'But there wasn't a tunnel!'

At that moment, the train burst out into the light and along only a short distance before slowing to a halt at a new platform.

This new stop was considerably busier. As many as twenty people were waiting here, mostly men in bowler hats, looking almost identical to my companion. The platform seemed familiar.

'The sign says Nowhere.' I remarked.

'Yes, that is a little confusing. We began at Nowhere, went someway and now find ourselves Nowhere!' He laughed. I did not. 'Don't worry dear boy, it's not the same.'

'It looks like the same place,' I said.

'Oh it is,' he said, 'but it's not the same.'

I stood up.

'I wouldn't get off here,' the man said, 'The next train isn't until this evening.'

'But this is the same place.'

'Yes but in 1981. Dreadful year.' He wrinkled his nose, then reached up and shut the window.

I sat down. 'So we are travelling through time,’ I said.

'Yes, of course,’ he replied, as if it was a natural thing to do.

'Why?'

'Well, why would you travel through anything else? I'm going to work.'

'What do you do?’

'I am a banker.’ He straightened his tie with pride. ‘I work in 1863. It better suits my skills than a bank in the 21st century.'

'How on earth do you go about getting a job in the past?' I asked.

'I applied. Anyhow, it's not the past,' the man replied, 'It's just a different year. It does not do for a man to spend his whole life in his home time. Branch out! Explore! It broadens the mind.'

At that moment the conductor reached us calling for tickets. My companion produced his without delay but I of course did not have one. I fumbled in my pockets for a while, stalling for time and hoping that the conductor would move on but he did not.

'Do you have a ticket sir?' he said, 'Or are you buying one now?'

'Um... I'm buying one,' I said.

'Very good sir,' he said, 'What currency will you be using today?'

'Currency?' I said.

'Pre- or post- decimalisation?'

'Post- I suppose.'

'Very good sir,' he said again, and lifted a very modern looking card reader from his bag. 'I can take cash, card or cheque.'

'How much is it?' I asked.

'Were are you going sir?'

I looked at my companion. '1863,' I said.

He told me the price, which was very reasonable for a return ticket to a previous century, and I paid in cash. The ticket was made from brown card, and it did not look like it would have activated the barriers at a regular underground station. On it was printed only the word 'Return', and beneath it was stamped the date (or what had been the date when I had got up that morning). When I had put it safely in my wallet, my companion turned to me.

'If you do not have a job,' he began.

'I do have a job,' I interrupted.

'Yes, but not at the end of this journey. What brings you this way?'

'I fancied a change,' I said. I did not feel it wise to tell a man who was still largely a stranger that the reasoning behind my journey began with me staring at him for the best part of a month.

'I'm afraid our destination is not terribly interesting,' he said.

'Perhaps not,' I said, 'but I think 1863 will be change enough. For one day at least.'

We passed a number of different stations, each preceded and followed by a dark tunnel and each looking largely the same. The only great difference was the number of people at each, and the fact that each successive station looked slightly newer than the last. Eventually, we stopped at one that was altogether different. It was busier, and had five platforms instead of just the one. A beautiful steam engine was stopped at one, while the others held crowds of waiting passengers.

'This is my stop,' said my companion, standing up, 'And I suppose it is yours as well. Shall we alight?'

'Certainly,' I said. I got up from my seat and joined a line of my fellow passengers who were getting off as well. This was certainly a popular stop. We slowly shuffled to the door and I paused a second, breathing in my first few breaths of nineteenth century air. It was foul and smoky. I coughed a little and stepped down onto the stone platform. The sound was so different to what I was used to. Hissing and clanking, the deep chuff chuff chuff of the steam engine and absolutely no electronic voice to tell me what the next train was.

A massive clock at the end wall ticked the seconds slowly away and informed me that it was a little before half past eight. It had been ten to nine when I boarded the train.

'What day is it?' I asked.

'How should I know?' replied my companion.

'Do you not keep track of the days?'

'Do you keep track of your latitude?' he said. 'I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I must rush, I have to be at work. The train has come in a little later than usual.'

'Of course,' I said. 'Have a good day.'

'Thank you.' he replied. 'The last train leaves at six thirty this evening. If you miss it then you'll have to wait until tomorrow I'm afraid.'

'OK,' I said, 'I won't miss it.'

'Good. I'll see you later.' He turned to leave, but then stopped and offered me his hand. 'I'm Jacob by the way. Jacob Macaffrey.'

I took his hand. 'Michael.'

'It was nice to meet you Michael. All the best.' And with that, he melted into the crowd and disappeared.

What is a man to do upon finding himself in another century? At first I thought that the London that I found when I stepped out of the station would be much the same as the one in which I had lived for most of my life. I could not have been more wrong. It was as if I was in another world.

Without a doubt, many of the buildings looked the same, in fact I had been here many times before (or will be, my understanding of tenses becomes unclear). I turned around to see that I had left what was undoubtedly Paddington Station. From the inside it had been almost unrecognisable without the electronic boards, the ticket booths and the WH Smiths. Outside, I recognised the grey stonework and the buildings across the street, though it all looked somehow newer than it had when I had last visited. What is more, the name of the station was written across the entrance.

I smiled to myself as I realised that I was probably the only person standing there at that time that associated Paddington with more than just a station. Would I fascinate these people with one hundred and fifty years of additional culture? Perhaps that could wait. There seemed quite enough for me to take in for myself.

London is interesting at any time, but staring there on that street and looking about was like watching the opening shots of a Dickens adaptation. It was interesting to note that on the whole, those that I had seen were largely accurate. Present were the boys selling newspapers on the corner, the sellers of various wares with their brightly painted carts. Ladies walked the streets with wide dresses and tall bonnets. Men in top hats walked beside them, shooing away the urchins begging for money. I saw one lad who might have been the Artful Dodger himself leaning against a lamppost and smoking a pipe.

A carriage thundered by me and screeched to a halt at the door to the station. A short man in a black jacket and top hat climbed out and ran inside. Before the carriage had adjusted to the lack of weight, another man had climbed in and been whisked away.

Surely this must be the famous handsom cab, I thought. I looked down the street. They were two a penny, and it seemed worth a try. I held up my hand and it was a mere moment before a beautiful black wooden box stood in front of me. I pulled open the door and clambered inside. It was very dark. The roof was low and the windows were small and dirty but the seat was very comfortable.

There was a knocking on the roof. I poked my head out of the window to see the driver looking at me.

'Where you going to?' he asked in a think cockney accent.

I thought for a moment and realised that I had no idea. 'I am new to London,' I said, 'where would you recommend?'