Night Train

Here's the autobiographical piece I read at Short Fuse this month:

Night Train

Somehow I’d only made the connection between paedophiles and girls. This was 1969 and I was fifteen. With my younger brother, I’d taken the overnight sleeper from Glasgow to Kings Cross many times before. Our compact cabin was like a doll’s house, everything miniaturised and tucked away. We lay awake and heard the stations announced to empty, echoing platforms as we rocked and jolted through the night: Edinburgh, Newcastle, Crewe. In the grey light of early morning, tea and digestive biscuits were brought to our cabin by a steward in a white jacket. We would roll up the blinds and watch the countryside emerge from the mist.
It was just before Christmas and the taxi ranks in Glasgow had queues that were long and slow. We needed to cross to the other side of the city to catch our train and as time crept by I was afraid we would miss it. It was dark and late. In a crowded, busy station, we were alone.
I asked my eleven year old brother to stand at one taxi rank, while I stood in the other line on the opposite side of the concourse. It was risky but he was always visible, even if we couldn’t communicate except by hand signal. Separately, we stood twice the chance of getting a taxi I explained, sending him off alone.
After about twenty minutes, when my line seemed to have grown no shorter, he waved to me, beckoning, a man at his side.
‘He’s got us a taxi,’ my brother called out as I staggered across, dragging our heavy suitcases.
I thanked the man, grateful for the kindness of a stranger. But glancing out of the rear window as our cab pulled out of the station, I saw him climb into the next taxi. I felt immediately afraid. He might be following us.
At Glasgow Central, his cab pulled up behind ours and although I tried to walk fast, he caught up. He appeared normal, even kind and fatherly but I didn’t want any more help. He ignored my protests and picked up our suitcases, carrying them to the ticket barrier. At last, I thought, he can’t come any further. But the ticket inspector made the natural assumption that the man was our father and waved him through. Would children today have protested? I hope so. I hope they would have shouted, ‘he’s not with us, he’s not our father!’ In the fifties and sixties, children like us were brought up to be compliant, not to question adults or make a fuss. Children like us would certainly have died of politeness, given the chance.
He can only come with us to the train door, I thought, trying to push down my panic as he carried our cases down the platform, my brother chattering comfortably at his side. The steward won’t let him on without a ticket. He did. The man, this intruder, insisted on carrying our cases onto the train and into the compartment. By now I was very anxious and certain that he wasn’t safe. I realised he was one of the ‘strangers’ I had been warned about for years but even then, I thought I must be the likely focus of his interest.
He sat down on the bed next to my brother and looked at his watch. ‘I bet you two are hungry,’ he said cheerfully. ‘There’s plenty of time before the train leaves. Why don’t I take your brother away with me to get some fish and chips?’ He leaned across and touched my brother’s cheek.
My brother looked at me, keen for my approval. At that moment I understood. If I let him go I would never see him again. In a split second I became an adult. Anger swelled in my chest. He had no right to harm us. I pressed the bell for the steward, praying he would come quickly. If we were left alone for any longer, I might not be able to stop him taking my brother by force. He could kill us both, to stop me telling.
The steward came at once, filling the doorway with authority and re-assurance. I can’t recall the words I used but I know I told him that the man was a stranger and that I wanted him to leave us alone. He was escorted from the train, leaving without remorse or explanation and waved goodbye to us as he passed our window.
I did tell my parents but they took no action. Perhaps I downplayed the story to protect my brother as he had no understanding of how vulnerable we had been. Or perhaps I felt responsible for putting him at risk and was afraid of criticism. When I think about that night, I know I almost let him go.
Now, I wish our story had been reported as the man might well have been caught. He will almost certainly have tried again and may have been successful. I know I saved my brother’s life and possibly my own but for a moment, our future had hung precariously in my hands. I made the right choice. That I might have got it wrong is the stuff of sleepless nights.