How many children grow up with Thomas the Tank Engine and move onto the Hogwarts Express? Does anyone remember The Little Engine That Could and The Railway Children?
How many mysteries and thrillers take place on a train? How many romances do they meet on a train?
Maybe not so many these days but back in the day trains featured prominently in Mills & Boon romances.
Trains still have that fascination. Who could forget the climactic scene in Mission:Impossible with the helicopter following the train into the Channel Tunnel.
Just recently I read a lovely story by Ruthie Knox called Big Boy where a couple meet in a train museum. It will be released in an anthology next February with the other talented authors in the Strangers on a Train series of novellas.
So railway stories are by no means dead.
Westlander at the railway station in Cunnamulla |
When I moved to Brisbane the late 70's I travelled on trains quite regularly. The old wooden carriages with individual compartments inspired my Writer's Challenge story which I am posting below.
Strangers on a Train - A romantic short
Bridget smoothed her hair complacently. The Jackie Onassis style shoulder length bob
suited her thick blonde tresses, the ends flicking up with only a tweak once
she took out the rollers. The train
lurched as it started to move and she checked her beauty case, sitting on the
ornate metal luggage rack. Pink, to
match her two piece suit. She looked just right for her interview. As long as she could remember, Bridget wanted
to be an Air Hostess. Today would be her
big chance.
These trains still ran in the 70's when I was in Brisbane |
A bang jolted her from her happy dream as the door of the
compartment opened and a battered guitar
case landed on the floor, closely followed by the owner.
‘Are you insane? The train was already moving. You could have been killed.’
The young man straightened up to an impressive height and
pulled the door closed. ‘I’m cool with
it, babe.’ For in spite of long, glossy
dark locks, he was most assuredly a man.
His lean face with the high cheek bones looked like one of
the paintings she’d seen at the National Gallery, the neat moustache and goatee
framing a half-smile on a beautifully shaped mouth. She was being observed by melting brown eyes
with long black lashes.
Flustered, she tried to assert herself again. ‘Do you make a habit of leaping on and off
trains?’
‘Not usually. I just
happened to want to catch this one. I’m
on my way to Roma Street.’
King George Square back in the day |
‘You might say that.
We’re having a sit in at King George Square. Peace, love and all that.’
‘You’re a protester?’
He looked at her sharply, no doubt recognising the distaste
in her tone. ‘You might call me that.’
‘My brother is serving in Vietnam. He’s been there for two months. We're very proud of him, serving his
country.’
‘I’m sure you are. I
hope you never have to see him come home injured, or worse.’ His response was mild, the expression in his
eyes sincere. She’d expected a rant
against the war.
Bridget watched him seat himself in the corner of the
compartment, stretching his long legs at an angle. His guitar case rested on the overhead rack
beside her beauty case. ‘Do you know someone who was
hurt?’
‘A few of my mates.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t
know anyone who’s been fighting in Vietnam.
Apart from my brother.’
‘Then today is your lucky day.’
She stared at his long hair and beard, the psychedelic
t-shirt. ‘You were a soldier? Why aren’t you still over there?’
‘They sent me home.’
‘Why? Did you do something wrong?’
He laughed. ‘So it’s true what they say. You are some dumb blonde aren’t you?’
‘I’m not dumb.’ She
watched horrified as he tugged the shirt out of his well worn jeans, revealing
tanned flesh with a sprinkling of dark hair across his chest. ‘What are you doing. You can’t undress here…it’s…it’s a public
place.’
‘Cool it, Princess. I’m just showing you why I’m back home.’
Roma Street Station - Clock tower is at King George Square |
Trying not to stare at the ripple of muscled chest, the even
pattern of lines and bumps down his stomach, Bridget sat primly in her seat. ‘I can’t see that showing off your…body is
proving anything except that you are some kind of exhibitionist, or lunatic.’
Standing up, he gripped the baggage rack to steady
himself. ‘Whatever you say.’ She watched him twist on the spot, revealing
the long length of his spine below the wavy brown hair that came to just below
his broad shoulders.
‘Oh…my…’ Her throat
closed, swallowing the words as she stared at the crinkled mess of red and
white scarring that covered most of his back, vanishing below the waistband of
his jeans.
Tears prickled and she blinked to try and force them
back. The stranger slumped back onto the
seat, pulling the shirt back over his head and shoulders, smoothing it down
over his stomach. ‘If your brother is as
pretty as you, Princess, you don’t want to see him messed up like me. Not for a pointless war that no-one is going
to win.’
Bridget had to stop herself from asking him if he really
thought she was pretty. There were more
serious issues at stake. ‘Of course
we’ll win. America and Australia
together will defeat the communists.
Daddy says so. He was an officer
in the last war.’
‘Ah. So you’re a
Daddy’s girl. I bet you have the kind of
job to mark time until Mr. Right comes along to marry you.’
‘Of course not. I’m going for a job interview today.’
‘Really. Selling perfume at David Jones I suppose.’
‘No. I want to be an Air Hostess.’
The silence in the compartment was deafening. She could hear the rhythm of the wheels on
the train as he stared at her. As if she
were some kind of strange beetle.
‘What’s wrong with being an Air
Hostess?’
‘It’s exactly the sort of job I was talking about. Are you planning to marry a pilot and have
lots of little pilots in suburbia.’
‘I’m not planning on marrying
anyone. It’s 1971 and I’m a liberated
woman.’
His eyes scanned her body. ‘You don’t look very liberated in that
outfit.’
‘I don’t mean that kind of liberated. I mean…I’m going to be a career woman and
travel and be independent.’
‘Wouldn’t you rather come with me and make a real difference
to the world, Princess.’
Central Station- the far clock tower is King George Square |
The train was pulling into Roma Street and he stood up to
get his guitar case. He looked at her
appealingly. ‘If you come, I promise you
won’t regret it.’
Stubbornly she shook her head. With a shrug he jumped from the train and she
watched him walk away.
Emerging onto Ann Street, Bridget hesitated, remembering
melting brown eyes, a soft appeal. Her
interview was to the left, King George Square to her right. After a moment, she turned right.
Waiting for a train to go by in Stanthorpe a couple of weekends ago Steam trains come to Stanthorpe regularly and are very popular. |
Whew. That was quite a story!
ReplyDeleteI hope that means you liked it.
ReplyDeleteIntriguing story, Fiona, I really enjoyed it! :-)
ReplyDelete