They locked eyes the moment the carriage door swung open.
Free seat?
Of course! May I give you a hand with your suitcase?
Cheers Oh, its terribly stuffy!
Shall I crack a window?
Please do, if you dont mind.
The wheels clacked, night settled over the English countryside outside the window, and the train hissed into darkness.
Im Primrose, by the way, she said.
Andrew, he replied.
And just like that a simple chat began, the sort of banter two strangers share on a longdistance train. She was twentytwo, he was twentyfive. One hour passed, then two, then three, and they were still talking not the kind of drunken smalltalk you hear in a pub, but a genuine exchange between a young man and a young woman who, three hours earlier, hadnt even known the other existed.
What were they discussing? In truth, nothing in particular, and yet everything. As on any British train, they started with the weather, drifted to the price of a pint, thennaturallyonto life itself.
Andrew went first. He talked about his childhood, his parents, and his job as a symphony orchestra percussionist. He pulled out a battered portfolio of photographs titled Blue Bird, Gemstones and Merry Lads, all glossy shots where he, of course, was the star.
Fascinating! Primrose exclaimed.
And then it was his turn to ask.
And you, Primrose?
Me? Im a coordinator for the National Youth Council in London! she said, eyes widening.
Good heavens! Right in the capital?
Exactly there. Ive got no pictures to show you, Im afraid. Ive just taken a break from work and travelled back to my familys home village up north. My grandparents are from that area. It would take ages to explain how I ended up in London.
Tell us then. Where are we heading?
He spoke of how hed landed in the orchestra, of latenight rehearsals, of the odd gig in a cramped pub. The conversation stretched into the early morning, the two of them sitting opposite each other, eyes locked.
At dawn Andrew helped Primrose off at a deserted halt, gave her a friendly wave andjust like thatvanished from the scene. From that day on he could hardly bring himself to speak to any woman without picturing the nighttime passenger in his mind. No lady could stir his heart again.
Hed call out to women who reminded him of her silhouette, blushing like a schoolboy and apologising. He scribbled countless letters that never saw a postbox. Where would he have mailed them? To London? To the National Youth Council? He hadnt even asked for her surname or addresswhat a nincompoop!
It became almost comic: at every concert, perched behind his drum kit, hed scan the audience through the stage lights, wondering if she might be there, sketching her likeness from memory, tapeing it to the wall of his hotel room. Every woman in the world seemed to fade, except onePrimrose, the only woman who truly existed for him.
Life thundered on. The Thatcher years, the polltax riots, the decline of the empire, the breakup of old political parties. No more central committees, no more secret bureaus. Musicians, after all, survive under any government; they keep playing, keep dancing, and keep their lives on wheels.
During another tour, Andrew found himself in the dining car of a night train. You guessed it, dear readerthere, at a table for one, sat Primrose. Shed haunted his dreams for years, and now she was there, alone, no gentleman in sight. He froze in the doorway, eyes wide.
Right then, Andrew, he muttered, lighting another cigarette, pouring the last of his pint into a glass, and continuing, thats when I finally understood the phrase like a hammer on the head. My ears were ringing, coloured circles spun, my legs gave way as if Id been knocked straight onto the carriage floor. I stood there, dazed, while PrimrosePrimroserose from her seat, leaned over, and rested her head on my chest. Ive been looking for you forever, she whispered, just like in those old romance films.
And thats the whole story, Sam. I whisked her away to the Lake District, only to discover shed spent all those years wandering city streets, eyeing every drummer she could spot, hoping, just like me, that one day the perfect moment would arrive. It did. My cigarettes ran out on the train, I went to fetch more in the dining car, and the rest, as you know, played out the same way.
I learned the whole tale from my old schoolmate, Andrew, on the second day of his and Primroses wedding. We were sitting in his kitchen, the guests had left, and Primrose was resting in her bedroom. Wed bumped into each other on tour just a fortnight before the wedding, and Id been formally invited to the ceremony.
So thats the railway romance for youstill going strong, apparently! And who knows? Perhaps right this very moment, in some other carriage, a door swings open and:
Free seat?
Of course! May I help with your luggage?
Thanks! Oh, its stifling!
Shall I open a window?
If youd be so kind
