From the railway carriage I caught glimpses – a road here and a house there. Fields. Hedgerows. Stonewalls. Colours blurred. Greys, greens and browns stretched like motorway trail lights. I rested my forehead against the glass; it burned cold. My reflection laced with the hills as the train charged along the track like a soldier in the heat of engagement. As the sun descended, little pieces of my reflection merged with the meadows and drifted away in the wake of the train. Swift like spirits, the carriages cut through the countryside and eventually came to a shrill halt at the village platform of Benson.
Commuters rushed off the train and buzzed away on scooters and bikes or walked briskly flat faced, oblivious to their surroundings and most importantly, unaware that I had loitered.
I walked along the platform towards the setting sun. Glowing white in the centre, surrounded by pale yellows and oranges, it slipped towards the tracks, its golden glory siphoning away any remaining warmth.
The ticket collector emerged from the station shop. I turned and watched as he crammed a large baguette into his mouth. He smiled with his mouth full before disappearing behind the security coded door.
Did he know?
‘You dawdle. Why do you always dawdle?’ Not Mama or Mother. Always Bria. Bria never shouted. Not really. Everything was always said on a soft breath with a harsh undertone leaving an edge that grew, taking control of my mind and heart, creating fissures where none had ever existed before.
The next train would not be long. Twenty, thirty minutes at most. My window of opportunity was closing, and I wished the sun would set faster before Bria knew I was late coming home from school. The electronic sign above the platform flashed yellow letters ‘Next Train: 22 min’.
The damp evening air made the skin of my face feel clammy. I knew it would happen if I stood still. Still like I had been petrified in stone millions of years old. Grandma never lied although Bria always said that she was, in no uncertain terms, off her rocker. But I trusted Grandma more than Bria and was sure they would show. One day. Today? Tomorrow? I know.
For when the sun meets the horizon, and the air numbs your nose, with the rising of the moon, out of their sleep they will stir soon, in a shower of Earthly dust, look to the skies you must, for the Faeries will be on the rise, with shimmering wings they soar like little spies, over houses and over walls, ready to answer your calls.
It’s easy to miss. People look but don’t see.
There, in the distance, along the tracks, glinting and glistening and flickering, closer and closer. Rising from between the railway sleepers, just a minute more for the shimmering to take form.
And the station master’s door slammed shut. I flinched. I blinked. And in that moment the sun had set, and night settled on the railway station.
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The Gold Shoe Writer 