steam billowed into the frosty morning air while doors slammed up and down the platform. She peered along the carriages and tried to find Francis amidst the chaos until a sharp whistle caught her attention. She spotted him about five cars along, waving while he stood by a carriage. She picked up her bag, waved back and hurried along the platform as doors began to close.
“Hello.” He grinned and took her bag. “We’re lucky. I have seats and the heating is working.”
She smiled back. “I have sandwiches and a flask of tea.”
“How did you manage that?” He led her along the carriage, squeezing past soldiers.
“A friend in the canteen. One of the advantages of being a WAAF on a base where there aren’t many is we’re all friends. She does it for all of those who are traveling, because she hates to see us go hungry.”
“Here we are.” He pointed to two empty spaces beside a sleeping soldier. “It’s a bit of a squeeze but as neither of us are carrying much weight at the moment, we should be fine. Now, do you want to be sandwiched between me and a perfect stranger or sitting on the aisle staring at another stranger’s belt buckle?”
“Since you put it like that, I’ll take the middle seat. Your legs are longer than mine. You need the aisle.”
He crammed her bag into the last gap on the luggage rack and sat beside her. It was a squeeze but it was better than standing. It was worth the discomfort knowing that, at the end of the journey, she would be home for the first time in sixteen months.
They spent the first part of the journey reminiscing about Christmases before the war. His always seemed to involve lots of snow—and flour all over the kitchen from his mother’s annual attempts to make mince pies.
“It’s a running joke in our family,” he told her. “Mom’s mince pies taste terrific but the kitchen always looks like a bomb site by the time she’s finished. It’s never that bad when she makes anything else, just mince pies.” He looked at her. “Can you cook?”
“Not a thing. I’ve been deplorably spoiled.”
He laughed. “At least you’re honest.”
“I really should learn. I know I won’t be living on canteen food or home cooking forever. Perhaps I should buy a cookery book.”
“Or do what Mom did and persuade the Reardons’ cook to teach her. That worked well because me and Dad never went hungry.”
“I’ll get a cookery book. Mrs. Maplin would never let me near the stove.”
Crossing London was a stark reminder that there was a war in progress, with sandbags everywhere on the Underground and walls plastered with posters with worthy advice and warnings. She was glad to reach Paddington and even happier that her companion appeared to have a knack for finding empty seats, this time unshared by any strangers. She handed out the sandwiches and they shared the mug from the flask between them as the train rolled away from the gray London suburbs and into the open countryside. The sun was sinking to the west and violet shadows stretched across fields still touched with frost. A luminous rosy light washed the landscape, promising a bitterly cold night. Ilona didn’t mind because she would be in her own bed with a fire roaring in the fireplace after a lovely home cooked meal. They both fell silent and watched the fields slip past and be replaced by trees and hills as they neared their stop.
“So what are you looking forward to most about being here?” she asked.
“Sleeping…in a real bed.” He sighed and it was rich with longing. “What about you?”
“The same.”
The train slowed. Ilona recognized the house alongside the track and the way the track curved toward the bridge and the station. “We’re here.”
Francis took her bag down from the rack, retrieved his own and carried them both to the door of the carriage. “I can see your parents.” He leaned out of the window. “Does that mean I get a lift home?”
“I should think so.”
The train
“Hello.” He grinned and took her bag. “We’re lucky. I have seats and the heating is working.”
She smiled back. “I have sandwiches and a flask of tea.”
“How did you manage that?” He led her along the carriage, squeezing past soldiers.
“A friend in the canteen. One of the advantages of being a WAAF on a base where there aren’t many is we’re all friends. She does it for all of those who are traveling, because she hates to see us go hungry.”
“Here we are.” He pointed to two empty spaces beside a sleeping soldier. “It’s a bit of a squeeze but as neither of us are carrying much weight at the moment, we should be fine. Now, do you want to be sandwiched between me and a perfect stranger or sitting on the aisle staring at another stranger’s belt buckle?”
“Since you put it like that, I’ll take the middle seat. Your legs are longer than mine. You need the aisle.”
He crammed her bag into the last gap on the luggage rack and sat beside her. It was a squeeze but it was better than standing. It was worth the discomfort knowing that, at the end of the journey, she would be home for the first time in sixteen months.
They spent the first part of the journey reminiscing about Christmases before the war. His always seemed to involve lots of snow—and flour all over the kitchen from his mother’s annual attempts to make mince pies.
“It’s a running joke in our family,” he told her. “Mom’s mince pies taste terrific but the kitchen always looks like a bomb site by the time she’s finished. It’s never that bad when she makes anything else, just mince pies.” He looked at her. “Can you cook?”
“Not a thing. I’ve been deplorably spoiled.”
He laughed. “At least you’re honest.”
“I really should learn. I know I won’t be living on canteen food or home cooking forever. Perhaps I should buy a cookery book.”
“Or do what Mom did and persuade the Reardons’ cook to teach her. That worked well because me and Dad never went hungry.”
“I’ll get a cookery book. Mrs. Maplin would never let me near the stove.”
Crossing London was a stark reminder that there was a war in progress, with sandbags everywhere on the Underground and walls plastered with posters with worthy advice and warnings. She was glad to reach Paddington and even happier that her companion appeared to have a knack for finding empty seats, this time unshared by any strangers. She handed out the sandwiches and they shared the mug from the flask between them as the train rolled away from the gray London suburbs and into the open countryside. The sun was sinking to the west and violet shadows stretched across fields still touched with frost. A luminous rosy light washed the landscape, promising a bitterly cold night. Ilona didn’t mind because she would be in her own bed with a fire roaring in the fireplace after a lovely home cooked meal. They both fell silent and watched the fields slip past and be replaced by trees and hills as they neared their stop.
“So what are you looking forward to most about being here?” she asked.
“Sleeping…in a real bed.” He sighed and it was rich with longing. “What about you?”
“The same.”
The train slowed. Ilona recognized the house alongside the track and the way the track curved toward the bridge and the station. “We’re here.”
Francis took her bag down from the rack, retrieved his own and carried them both to the door of the carriage. “I can see your parents.” He leaned out of the window. “Does that mean I get a lift home?”
“I should think so.”
The train
Similar Books
