Back down the platform someone was calling despairingly, ‘Oxgodby … Oxgodby.’ No-one offered a hand, so I climbed back into the compartment, stumbling over ankles and feet to get at the fish-bass (on the rack) and my folding camp-bed (under the seat). If this was a fair sample of northerners, then this was enemy country so I wasn’t too careful where I put my boots. I heard one chap draw in his breath and another grunt: neither spoke. Then the guard whistled, the train jerked forward a couple of paces – and stopped. This was enough to goad the old man in the nearside corner to half-lower his window. ‘Thoo’s ga-ing ti git rare an’ soaaked reet doon ti thi skin, maister,’ he said and shut the window in my face. Then the engine blew up a splendid plume of steam and shuffled off, a row of faces staring woodenly at me. And I was alone on the platform, arranging my pack, taking a last look at a map, pushing it into my topcoat pocket, levering it out again to spill my ticket on the stationmaster’s boots, wishing I’d sewn on two missing buttons, hoping that it would stop raining until I had a roof over my head.
What do You think about A Month In The Country (2015)?
