The LONG night train (Part 2)

The station is nearly deserted and still open to the elements. I’m enchanted as I registered no significant changes to the platform that I’ve stepped onto as a small child in my mother’s arms; as a youngster being playfully chased by an older sister, and a half-dozen times as an young and full-grown adult traveling mostly alone. Intuitively I knew this would be the last time I’d trace these steps, yet the intuition was supplemented by a profound gut feeling that I was here for a very particular purpose, one that would serve others as much as it would serve me.

An uncontrollable serge of emotions swept over me as I stepped onto the platform. I slipped on my sunglasses to cover my tear-filled eyes then wiped them with the tips of my gloves. I was having difficulty focusing on the here and now while the foggy image from the past sharpened into view. There before me was my 14-year-old sister with long brown hair parted down the middle 70s-style with her long bangs tuck behind her ears revealing her freckled face. With a parental expression she smiles and motions for me to follow her down the very wide concrete steps to the tunnel, which leads to the interior of the station. I remember the sleeveless turquoise and brown print dress she’s wearing. I turned to look behind me in hopes of seeing my 11-year-old-slender-self in a black and white dress with a wide collar, white knee socks and black paten leather flats and a 35mm camera hanging from my neck. Instead I saw my mother, 15 years younger than she is now, waving at someone on the train as it pulled away from the station. The memories of this tiny place, a mere dot on a map of the planet, are powerful and so readily available, which explains the emotions flooding over me. I remember this scene as if it were yesterday. This is the day my mum came to the station with me to prolong our parting. She’s waving goodbye as I returned London and then onto Gatwick Airport for the flight to San Francisco, leaving her in Ramsgate to care for an aging mother. Yet from where I stand today I can see the tears in my mother’s eyes that weren’t visible from a departing train. I’ve always admired my mother for her tremendous strength, which is just as apparent today as then. Yet as I stand here for what seems like an eternity allowing the precious memories to come, I too am attempting to conceal the trepidation for what lies before me. In the words of Raymond Lindquist, “courage is the power to let go of the familiar.” I've never felt more certain that I am my mother’s daughter.

I came to the bulky cherry wood double doors with small square-paned windows that led to the interior of the station. I grasped one of the chilly pole handle and pulled it toward me; the doors were as stiff and heavy as I remembered. I walked briskly at first and then slowed wanting to savor each of the lovely memories that have been awakened by my arrival. I looked down at the shinning hardwood floor and could see the reflection of my present self. I scanned the interior of the station, my mind recording more characteristics of the station that have gone unchanged, like the ticket agent windows with rod-iron bars from decades ago. I stopped at the thick old wooden doors made even thicker by the many coats of paint and took a deep breath. I was afraid that once I stepped out of the station the precious memories would cease. I reminded myself of the beauty of the present moment even though I was a bit frightened by the uncertainty it would bring. The door creaked as I pushed it open reentering the sunny crisp day still in its childhood. I did my best to collect myself rolling my shoulders and straighten my posture and it seemed to do the trick.

The station was built in a semi-circle with a one-way driveway directing all buses, taxis and private cars in the same direction as if to handle the same traffic of a big-city station. There’s a long line of small economy cars turned taxis parked curb-side of the inner circle just waiting for fares. It’s so deserted and quiet I thought I might have overlooked a British holiday, but it’s simply the characteristics of a remote suburban town far from the city in the middle of the work-day and week. Most of the drivers are napping or reading the newspaper. I tapped on the window of the first taxi in the line. The driver quickly closed his newspaper, straightened his posture and gestured eagerly for me to get in. I maneuvered my body just right so I wouldn’t have to remove my backpack to get in the small car for hire. The driver was in his mid-sixties, slender with wild thinning silver hair and smelt of clove-like cigarettes. Before he had time to ask, I gave him the address and he replied, “Cheers love.”

As we pulled away from the station the reminiscent tears began again. The drive to the familiar road was shorter than I remember but it gave the driver time enough to comment that I was American and ask what brought me to his small coastal town. I kept my reply brief, “My grandparents are laid to rest here and I spent some time here during their lives and wanted to visit again, seizing the opportunity on my way to India.” I managed to say all that while holding back the unexplainable tears. Before I knew it we were about to turn onto the end of the road where my grandparents spent the last years of their lives, and where, at the other end, their ashes rest. I positioned myself to be able see what use to be my grandparents’ house from the car window, knowing it to be the first house on the block.

Several of the houses on Church Road were reduced to rubble by Hitler’s bombs during WWII, but when the war ended and the rebuilding began a miss-calculation left a small plot of land on the west side of the last house built. My grandfather bought the house because of that extra bit of land and turned it into a garden. I remember that garden fondly with the several colors of sweet pea vines growing up the red brick privacy wall. Spring flowers typical of an English garden grew all around the perimeter of the grassy center, left for lounging. The house got the attention of all that passed by after my mother painted both the front door and the gate to the garden bright red. The memory of my grandmother standing at the front door whether to greet me as I arrived or wave to me as I departed will remain in my heart and mind forever.

“Here we are Love,” the driver announced, but I was disoriented because someone dropped a house on my grandfather’s garden. My heart sunk deep as I swallowed my disappointment. I too can be reluctant to embrace change, especially when it rushes at me like a rabid dog, as it is at this moment. I paid the driver, got out of the car and I stood frozen in front of the house my grandparents, and then mother, took care of with such reverence. Today it stands neglected begging for the love and attention it once knew.