A Journey North

The train emitted its high-pitched warning and the doors closed with a hiss. A passenger leaps through the closing doors and throws herself into the seat beside me, an array of shopping bags clutched tightly to her chest.
“Anyone sitting here?”
“No, please sit.” I reply, just willing the train to move.

The train leaves the refurbished Birmingham New Street Station and continues its progression up North. I had boarded at Cardiff Central, having spent the weekend with my family. I was due to travel home on Christmas Eve but a call from my wife had thrown these plans into disarray. I had boarded the first train, and now sat scowling at my watch, willing the engine to work faster, to get me home. The train was packed, of course, last minute shoppers sat in various degrees of comfort. A few seats down a trio of teenage girls giggled their way through the journey, pulling presents out of their bags for the consideration of their friends. Ooh’s and ah’s filled the air as each item was revealed. Their northern accents a small comfort to me.
The lady next to me arranges her bags between her legs, her knee gently touching mine as she did so.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine, no worries.” I smile. I tucked my legs in closer, for fear of ‘man-spreading’.
“You heading home for Christmas?”
“Yeah.”
“Like the Chris Rea song… but we’re not driving.”
“I wish I was. At least then I would be in control of the speed.”
“In a rush?”
I nodded, and began to explain my predicament, trying not to notice the pity now thinly concealed in her eyes.

Stafford, Macclesfield, Stockport.

The stations getting more comforting with each mile closer to home. The gathering darkness outside negating any optimism I might feel. I checked my phone again. No reply to my text, no tick to indicate my message had been read.
Finally the train stopped, I got to my feet and inched my way down the aisle, waiting for the hiss of doors that haunted me for the last few hours.
I leaped from the open door, experience leading me down the platform, thankful that now at least my time was in my own hands. Feet pounding against the concrete, ticket in the slot, barrier open, out of the station, into the biting cold.
A flurry of snow, like feathers, translucent against the dark night, knowing that the sight of this would excite the children peering out of their bedroom windows, but to me it meant nothing.
Not right now.
I find a cab, give my destination, and feel my voice crack. Embarrassment flushing my cheeks, as the cabbies eyes flicker to the mirror, wondering, like me, if I will arrive at my destination in time.

Saint Mary’s Hospital. Manchester.

Still no news from my wife, as the car weaves through the town. The Christmas Market is heaving, ‘A Wonderful Christmas Time’ emanates over the sound system and makes its way into the car. People cross the road with reckless abandon, florescent lights blink through the snow with reds, greens and golds. I look at my phone, the time creeping by too fast now, how I long for whatever it is that gives Santa the time to shoot through the air at speed, I think childishly to myself.
The taxi pulls up outside the hospital and I pay with a note.
“Keep the change, Merry Christmas.” I shout over my shoulder as I head for the doors. Hoping for positive karma maybe.
I must look crazed, as a volunteer greets me with open hands and a soft smile.
“Can I help?”
“Yes. Yes please.” I add frantically, conscious of the manic sound in my voice.
They point me in the direction of the ward and I set off in a sprint now, everything has come to this, whether I will be too late, or on time. Still no text, still no call.
The doors are locked. I curse, and hold my finger down on the bell. A soft buzz indicates that the door is open, and I rush through where I am greeted by a sea of nurses. Some have tinsel in their hair, another has reindeer earrings.
“Ey up chuck, who have you come to see?”
My wife’s name rolls off my tongue and I see their faces change, and with it my stomach drops. Suddenly I am rushed through to a changing room while words are banded about, words I hear but I struggle to comprehend. Theatre. Surgery. Emergency.
I throw on some green scrubs, they’re soft, but ill-fitting. A cap is thrust onto my head and tied too tightly. I feel like I am in a television series, a northern ‘Casualty’ or something. A Nurse takes my wrist and pushes her way through some double doors. There on the table, is my wife.
Faces turn to me, but the only face I search for is my wife’s.
Those green eyes, open.
Those soft lips, greeting me with a smile, shrouded in relief.
It is then that I notice the rest of the room.
It is then that I notice the doctors, and the nurses, and all their gowns, and equipment.
It is then I see something thrust towards me and I hear the words.
“Congratulations son, it’s a girl.”

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NorthernLife Dec/Jan/Feb 24/25