The Last Platform

Text 1: The Last Platform, by Martin Ellery

An original short story extract.

The station clock clicked on above the empty platform. Rain shone on the tracks, and the departure board had gone dark. Mrs Vale stood beside a suitcase with a broken handle, turning a paper ticket over and over in her fingers. The train she had expected was already gone.

“I thought I had another hour,” she said. Ben, the porter, glanced at the clock and then at the ticket. He could have pointed out the printed time. Instead, he placed his lantern on the bench and crouched to look at the suitcase. “That handle won’t last to the road,” he said. Mrs Vale’s mouth tightened. “My son is waiting.”

Ben took the suitcase by its sound handle and lifted it without comment. He walked with her towards the station office, keeping his pace slow enough for her to follow. At the door, he asked the clerk to telephone ahead and find out whether her son could wait. Mrs Vale stopped twisting the ticket. “Thank you,” she said, so softly that the rain almost covered it. Ben held the door while she went in. The platform clock continued to click, but for once he did not look up at it.