The Station Master by Alain MB Lewis

The station master rose half an hour before the first train of the day was due to arrive. As ever he was dressed in a black jacket and trousers, a waistcoat and a white shirt, company tie and buttons polished so that they glinted.

He checked his watch and marched over to the station from his nearby cottage. He’d have breakfast after the train had been and gone, and the tickets had been dealt with. There might be a mug of tea waiting for him, and there was always his pipe.

He walked through the early morning gloom in through the spot where tickets were collected and checked. The boy would be here soon, to sit and sell the tickets to all of the commuters. He fancied that it would be easier if they all had a ticket that they bought once a month, or once a year. He thought of a future of how they might get onto the platform by some means of electricity. Then we all might as well pack up and go home, shuddering at the thought.

That boy was late again.

On the platform he could see litter everywhere, the implication of having to sweep up again annoyed him. Who leaves litter on a railway platform anyway?

He looked at his pocket watch again. He’d been messing around for half an hour and the first train hadn’t arrived. Late, he thought, everyone’s late today.  Staring up at the station clock, he ruminated that it had seen better days. The clock needed winding up really, the station needed more care and attention, he needed to get that fence painted, well all of the woodwork really.

He stared again at his watch, now that was doing funny things. It said five o’ clock. He looked at the sky, it was darker.

He remembered a moonlit night in 1941, there was no time to get to the shelter, he stood and stared at the clock again.

The station master rose half an hour before the first train of the day was due to arrive.