WHAT A DAY!
What you don’t know really can hurt you when a loved one’s fate hangs in the balance
She heard it first on the 10 o’clock bulletin. “Reports are coming in of a train derailment outside Peterborough. The train, which departed Peterborough at 07.20, left the rails…” The rest of the statement punctured her numb mind in staccato bursts. “…at least three are dead and 16 injured… rescuers are still working… cause not yet known… full investigation will be launched…” That was her husband’s train. Paul worked from home most of the time for an insurance company, but once a month he travelled to the head office in London for all-day meetings. He’d left in a flurry that morning, having fallen asleep again after switching off the alarm clock. The short car drive to the station plus the 50-minute train journey to King’s Cross usually left him just enough time to walk to the office, arriving promptly at 20 to nine. This morning, he was going to be very late – if, that is… No, no, she refused to think like that.
With trembling fingers, she reached for her mobile and pressed the button that automatically dialled his number. From upstairs, she heard the ring tone.
“Oh no,” she breathed. Surely, he hadn’t forgotten his mobile? But there it was, sitting innocently on his bedside table. She couldn’t even contact him directly now. Digging out the number for head office, she tried several times, only for her call to go through to voicemail, each time telling her she was number 19 or more in the queue.
Who else could she ring? The rail company? Peterborough Station? Their son, Jason? No, she’d leave telling him until she had definite news. Jason was away at university; she didn’t want him to come dashing home, unless…
“Get a grip, Hannah,” she said sternly to herself. “Think.”
She opened her laptop on the dining room table and with trembling fingers searched for the telephone number of the station.
There were two she could try – a primary number and a customer service number. But, after much button pressing, she still couldn’t get through to speak to a real person.
Hannah had only ever seen a train crash on TV. Now, horrifying pictures flickered through her mind. Twisted metal; rescuers clambering over the wreckage; stretchers with red blankets. She heard a noise in the stillness of the house and realised she’d groaned aloud.
Who else could she call? The police! Surely they’d know?
The voice who answered identified himself as Sergeant Peterson and was professionally sympathetic. “I’ll make enquiries, Mrs Brookes. You say your husband travelled by car to the station. So presumably he parks in the station car park?” She hesitated. “I think so, yes.” His next question left her feeling even more foolish.
“Can you give me the registration number and its make, model number and colour? We’ll check to see if it’s parked there.”
“It’s a maroon Volvo but I can’t remember the model or the number plate.”
With infinite patience, the sergeant murmured, “Perhaps you have a note of it somewhere, Mrs Brookes? The insurance policy perhaps? Ring back if you can find it.”
Ten minutes later, after another frantic scrabble through Paul’s files and a further call to the sergeant, all she could do was wait.
Try not to worry, he’d said. Did he not know what she was going through? Did he understand? Of course he did, she reminded herself sharply. That was his job. He probably dealt with more people in trouble during one week than she even heard of in a year. The sort of catastrophe one saw on TV, feeling a moment’s detached sympathy and then promptly forgotten. But now it was happening to her. There was no forgetting this time.
Hannah stood in the empty house, the silence pressing down on her. She made a strong cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, staring through the window into the distance. She began to imagine a police car drawing up outside the house. The black uniform; the kindly voice.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you… Could you come with us to identify…”
She glanced at the kitchen clock.
Was it only two hours since she’d listened to the newscast? The day was going to be the worst of her life…
The sergeant rang just after one. “We can’t locate your husband’s car in the railway station car park, Mrs Brookes. Is there anywhere else he might have left it?”
“Not that I know…”
“I’m making further enquiries.
I’ll get back to you if I have definite news…”
Definite news? But what might that be?
She made a sandwich but after two mouthfuls couldn’t eat a bite more. Nor could she settle to tackle the ironing. She listened to every newscast but there was nothing new. By evening, there were TV pictures.
The number of dead and injured had risen to five and 21 respectively. An information number was given out but by the time Hannah had found a pen and paper, the newsreader had moved on to the next story.
As it grew darker outside, her mobile remained stubbornly silent. She tried the police station again but couldn’t get through.
The time crawled. Seven o’clock, the time Paul would normally have arrived home, came and went. Just before eight, she heard a car pull into the driveway. Her legs were shaking but she made it to the front door and flung it open…
Paul was walking towards her. “What a day I’ve had,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe it. I was late already, then I got held up at roadworks and missed the train. I decided to drive to London, then realised I’d left my mobile at home, so I couldn’t let them know I was going to miss my first meeting. Anyway…” He kissed her cheek. “How was your day?”
She imagined a police car drawing up. The black uniform; the kindly voice