I was on a train last Sunday evening, quite late. Reading in Berkshire to Redhill in Surrey, a journey of about an hour and a half. The train was three carriages long and we trundled at a leisurely pace across country, with frequent stops at freezing, deserted platforms. I was sitting in the front carriage with my back to the driver’s cabin, on the left-hand side as you look forward. The driver and I must have been sitting back to back because I could hear him speaking on his phone now and again. I had the carriage to myself.
One of the stations near the end of the journey was called Dorking Deepdene. We were on time, perhaps even a bit early, because the driver eased his train very gently into the station and only the lightest of touches on the brake was needed to finally arrest the momentum. A second before the train came to a stop, however, with about ten feet to go, I felt the wheel directly under my seat ride over a bump. After about half a minute the driver’s door opened, and I saw him walk past my window, flashing his torch into the darkness beneath the train.
At exactly the place where I’d felt the bump, I saw him kneel down on the platform and shine his beam carefully at something that interested him. Then I saw the train manager approaching from the rear of the train wearing a thick scarf wound around his neck for added protection against the freezing night. He had long black hair and a beard and he looked like a student. He had a torch, too, and he came and crouched beside the driver and shone it where the driver was shining his.
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