The Night on the Platform
Jonathan Whitmore was stuck. The damned train had left right on schedule—forty minutes before he’d burst onto the station in Manchester, panting and furious.
“Bloody hell!” he cursed through gritted teeth, fists clenched, his mind spinning with profanities that would’ve made the walls blush.
The next train wasn’t for another six hours. Wasting money on a hotel seemed pointless, so Jonathan resigned himself to waiting. He bought a ticket from a drowsy clerk, slumped onto a cold metal bench in the waiting area, and pulled out a crumpled crossword puzzle to kill time.
The clues ran out too quickly. Jonathan lifted his gaze, scanning the empty station—silent as an abandoned chapel. A policeman dozed in his booth by the exit, and further down, a man in a tattered coat snored against the wall. With a sigh, Jonathan stood, stretching his stiff legs, and wandered toward the newsstand for another puzzle. But it was closed, the glass smudged with fingerprints. The café upstairs was locked tight, a sign declaring it wouldn’t open till morning.
Defeated, Jonathan slumped back onto the bench. Time crawled like treacle, thick and endless. He checked his watch, but the hands seemed to taunt him.
“Bored, are you?”
Jonathan jolted, turning. On the next bench sat a wisp of an old man, his clothes worn but tidy, his white beard wiry. His eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Yeah,” Jonathan muttered, not in the mood for chatter.
“Fancy a game of cards? Pass the time. I’m going spare here,” the old man offered.
Jonathan shrugged. Couldn’t be worse than staring into the void.
They played rummy in silence. The old man smacked cards down with relish, groaned at losses, and cackled at wins. Game after game, the score climbed past double digits.
“Hungry, aren’t you?” the old man suddenly asked, watching Jonathan with fatherly concern.
“Café’s shut,” Jonathan grunted.
“Nonsense! We’ll sort it. Come on!” The old man leapt up and scurried toward a staff door without waiting for agreement.
“Keep up!” he called over his shoulder.
Baffled but curious, Jonathan followed. They wound through dim service corridors until they reached a tiny buffet—two tables, a wilting fern by the window, and a plump waitress dozing behind the counter.
“Ellie, love, fetch us some tea and sandwiches, will you?” the old man chirped.
“Bringing strays in again,” Ellie grumbled, but she moved to oblige.
Jonathan paid and devoured his sandwich. The old man watched, beaming.
“Want some?” Jonathan offered between bites.
“Nah, I’m full. Ta, though. Might’ve starved waiting for that train. I’m Jonathan Whitmore, engineer.”
“Albert Humphries,” the old man said solemnly. “A brownie.”
“A what?” Jonathan choked.
“A brownie,” Albert repeated. “Never heard of one?”
“What’re you doing at a station? Don’t you lot live in houses?” Jonathan frowned.
“Got lost,” Albert sighed, his eyes dimming. “Five years back, my family moved. I meant to go with ’em, but I got distracted here—missed which train they took. No way back now. So I wait.”
Jonathan shook his head, pity stirring in his chest.
“Blimey,” he muttered.
“Eat up. I’ll show you around until your train comes,” Albert perked up.
And so he did. The brownie led Jonathan on a whirlwind tour—sneaking into the control room for tea and biscuits with the signalman, an old mate of Albert’s. They hitched a ride on a shunting engine with a driver who barely batted an eye. They climbed the station clock tower, gazing at Manchester glittering below. Last stop: the stationmaster’s office to water a lonely fern.
“Poor sod’ll wither if no one remembers,” Albert explained.
Dawn crept in. The station stirred—early travellers arrived, a cleaner dragged her mop across the floor.
“Hurry!” Albert fretted. “Your train’s due!”
They dashed to the platform. A cold wind bit Jonathan’s cheeks, but his chest tightened with an odd certainty.
“Listen,” he blurted, “why not come with me? No point rotting here.”
Albert froze, eyes wide.
“Serious?” His voice wavered.
“Dead serious. Got a cottage in the Cotswolds, cherry trees, a good family. No cows, sorry. Come on, Albert. What’s keeping you?”
The brownie’s eyes gleamed suspiciously.
“Swear it?”
“Cross my heart.”
“Be right back!” Albert bolted into the station.
The train arrived. Jonathan handed his ticket to a weary young conductor.
“Boarding now, two minutes,” she said.
“Just—wait,” Jonathan muttered, scanning the crowd.
No Albert. Had he changed his mind? Or gotten lost again?
“Sir, now or never!” the conductor urged.
With a heavy sigh, Jonathan stepped aboard. Disappointment gnawed at him. He slid open his compartment door—and froze.
There, on the top bunk, sat Albert Humphries, swinging his legs like a child, grinning ear to ear. Clutched in his hands was the stationmaster’s fern.
“Couldn’t leave the poor thing,” the brownie said, his joy so infectious Jonathan laughed aloud.
And in that moment, Jonathan knew—this night hadn’t been an accident. Maybe fate had brought him here not just for a journey, but for a friend.