The winning entry in the 2013 Hungry Hill Short Short Story competition:
Single To Dublin
Barbara Leahy
When you arrive at the station, you are glad you came alone. You say goodbye to the taxi driver and hand him the five pound note your father gave you. You tell him you don't want change.
Inside, you stand your suitcase against a pillar while you check the departures board. You read the platform numbers and realise your train is in the station. You are wearing a suit your mother bought you in a sale, and walking in it feels like trying to climb out of a net. Your old school shoes are cracked and worn under their polish.
At the platform you ask the ticket inspector if this is the right train. He grunts, and punches a half-moon slit in the ticket your mother paid for. Your arms and back are strong as you hoist your suitcase onto the train. You remember your mother telling you to sit in a non-smoking carriage, and you smile.
You didn't think that you could smile today.
You think of your mother, and of Teresa, who is only six weeks old and won't know the difference. You wonder what time you'll arrive in Dublin, and if you'll be on time for the job your father got you, and how long it will be before you can come home again.
As the engine starts up you feel a tremor through your body, and you are jolted forwards, then backwards in your seat. You almost start to cry but the man across the aisle is watching you, and offers you a cigarette. You take one, he lights it, and you inhale and cough. He laughs and starts to talk, but you don't listen. The rhythm of the train soothes your body and you want to smoke and stare out the window and never get off the train.
You could be worse – you could be sent to London.
You could be worse – you could be at the convent.
You could be worse – you could be on the streets.
You wonder if your mother will remember about the extra blanket and the warm bottle and the dimmer switch, turned half-way. You wonder if Jack's wife will have a boy or a girl. You wonder if they'll all meet at Mass on Sunday and what your mother will say. You wonder if anything will ever be the same again.
The man from across the aisle comes and sits beside you. His chin is spiked with stubble and his breath smells sour but you think he has a look of Jack about him. He offers you another cigarette and his fingers are yellow and grained with dirt. You lean back in your seat and smoke with him and laugh with him and all the time you are pretending that this is only a journey.
