London Bridge
by Sharon Owen

18.07 to Purley. I'm on platform 4. Relief and a chance to slow down a bit although I still had to get to the first four carriages. Why couldn't the last four carriages go to Purley instead of the first four when the train divides? I heard the heels tapping up from behind me before the young woman caught up with me as the train lay panting alongside. In the split second that she drew alongside me, I saw in a blur, thick brown hair caught in a lazy, loose knot from which damp tendrils escaped around a flushed face with end of the day makeup shining around parted lips, gulping in the London Bridge air. And those heels must be killing her. One step past me and I, with those alongside me, already on the train, were drawn to her back view. Without thinking but with an inward groan, I resumed my own race down the platform. Because, in front of me now, clutching her bag to her chest as she ran, the stress and strain of her day was there for all to see in the skirt of her favourite blue dress hitched up at the back and caught up in her tights. The act of checking for this catastrophe (dreaded by all women) is an automatic action, the last thing when leaving the toilet cubicle. Ah - poor thing, I must catch up with her and her Bridget Jones moment. I see from the side of my eye some already on the train smile, sigh, pity, click, enjoy as I tailed the source of their entertainment. My own humble supermarket carrier bag knocked against my leg and added to my flagging stamina and intent to catch up with her until she herself was forced to stop and hop from side to side. The obstacle was one of those annoying groups heading to Gatwick with their wheelie cases and spread across the platform. Didn't they know the Gatwick Express was the next train? But it was what I needed to catchup with her and make the final lunge. I knew I would be adding embarrassment to her humanity and vulnerability as the day closed on the treadmill of deadlines, bosses and other yawning pitfalls that we were all trying to put behind us. But at the same time, I don't want to be misconstrued or shot as the messenger. Oh well, here goes. I raised my voice, very conscious that it was above my limit and the immediate noise around us.

'Excuse me (I'm always polite), your skirt's caught up at the back.' She stopped and twisted round, handbag still clutched to her chest. It was a classic Chanel; quilted black with gold chain. Wouldn't want to break that strap while running for the 18.07.

'Oh Jesus,' in a warming Irish accent, as she tried to unhitch the stuck skirt whilst also holding a supermarket bag and the precious Chanel. 'I've run all this way with me arse hanging out.' I felt relief that my good turn had been taken in good heart. 'Quick, all we need now is to miss the train.' Just like that, we were fellow women travellers. She got in first and I stepped up behind her very high Vivienne Westwood's in my practical commuter trainers.

'Well, that must have been a sight.' She said loudly as we plonked down in opposite seats. 'And no bastard thought to tell me.' Her rich Irish brogue spread into the carriage. I cringed, completely out of my commuter comfort zone. She caught my eye and winked. I felt myself smiling in return and around the carriage. One or two even smiled back. The train began pulling out from the station like a stopper being slowly pulled from my life.

'Have you ever done that?' No, I replied.

'Sure, I have. When I was kid back in Ireland.' I imagined a mucky, sunny little girl running along and smiling backwards and I almost wished I had. 'I must have given the whole of Bishopsgate a laugh tonight. I finish at 5 but I'm still always running for the train.' Me too, I replied that I work on Bishopsgate as well and I finish at 5.30. It's always tight.

'Oh, but you must be much more organised than me. I always think I can cram more into the last few minutes and then, I'm late.' She shrugged. I wanted to shrug like that as if it didn't matter and decisions were like buses. They come and go. I looked at her cradling her Chanel bag and instinctively clutched my own plastic bag, feeling through it to make sure it was still in one piece. Folding back the camouflaging plastic, I looked down at the small green glazed plant pot on my lap and strangely, wondered what she would do with its story. As if she could read my mind, she asked straight out,

'Well, you're clutching that as if your life depended on it.' Her openness, even though we had only just met, filled me with warmth and I could feel myself opening like a flower to the sun, despite the usual cool reticence of strangers on commuter trains. What was the harm in telling her even though it meant half the carriage would know about my pathetic dilemma? I fully lifted it out of the Tesco plastic carrier bag. And so, against the background chug of the train, the story of an unassuming little green glazed plant pot enthralled my new Irish friend Aine with its travels across the oceans of colonial time. In my earliest memory, it glowed with verdant greenery as the first monsoon rain clattered on the verandah of our railway colony bungalow and battered the earth into releasing its warm and musky scent.

'So, you think that little pot's all that's left from some big house in Hampshire that belonged to some bloke who had a secret family with your great, great something grandmother in India?' She looked at me. Several other pairs of eyes who had been drawn away from their mobiles to the story were also looking at me as the train slid past the stations towards East Croydon. One or two were nodding or quizzed me with eyebrows raised. I felt a flush rise up from my throat and discomfort at being the centre of attention. But Aine seemed oblivious to the attention as though our conversation was at once private and public and she didn't care which.

'What are you going to do?' The train had eased to a stop at East Croydon. One or two were getting on and off so heads were moving from side to side, trying to remain focused on me in expectation of my answer. At this stage, I'm usually looking forward to getting off the train in three more stops, not being thrown into a turmoil by considering a totally out of character and impetuous life-changing step. I'd be planning how quickly I could get dinner started as soon as I got in the door, maybe a couple of family catch-up calls, getting ready for the next day and the 9pm TV thriller to end the day. Comfortable, routine things that didn't require any thought like my reliable commuter trainers. Aine took in my deep breaths and unconscious fidgeting with the plant pot on my lap that seemed to be colluding with her and the other commuters to draw me into the pop-eyed state of cliff-hanging indecision.

'So, are you going?' She asked. Mobiles and social media were forgotten. This was much better. They all had a part in it. They all looked at me after she spoke, each one suddenly imagining they had the prospect of escape and adventure before them. My plant pot and its story had propelled us all from Southern Rail to the lush and fragrant southern hemisphere. Realisation came to me with the passing of the next station as though the train was already taking me away from all I knew to an unknown destination. It was my stop. I stood up.

'You have to go off course,' she said. Yes! I saw the answer in all their faces as I nodded back, yes.

'My stop too.' She stood up as well. 'And I'm coming with you.' I smiled in bemused wonder as the carriage erupted in applause behind us.

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End of London Bridge by Sharon Owen