The steps up to the platform seemed to go on for longer than usual. My hand was dirtied by the blue rail, my eyes on the dark bobbing backs in front, climbing. Slowly, the tops of train carriages crept into view. For a train to be already standing at the platform was unusual, but certainly not unheard of. As we approached the top, it became apparent that this train had been stopped for some reason. It had come to an abrupt standstill half-way into the station, its front now invisible beyond a jostling crowd. Snatched exclamations of ‘Under the train!’ and ‘Far too young...’ dragged me across the platform, past unaware Stanleys, the unchanged frowning man and the now unsmiling couple.The shouts grew louder. ‘Little more than a girl!’ a desperate voice cried. Then I was blind. It was my father, one hand on my arm and the other over my innocent eyes. He led me away without difficulty. On the other side of the station he removed his hands, but my mind was already filling in the gaps. Before long I knew, although why anyone would do it I could never understand. My arm still locked in his grip, I rocked wide-eyed at my father’s side. I barely noticed the long walk home.
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