Are you free Sat 9th December?
Hmmm – might be. I suspect you’re short of strings for that concert I’ve seen on Facebook.
Correct. Can I bribe you with festive afternoon tea and a sofa to sleep on?
Tell me what’s on the programme first. Am I going to be able to play any of it?
Rehearsal in the afternoon, but all fairly sight-readable. Some carols, Anderson Sleigh Ride, Nutcracker bits, Winter from 4 Seasons, etc. Go on – you know you want to.
OK – thanks for asking me. Will be lovely to see you x
So ten days later, Polly gets on a train, overnight bag in one hand and viola case in the other. She booked a ticket in advance but not a seat, because the journey’s not too long. It would’ve made no difference even if she had, though, because the train is packed from one end to the other. She peers into the carriage, decides it’s not worth trying and finds a space by the toilet in the corridor, which is also rammed full. Welcome aboard this Northern service to Liverpool Lime Street. The usual list of all the stops. A reminder that smoking and vaping is not allowed anywhere on this train. If you see anything suspicious, please report it to a member of staff. And we apologise, ladies and gentlemen, for the overcrowding on this train. This service is full with standing room only. If you don’t feel safe, we recommend you hop off at the next stop and catch another train from Platform Two.
But Polly can’t catch a later train, because Ed’ll be there waiting to meet her at the time they agreed, and they’ve got a rehearsal to get to and he’s the conductor. So she puts her bag on the floor, plants her feet apart to avoid lurching into anyone and smiles gamely at a middle-aged man in walking clothes and a rucksack. He grins back and takes a book out of his pocket.
The train pulls away from the station. Polly glances down at her phone. She wants to read too, but it’s probably best to save her battery in case she gets delayed and needs to text Ed.
There’s what looks like a father and son sitting on the floor opposite her. The dad looks tired, and he’s staring into space. The boy’s about ten, and he’s video chatting with someone. They’re talking about Pokémon. Polly hardly understands a word of the conversation, but the boy looks like he’s enjoying it a lot. Then there’s the man with the book, and about four who look like students, and a lady in a bobble hat and snow boots. Hope I brought my gloves. Every musician needs a good pair of fingerless gloves.
Polly gazes out of the window. It was frosty, first thing this morning. Two weeks to go. It’s quite nice, actually, the prospect of a Christmas concert that she doesn’t need to organise or be in charge of or get stressed about. She wishes she had Ed’s confidence, though – it’s been a while since she played Sleigh Ride. (Well, a year probably, which is the nature of Christmas music.) She watches the fields and towns fly by as the train takes them west, and thinks about all the things that need doing before school finishes for Christmas. And then, after that, all the other things I need to do.
Two of the students are chatting quietly, and the little boy on the floor’s giggling with his friend on the video call about something called a scorbunny. At Manchester Piccadilly, more people want to get on than off. Only one more stop to go.
The carriage door swishes open and a man looks hopefully into the corridor. “May I just squeeze past you?” he says, and Polly smiles and moves as far into the corner as she can. The lady in the bobble hat takes it off and stuffs it into her pocket.
The train stops, but they’re nowhere near Lime Street yet. We apologise, ladies and gentleman, for the delay, and hope to be moving again soon. There’s a murmur among the passengers, but no one complains out loud.
The man comes out of the bathroom and makes his way back towards the carriage. Before he gets there, though, he stops walking and leans against the corridor wall next to Polly for a moment. The air’s stuffy, and she wonders for a second if he’s about to faint. Instinctively, she clasps his arm and keeps her eyes on his face.
“Are you okay? It’s hot in here, isn’t it. Why don’t you perch on my suitcase for a sec – take a few breaths before you go back in that carriage. Must be even worse in there!”
She knows she’s chattering away about nothing, but the man takes her advice and lowers himself gingerly onto her suitcase. It’s sturdy and fairly large, because she’s brought a pillow and sleeping bag with her. Ed is wonderful in a lot of ways, but she knows he won’t have given a moment’s thought to her sleeping arrangements – his mind’ll be full, quite rightly, of tempi and dynamics and what he’ll say to introduce the concert.
Polly positions herself discreetly on the other side of the man in case he sways and falls, and reaches into her bag for the unopened bottle of water she bought at Manchester Victoria, unscrewing the lid. “Will you have some of this?”
“Thank you – I will. That’s very nice of you.” He accepts the bottle and drinks. There’s another apology over the tannoy, and Polly texts Ed in case she’s a bit late.
“Violin or viola?” the man asks, nodding towards Polly’s instrument case. It’s always a surprise when anyone asks that. “I teach at the Royal Northern,” he says, smiling at the look on her face. Polly smiles back. He does look like a professor, to be fair – he’s perhaps about sixty, brown cords, a dark red jumper and tweed jacket, and a tartan scarf. His face is kind and open.
“Viola,” Polly says, “and I’m supposed to be playing in my friend’s concert tonight. What’s your instrument?”
“Piano,” he says, “and once upon a time, the trombone.” Polly can imagine it – he looks the type. Competent and strong with a hint of mischief.
