The Day We Meet Again. Miranda Dickinson
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if you’ve put your own promises on hold. I don’t want to feel like that again. I don’t ever want Phoebe to feel that way about me.
Suddenly, a huge round of applause breaks like a hailstorm across the concourse, as loud as a dozen trains thundering into the station at once. We stand, our muscles stiff from sitting. Phoebe steps into the concourse and looks up at the Departures board.
‘The delay signs have gone,’ she says – and I see a battle in her face as she turns back to me. ‘My train leaves in forty minutes.’
I don’t want to look now. Because as soon as I do, everything changes. I want us to stay here, in our little square of station floor, just Phoebe and I. But she has a departure time, which means I do, too. Heart heavy, I raise my eyes.
‘Mine leaves in half an hour.’
It feels like the whole of London is queuing.
Gone is the bulldog spirit that brought so many stranded travellers together: abandoned like the takeaway-food wrappers and carrier bags littering the concourse floor like mounds of freshly fallen snow. Now it’s every person for themselves. The London attitude is back and you can almost feel the station itself breathe a relieved sigh at the return to normality. All anyone wants to do now is get on their trains and leave.
Except Sam and me.
But we need to leave, don’t we?
I hate the realisation that has hit us both, that this serendipitous magic we have discovered in St Pancras station is coming to a rapid end. In less than an hour we’ll be speeding as fast as possible in opposite directions, our own plans pushing us forward while our hearts gaze back at the widening gap between us.
That kiss. That kiss changed everything.
As we stand at the back of the queue for Sam’s train I risk a glance at him, jumping when I realise he’s already looking at me. The now familiar touch of his hand on mine is at once comforting and heartbreaking.
‘What are we going to do?’ I hate the fear in my question.
His eyes hold mine. They smile even though his lips don’t. Sam lifts his hand to stroke my cheek and I see the rise of his chest as he inhales.
‘We’ll meet back here – in a year. Exactly twelve months from now. When we’ve had our adventures and made our journeys. Come home and meet me by—’
‘—Betjeman,’ I say, as our words collide. ‘Where we first met.’
‘We are getting far too good at spooky,’ he grins, his arm pulling me close to him. ‘But we’ll only do it if we still feel the same. Things change. People change. You might find your heart lies elsewhere.’
‘I won’t.’ I mean it, too. But he’s shaking his head and I know he’s right. This can only work if we’re both certain. And a year is a long time to think about what we really want.
‘You might. I might. We have to be free to walk away if it isn’t what we want. So here’s the deal: if you feel the same about me in twelve months’ time, meet me by Betjeman’ – he checks his watch – ‘at eleven a.m. I’d say seven, when we actually met, but you know about me and early mornings.’
‘Can we keep in touch while we’re away? I don’t think I could go a year without hearing from you.’
Sam looks up as if he might find the answers pressed against the glass roof panels. ‘Absolutely. I’d lose my mind if we were silent for twelve months. But we need rules. We can’t work out how we feel if we’re always in contact. So – one phone call a month? I’d say video call but it depends on where we are.’
‘And email,’ I add. ‘But only in emergencies.’
‘Noted. Anything else?’
My brain feels rushed in the fast dwindling time we have together. If this is what my heart believes it is, we are at the beginning of the greatest love story of our lives. Emails and phone calls don’t seem significant enough. I imagine us telling the story when we’re old to our wide-eyed grandchildren: It was his emails that won my heart… No, it needs to be something – timeless.
‘Postcards,’ I say. ‘I won’t be travelling all the time; it sounds like you won’t be, either. So when we’re in one place for a while, we can send postcards.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘I have rubbish handwriting.’
‘Doesn’t matter. It’s powerful to write something down. It means more than typing. You have to think about it. And if your handwriting is really bad then deciphering it will keep me busy until the next one arrives.’
He considers this. Ahead of us the queue starts to move. The barriers are now open, slowly admitting impatient passengers.
‘Okay, deal. But I can’t promise to send you sonnets.’
I shrug. ‘I don’t expect Shakespeare. Just Sam.’
‘I’m better with music than words.’
‘So send me songs. Via email. In emergencies.’
We pull out phones, exchange numbers and email addresses and then Sam puts his arm around me, drawing me close as he takes a photo of us. He does the same with my phone. This will be my constant companion for the year ahead. I take another as he’s looking over the heads of the queue – I want to remember Sam as I first saw him: an unguarded, non-posed moment that is just him. Secretly, I think I’ll look at this image more. Without me in the frame, I can make sure all I see is Sam. That way my heart can be certain.
And then the people in front of us surge forward. Another barrier has been opened and a tide of bodies is rushing towards the gap. Sam’s hand tightens around mine and my heartbeat quickens.
We’ve only just met. But time is running out on us already.
As we near the barrier, Sam steps to the side, gathering me into his arms. My lips find his first and our kiss says everything we no longer have time to express. I’m pulled tight against the warmth of his body, his jacket parting to let me lean against his chest. One arm holds me, the other hand brushes the side of my face. My fingers trace the line where his curls meet the soft skin at the back of his neck. It’s startlingly new, but familiar all at once. I let myself melt into this moment, my thoughts of everything that lies ahead momentarily gone.
All that matters is this.
Us.
Sam and me.
And then we have no more time. The guy checking tickets at the barrier clears his throat and Sam takes one last look at me before shouldering his rucksack and swinging his violin case over the other shoulder.
‘Phoebe, meet me by Betjeman, a year from today. If we’re meant to be together, we’ll both be there. If we’re not, it was never meant to be.’
‘I’ll be there, Sam.’
He pauses for one moment longer, his smile sad and joyful, full of hope and promise.
Then he walks away.
I am on my own again. Lost in the sea of bodies dashing for their train. Except, as I hurry in the opposite direction to the upper concourse where my Eurostar train awaits me, I don’t feel alone any more.
When I reach the top of the steps I see the statue of Sir John. As people jostle past me I pause beside him to pat the iron man’s shoulder. His kind half-smile gives me hope, and his eyes are raised to the sky as if watching the future. My future.