Train Dreams by Emma Harding

We sit facing each other on the train. My mum and me. The conductor marches purposefully along the platform, clanging all the doors shut. A man sitting across the aisle from us pulls down the window to let air into the stuffy carriage. The train groans, shudders, then lurches forward and starts to move. As it builds up speed we can hear the rhythmic rattle and clank of its wheels over the track. I look at my mum expectantly. She looks back and smiles. She knows the role she is to play. 

   ‘So, what takes you to Guildford today?’ she says.

   ‘I have an important meeting,’ I reply, looking important. 

   ‘Oh, I see,’ Mum says. ‘What is it that you do?’

   I pause for a beat. Then, ‘I’m an architect.’

   I am eight. It’s October half-term and we’re on our way to buy me some new school shoes. I’m wearing my favourite corduroy trousers and a red wool coat. In my imagination though, I’m in a smart pin-striped suit, my leather briefcase by my side. I sit, business-like, my high-heeled feet crossed neatly at the ankle, awaiting Mum’s next question. 

   ‘An architect?’ Mum says. ‘And what does that involve?’

   ‘Drawing.’ I say, earnestly. ‘And building things.’

   ‘Goodness. What do you build?’

   ‘Erm. Buildings.’ 

  There’s a chuckle from the seats behind me and the man across the aisle is smiling into his paper. I’m aware that passengers are amused by our conversation but I’m not bothered. I’m absorbed by the possibilities of this new role. I can imagine my smart light-filled office, the lines of coloured pens and pencils laid out on a big white table, my work colleagues greeting me as I enter the room. 

   It’s a game Mum and I often play on train journeys, pretending to be strangers, inventing characters for ourselves, creating little worlds. But there are no fantastical imaginings here. No fairies, wizards or talking animals. Just as Mr Benn became a cowboy, a chef and an astronaut, I’ve been a doctor, a engineer, and a teacher while riding the train with my mum. 

    The train slows as it pulls into the station. A whistle blows and we stand, ready to clamber out. Mum has to lift me across the gap between carriage and platform and in that moment, I am a child once more, high heels replaced by scuffed Mary Janes and suit by duffel coat. But maybe one day …