12.05: the digital clock on the dashboard blinks at her, as the taxi eases itself into a space in front of the station. They’re here quicker than she expected, but that’s fine. Gives them plenty of time to relax. Her husband and the driver get out and go round to the rear of the car, hauling the two suitcases from the boot. She leafs through the notes in her purse, pulling out twenty euros, then checks the itinerary again.
12.07: they stand on the main concourse just inside the entrance to the station as she scans the departures board. She can’t see the place they’re going to, but that’s as she expected, it’s just a stop on a longer journey, the final destination of which she doesn’t yet know.
They make their way to an automated ticket machine, wheeling suitcases behind them, dodging ankles and children and tiny dogs on skinny leads. He stands and watches her as she taps on the screen, going through each stage - choosing a destination, a time of departure, number of passengers - like an old pro. She selects the 12.49 to Ferrara, makes a mental note of the train number, pays and waits for the tickets to fall into the receptacle below. She collects them and a few coins and turns to him. “12.39,” she says. He nods, then jerks his head towards the bar and it is her turn to nod. As they make their way to the other side of the concourse, as carefully as before, she scans the departures board again and spots their train, 12.49 Venezia Reg.14467, way down at the bottom. No platform number yet.
12.11: he places their drinks on the table and sits down opposite her. They’re outside the café-bar but still inside the station. To her right are the platforms caught in the glaring sunlight, to her left, a boutique underwear shop, the left luggage office and information kiosk. She tears open a sachet of sugar and stirs its contents into her espresso. He slurps his lager thirstily. She frowns at him. He shrugs.
12.16: still no platform number. She gets up and wanders into the cafe. She’s not hungry but the array of panini and focaccia are impressive. Others clearly think so too; the queue winds out of the door. She stands for a moment, people-watching. There’s a young couple peering at the food on display, their heads touching. His hand rests on the small of her back, his forefinger under the hem of her t-shirt, his little finger disappearing underneath her belt. It’s shockingly intimate. She looks away. Head down, she returns to the table.
12.20: “Off to find the you-know-whats,” he says, standing up. “What time’s the train again?” “12.39,” she says. He heads towards the platforms. She watches him go. He pauses, then turns left and disappears. Bubbles rise up through what’s left of his drink.
12.24: their train is now at the top of the right hand column of the board. Still no platform number. She folds and refolds a receipt and watches two elderly men as they walk slowly past the cafe. They are talking non-stop, both men gesticulating at the other, making their point visually as well as verbally. Every few seconds they stand still, as if their conversation is so intense it can no longer be combined with walking. She wonders what their wives are doing. Waiting at home perhaps, an eye on the time. Lunch prepared. She smiles. They’re not going to be home any time soon.
12.27: finally a platform number. 14. Way over on the other side. It’s a big station. She wonders where he’s got to. He’s probably been waylaid by a shop, maybe a foodie one aimed at tourists. He’ll return laden with oils, wine and dried chilli.
12.33: the train’s now on the left hand column, five away from the top. Has he got lost? She can’t go and look for him. She can’t leave the bags. A pigeon lands on the table next to her, pecking at the crumbs someone’s left behind. It hops nonchalantly onto her table and she wafts it off, irritably. It flies up towards the roof of the station and lands on a metal rafter, looking down on her.
What must she look like to it? Sat here, alone. Clock-watching.
12.38: where the hell is he? They’ve been together long enough for him to know how anxious she gets if she’s not stood on a platform at least five minutes before the train’s even in the station. He’s the opposite, of course. He hates waiting, would rather miss a train than stand still for one.
She can feel her heart rate rising. Perhaps this is punishment for last night. That stupid row. He’d accused her of being a control freak then but she’d thought they’d sorted it all out. He’d been alright later. Perhaps not. Perhaps he wants to make her sweat.
But they’re too old for games. Surely. Too resigned to each other’s foibles. He knows she tells him an earlier time than the actual departure. He’ll be here.
12.41: the train’s now second from the top of the board. Imminent. She’s still waiting. It feels like she’s spent her whole life waiting. Waiting for someone else to take the lead, to make a move, to point the way. How much time has she wasted?
Well that’s it. Enough’s enough. If he doesn’t appear in the next minute, she’s going without him. What’s stopping her? Nothing, that’s what. Not a thing. She stands. The two men in dark grey suits at the next table look up from their phones. She sits down again.
What’s stopping her? She is, that’s what. She’s what’s always stopped her. From doing anything.
12.44: where is he? Is he hurt? In trouble? Should she find someone to help? A policeman?
12.45: they could still make it. Just. If they ran. It’s ok. No need to panic. She fixes her gaze on the corner where she last saw him.
12.46: where is he?
12.47: so what if they miss this train? They’ll get another one. Or go somewhere else instead. Or stay here. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. As long as he comes back.
12.48: maybe she’ll sit here forever. People will walk past, get on trains, leave. People will get off trains, meet friends, hail a cab. People will sit at the next table, drink their coffee, read their paper, leave a tip, move on. Their cups and plates will be removed, ashtrays emptied, the tables wiped clean. New people will sit down. She will sit there. It will get dark, quieter. For a while it will just be her, the pigeons, maybe a cleaner or two. Then the sun will rise, a few people will trickle past, then crowds - commuters on their way to work, tourists to their next site of historic interest. She will sit there. Waiting.
12.49: the train to Ferrara departs.
12.50: she waits.
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