Platform 3 - Part 4 by Chris Lloyd

“Now, now no more tears young lady, we’ll go upstairs and find you some new clothes. Then we shall see what to do.”
Sandra didn’t like the sound of that – she’d heard those words a thousand times and they always meant something horrid. The lady was smiling kindly but she knew that meant nothing. If she ran to the back door now…..

“Come on slow coach,” Pink lady was looking down at her from the stairs, “up to Steph… your room.”
Sandra gasped; Her room? Had she heard right? She walked up the stairs, thinking that pink
lady’s slippers looked beautiful with the patterns of flowers and the bobbly thing on the front of them and she wished very hard that she might be able to have some like them one
day especially if she could stay here. She asked if Stephen’s room was really hers.
Pink lady looks a bit sad, Sandra thought, maybe the room won’t be mine after all.
“Yeas I suppose so my dear, for the time being.”
“Is that a long time?” asked Sandra.
“Let’s put these clean clothes on, then we’ll have a cup of tea.”
Sandra looked at the clothes pink lady had put out on the bed, a short sleeve shirt, shorts and long grey socks. Good for running in, she thought, but why do we always have to have a cup of tea before something horrible happens. She would have to escape pink lady before railway man came home. Pink lady went downstairs to make the tea.
Sandra got dressed quickly and looked out of the bedroom window. There was a tree, an apple tree but it wasn’t close enough to the window. It would have to be the stairs. She looked round Stephen’s room for something to make a noise and took an encyclopaedia from the shelf above the bed and stood at the top of the stairs waiting for the whistle of the kettle. When the steam was singing, she dropped the heavy book and followed behind it as it rolled noisily down the stairs then lay curled up next to it at the bottom.
She heard pink lady rush out to see what had happened.
“Oh my word, are you alright, I always told Stephen to be careful on those stairs.” Sandra stayed curled up at the bottom of the stairs, said nothing, stayed still and kept her eyes shut.
“Oh my dear child, let me get you into bed.”
Sandra let herself be floppy and kept her shut as she was carried back upstairs and laid gently on the bed.
“Stay there. Don’t move. I’m going to the phone box to ring the doctor, I’ll not be more than five minutes.”
When Sandra hear pink lady go out the front door, she sprung to life and went from Stephen’s bedroom to the kitchen, stealthily making her way down stairs. She stood at the bottom and went through the kitchen to the back door. It seemed locked; she rummaged through every drawer trying not to make too much mess, then her eyes caught site of some string with a key tied on it hanging from a hook. As she reached for the key the front door banged open and pink lady rushed upstairs. She grabbed the key and put it in the lock, praying that it would unlock the door. She turned it one way then the other; pink lady was coming downstairs shouting her. The lock wouldn’t budge. In desperation she tried the knob. The door was unbolted and just as pink lady came rushing towards her she slipped through the door and into the garden. She’d almost reached the back gate when she heard frantic scream of, “Stephen! don’t run, the traffic…..”
She stopped and turned and saw tears streaming down the woman’s red face.

Platform 3 - Part 3 by Andrew Shephard

Sandra pulled the eiderdown up to her chin and rubbed the silky fabric on her cheek. This bed was warm and comfortable, the first proper mattress she had slept on for a whole week. She’d asked the pink lady to leave the light on but drowsiness was sweeping over her like a tide. She bit her lip to stay awake and focused her eyes on the photograph of the boy in a silver frame on the dressing table, a slim boy about her age with light hair and shy smile. She liked him. He looked friendly.

Sandra had never wanted to say the word Winwood again, but it had worked. The train man had shaken his head and the pink lady had gone quite pale. They gave her a dog-eared Beano Annual and told her to sit on the sofa. She couldn’t hear what they said in the kitchen even though their voices were quite loud, but when the man went out of the house again, the pink lady came to sit on the sofa beside her. She put her arm around Sandra’s shoulder.

“Well, this is muddle,” the lady said. “In fact, it’s a right pickle. I think we should all have a good night’s sleep and perhaps it’ll look better in the morning. You can sleep in Stephen’s room. The bed’s made up.”

“But where will Stephen sleep?” Sandra asked, eyes wide with concern. The lady’s eyes filled with tears.

“He’s… I’m sorry.” She pulled a patterned handkerchief out from her sleeve and wiped her eyes. “How old are you?”

“Eleven almost, Miss.”

“You don’t look… Stephen was ten. But he’s… in Heaven now. Let’s talk about you instead. Where were you going on the train? Were you trying to get somewhere particular? An aunt, an uncle?”

Sandra shook her head and yawned several times. The pink lady found her a blue toothbrush and some pyjamas with cricket bats and balls on them, and by the time the train man clattered back into the house Sandra was under the covers in the box bedroom. She squeezed the shell she still held in her left hand under the covers.

“I’ll look after it for you, Stephen. I promise.”

She was woken up by the loud, repeating song of a blackbird which must have been on the roof just above the bedroom. Sun was shining brightly through the gap in the curtains and the smell of breakfast wafted up the stairs. She looked at the picture of Stephen and said Hello to him. She wondered what Heaven was like. Did it smell of bacon and toast in the morning? Did you still need to eat?

She crept downstairs and peered round the part-open kitchen door. The train man had his boots on and was putting a large white mug in the sink. The lady was wearing a pink dressing gown which had fluffy ridges and dragged on the lino floor. The man took a peaked cap from a hook on the back door and put it firmly on his head.

“I must go or I’ll be late. I’m not sorry I didn’t call the Bobbies. They would have just taken her back. Do what you think’s best. It’s your department, not mine. She’s not lost property.” He unbolted the door and shut it noisily behind him.

Sandra waited a minute then pushed the kitchen door open. The pink lady’s face changed from a frown to a smile.

“Good morning, dear. Have you had a good sleep? Would you like some breakfast? I always say never make a decision on an empty stomach.” The lady put bacon, eggs, and toast on two plates on the drainer and made the kitchen table bigger by lifting the side up and swinging a gate-leg underneath. She pointed to a stool with a flower-patterned top for Sandra to sit on.

Sandra knew what manners were, she’d been told enough times, but hunger took over the moment the lady placed the plate in front of her. She devoured everything without saying please or thank you, and without using the knife at all. She licked the butter from her fingers. But the funny lady didn’t shout at her. She asked if she would like some more.

“Does that feel better? Now, I’ve been thinking. I expect you don’t want to go back to Winwood.” Sandra nodded vigorously, her mouth full of more toast. “But I will have to tell them you are here… the authorities… it’s more than my job’s worth… they’ll find a different home for you while things are sorted out.”

Sandra choked on the toast and coughed crumbs over the table. The contentment on her face turned to terror like a dark cloud passing across the sun.

“They will. They’ll make me go back again,” she sobbed. “I’m very sorry I coughed at the table. Please let me stay here. I know I’m not a boy but I promise to keep Stephen’s room tidy.”

Platform 3 - Part 2 by Owen Townend

Tony brought Sandra home. Switching the car engine off, he turned to the girl in the backseat. She glanced up at him but wouldn't say a word. She was much too still and may have been in shock.

  He gave a gap-tooth smile. "Do you live near here, Sandra?"

  She stared into her hand at a black and white sea shell. On the off chance it might sooth her, Tony had plucked it from his dashboard.

  "Stephen - my boy - found that last time we went to the seaside. He called it his zebra shell." He paused. "You live by the sea?"

  Still nothing. Tony sighed.

  The curtains twitched in the living room window. They had been seen.

  "I'll be right back," Tony said.

  He walked in the door, loosening his tie. Monica's shadow preceded her from her place at the end of the hallway.

  She had her arms folded over her pink fuzzy jumper. She fixed him with a stare through horn-rimmed spectacles. "What is going on?"

  "Lost girl at the station."

  "Have you rung the police?"

   Tony wrapped up his tie and placed it on a nearby table. "Not yet. She needs to get in the warm first."

  "The car isn't exactly warm, Tony."

  "I just wanted to check with you. Do you want me to bring the girl into the house?"

  Monica sighed. "Of course! I'm not going to refuse a child just because I've clocked out of work, am I?"

  Tony didn't say anything to this. "She'll need coaxing out of the car."

  "I wouldn't wonder."

  He led Monica outside. It really was a bitter night. Sandra would have frozen had he not found her.

  Tony opened the rear passenger door but Sandra didn't move out. She was  preoccupied with the zebra shell. Monica glanced at Tony and he shrugged. She climbed into the back and sat beside Sandra.

  "That’s a pretty thing, isn't it?" she said. "I love the way the spiral seems to go on and on. How about you?"

  The girl was unresponsive, turning the shell over in her hands. Tony cleared his throat. "Her name is Sandra."

  "Hello, Sandra," Monica said, "I'm Monica."

  The girl glanced at her through tangled locks of black hair. Her eyes were glassy but even Tony could see there was something within them. Something struggling.

  Monica turned back to him.

  "I'll use the phone box round the corner," he said.

When Tony returned to the house, he found Sandra in the living room playing with the zebra shell, trotting it across the coffee table. Monica was in the kitchen, leaning on the Formica counter. She drummed her fingers and frowned.

  "Sandra got out of the car then," Tony said, announcing his presence.

  Monica looked up and straight at him. She didn't blink. "Did she seem hurt? When you found her?"

  "Not physically." Tony scratched the underside of his beard. "Not on the face at least. Why?"

  "Did the police tell you how long they'll be?"

  Tony looked down at his shoes. "Sometime before midnight. Probably."

  Still Monica did not scoff. She was breathing in short sharp bursts.

  "I should ring my new boss," she muttered.

  Tony frowned at this. "What happened to your old one?"

  "Mr Bronson retired." Monica glowered at him. "You were at his leaving party, remember?"

  "Right you are." Tony nodded. "What's this new boss called then?"

  "Eddie Langford."

  He didn't like the way she said this name: she put too much emphasis on it.

  "And is Eddie in the habit of making such late house calls?"

  "You would be surprised."

  Tony folded his arms. Monica sighed. "Will you please just trust me on this, Tony? It's my job."

  "What happened though?"

  Monica switched on the kettle. "What?"

  "If you've called your boss then something new must have happened while I was away. Something serious." He tilted his head. "Did Sandra speak?"

  Monica wouldn't look him in the eye.

  "She did then." Tony did his best to hold back on his frustration. Still this was a child in trouble. "What exactly did she say to you?"

  "Winwood."

  They both flinched at the sound of the girl's voice. Two syllables but these were spoken frantically.

  Sandra was right behind them, looking up at them both. She had such a pale, heart-shaped face.

  "What was that, Sandra?" Tony asked.

  The little girl reached for their hands, Stephen's zebra shell dropping to the herringbone rug. 

  "Winwood," she repeated sharply. "Winwood."

Platform 3 - Part 1 by Vivien Teasdale

The girl kept to the shadows as she sidled into the deserted railway station. It was already dusk; the evening sky heavy with its threatened rain. Peering round, the girl checked no-one was there ahead of her, or following her, before she scurried down the platform and opened the heavy door to the waiting room. It creaked as she pushed it further and stepped into the room. All was in darkness. No train was expected that night, no passengers would be waiting to be picked up.

The girl headed to the furthest corner, curling up on the hard wooden seat and trying to make herself comfortable. For a little while she lay awake, wondering about her journey, wondering where she would go tomorrow, where she could go tomorrow. Then exhaustion set in and she fell asleep.

Hours later, the sound of a train chugged along the single track, straining up the incline over the moors, before slowing its engine for the flat run to the station. There were no lights on in the station but as the moon finally forced its way through the cloudy barrier, Tony could have sworn he saw something move in the waiting room.

"Damn Danny," he muttered with a sigh. More loudly, he went on, "Looks like the waiting room’s been left open, again. I’ll have to put in a report this time. Can’t go leaving it open. Kids’ll get in and goodness knows what they’ll get up to. No-one there to stop ‘em."

The train driver grunted in reply, focused on the dials in front of him. The train pulled into the platform and shuddered to a halt. "There you are," he said. "G’night."

Tony nodded his thanks, and jumped out of the train, intent on having words with the young guard who should be there to replace him, but Danny was nowhere to be seen.  Tony marched along the platform, looking at the usual places Danny hid to have a sneaky cigarette.

Just as Tony turned to retrace his steps, Danny hurtled out of the darkness and rushed towards the train.

"Oi! Want a word with you, lad. You’re late, for a start."

"Sorry, Tony, had a bit of bother, in the village. Must dash." The young man kept running, but Tony, for once, was quicker.

"Just a minute," he snapped, grabbing Danny’s by the shoulder the pulling him to a halt. "That waiting room’s been left open again. You’re responsible for locking it. There’s someone in there."

"Locked it teatime. No-one in there. Can’t be. Got to go." Danny twisted himself out of Tony’s grip and jumped aboard the train, closing the door firmly after him. Without waiting, the driver blew the horn and set off, leaving Tony fuming on the platform.

He glanced round at the waiting room. Perhaps he had imagined it. Just a trick of the smudgy moonlight, which was now almost gone. Better to just get in his car and go home. But his innate sense of duty forced him to walk slowly across the platform. He peered in at the windows. Nothing. Just blackness and shadows. Reassured, he set off towards the car park. But again a niggle of routine made him try the door handle as he passed the room. It turned. The door was open.

Sighing, he took a torch out of his uniform pocket and went in. Silence. Then, as the torch beam swept across the room, he saw a foot. He moved closer. The foot didn’t move. Nor did body of the little girl who owned it. She lay, curled up on the bench, her face pale as wax. And then her eyes opened and she screamed.

"It’s alright, it’s alright. Not going to hurt you." Tony stepped back hastily. "You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be out this time of night anyway. Why are you here? What’s your name?"

The girl stared at him. She clutched her coat tightly round her and eyed the door.

"Are you from the village? I’ve not seen you about before." Tony worried what to do; there were no phones nearby that he could use. "Tell me where you live, I’ll take you home," he offered.

"Sandra," the girl replied.

"Sandra? Is that the name of street you live on?"

"Sandra."

"It’s your name, is it?"

"Sandra."

No matter what he asked, the girl said no more.