Eight Stations and No Reliable Timetable

A discussion in the Senior Common Room

Mr Blottisham arrived carrying a railway timetable, a folded map and an expression of considerable displeasure.

"I have been studying these stories," he announced, placing the documents on the table. "And I have reached a conclusion."

Professor Quillibrace looked up from his tea.

"Already?"

"The railway system described in them is completely unfit for purpose."

Miss Stray smiled. "Which railway system, Mr Blottisham?"

"All of them. There are eight stations and not one can be relied upon. Trains arrive before they depart, platforms lead to places that don't exist, passengers are expected to find their own destinations, and in at least one instance there aren't any trains at all."

"An impressive catalogue," said Quillibrace. "You have omitted the possibility that the stories are not primarily about railway administration."

"I rather think that is precisely what is wrong with them."

Miss Stray took the timetable from the table.

"I wonder whether we should begin by noticing that the stations don't all behave in the same way."

Blottisham sighed.

"That is putting it mildly."

"In The Station That Was Waiting for Me, the station seems to reorganise itself around the traveller. The narrator arrives looking for a train, but gradually becomes part of the arrangement that makes the station work. By the end, he is giving directions to another passenger."

"Without knowing where he is!" Blottisham exclaimed. "The railway employee should have been dismissed."

"Perhaps," said Quillibrace, "but the station seems to have found him a position."

Miss Stray continued.

"The Platform for the Unchosen Train is rather different. There, the station seems to accommodate journeys that were never made. The places one might have reached, the lives one might have lived, are not simply imagined alternatives. They have acquired a sort of geographical presence."

Blottisham frowned.

"Are you suggesting that the railway operates trains to places people decided not to visit?"

"Not quite," said Miss Stray. "I think the more interesting question is whether a journey can remain part of someone's life even when it was never undertaken."

Quillibrace put down his cup.

"An inconvenient proposition for railway accountants."

"An inconvenient proposition for everybody," said Blottisham. "Imagine the timetable."

Miss Stray turned a page.

"Then there is The Platform Between Two Places. Here, the difficulty isn't quite the existence of places that were never visited. It's that the distance between places changes with the relationship between the people travelling."

"Distances don't change because people know one another," said Blottisham.

"Do they not?" asked Quillibrace. "Consider the distance between two people who have just met, and the distance between those who have spent a lifetime together."

"That is not a railway distance."

"Indeed. That may be why it is interesting."

Miss Stray nodded.

"The platform becomes a place that exists between two people, rather than simply between two geographical points. The journey is possible because they undertake it together."

Blottisham looked at the timetable again.

"I should like to see the railway company's definition of that."

"Possibly under special fares," said Quillibrace.

Miss Stray turned another page.

"The Last Train Had Already Arrived introduces something else. Time itself seems to lose its authority over the station. Arrivals and departures no longer establish a reliable sequence. The narrator encounters another version of himself, and the journey becomes difficult to distinguish from a return."

"That is intolerable," said Blottisham. "A train cannot have arrived before it has departed."

"Not ordinarily," said Quillibrace.

"Not ever!"

"Your confidence is reassuring."

Miss Stray looked thoughtful.

"I find it interesting that the story doesn't simply reverse time. It makes the distinction between arrival and departure uncertain. The train is travelling, but the question of where it is going becomes inseparable from where it has been."

Blottisham examined the timetable.

"I suppose that explains why the clocks don't agree."

"It may," said Quillibrace. "Or perhaps the clocks are simply having a difficult day."

Miss Stray continued.

"In The Passengers Who Knew My Name, the station seems to exist through recognition. The passengers know the narrator, but he doesn't know them. He may be the person they have been waiting for, or the person who has been waiting for them."

"That is a very peculiar way to operate a passenger service," Blottisham said.

"Yet it is rather different from the other stations," Miss Stray replied. "Here, the important thing isn't where the train goes, or even whether it arrives. It is who recognises whom."

Quillibrace nodded.

"An identity established by an encounter rather than by a ticket."

Blottisham looked distinctly unconvinced.

"I should prefer to have my identity printed on the ticket."

"That would certainly simplify matters."

Miss Stray reached the next story.

"The Station That Had No Trains is perhaps the most curious of all. There is no railway, yet the station works. Each passenger waits for something different, and what arrives is not necessarily a train. The woman's brother, the man's house, the girl's way home — each seems to find its own means of arrival."

"Then why call it a station?" demanded Blottisham.

"Because people come there expecting something to arrive," said Miss Stray.

"That is not sufficient to make a railway station."

"Perhaps not. But it may be sufficient to make a place of arrival."

Quillibrace regarded her for a moment.

"That distinction is worth keeping."

Blottisham sat back.

"I am beginning to suspect that none of these establishments has a proper railway licence."

Miss Stray ignored him.

"The Map of Stations That Never Existed changes the arrangement again. The map doesn't merely represent a network of places. The lines and the stations seem to come into existence through one another. The narrator draws a line, and a new station appears."

"That is cartographically unsound," Blottisham said.

"Undoubtedly," said Quillibrace.

"And the map tells him to draw another line!"

"An unusually demanding map."

Miss Stray smiled.

"But notice that the map isn't a fixed representation of a world already there. It participates in the making of the world it represents. The final station is not somewhere the narrator discovers. It is somewhere that becomes available through the act of drawing."

Quillibrace raised an eyebrow.

"One wonders what would happen if the Department of Transport were given such a map."

"Chaos," said Blottisham. "Absolute chaos."

"Perhaps," said Miss Stray. "Or rather more places to go."

There was a pause.

Quillibrace looked towards the final page.

"And the last station?"

"The Station at the End of the Line," said Miss Stray. "I think it brings the others into a rather different perspective. The station is supposedly the end, but the journey continues. The line doesn't simply extend into another geographical location. The very distinction between beginning and ending becomes uncertain."

"Then it isn't the end of the line," said Blottisham.

"That seems to be the point."

"Then it should not be called that!"

Quillibrace folded his newspaper.

"Mr Blottisham, I believe the railway has been trying to tell you something."

"That its signage is inadequate?"

"That an ending need not be a terminus."

Blottisham stared at him.

Miss Stray looked again at the eight titles.

"I wonder whether what makes these stories interesting is that each station has a different relationship with the person who arrives. One waits for someone. Another holds the journeys not taken. One makes distance uncertain; another makes time uncertain. Some depend on recognition, some on expectation, some on the act of mapping. And the last seems to question whether a journey can ever really be finished."

"Eight stations," said Quillibrace. "Eight different arrangements."

"And not one proper railway," said Blottisham.

Miss Stray smiled.

"Perhaps we should ask what makes a place a station in the first place."

"Tracks," said Blottisham.

"Passengers," said Miss Stray.

"Trains," said Blottisham.

"An expectation of departure or arrival," said Quillibrace.

Blottisham looked from one to the other.

"I see. We are now going to abolish railway stations."

"Not at all," said Quillibrace. "We are merely considering whether their existence depends on rather more than their architecture."

"Well, I shall not be travelling on one."

Miss Stray glanced at the timetable lying before him.

"Where does your train leave from, Mr Blottisham?"

"Platform Three."

"And where is Platform Three?"

He looked down at the timetable.

"Here, of course."

"Then perhaps you should go."

Blottisham gathered his papers hurriedly.

"I shall be writing to the railway authority."

"Do let us know what they say," Quillibrace replied.

"I shall."

He left the room.

Miss Stray watched the door close.

"Do you think he will find his train?"

Quillibrace returned to his tea.

"That depends, I imagine, on whether the train is looking for him."

Outside, somewhere in the distance, a whistle sounded.

Neither of them went to investigate.

The Station at the End of the Line

The station stood at the end of the line. The timetable said so, and the railway map confirmed it. Beyond the station there were no tracks, no signals, no further destinations. The line ended there.

I had travelled for most of the day to reach it.

There was no one on the platform when I arrived. A clock above the station entrance showed eleven minutes past four. The clock inside the waiting room showed twenty minutes to six. Neither seemed particularly concerned by the discrepancy.

I walked to the end of the platform.

The rails stopped abruptly at a low stone wall. Beyond it lay a wide, empty plain, pale beneath a colourless sky. I could see no road, no buildings, no trees. The horizon was perfectly straight.

I returned to the station and found the ticket office open.

"Is this the end of the line?" I asked.

The clerk looked at me over his spectacles.

"Which line?"

"The railway."

"Ah. Yes. That one."

He returned to his ledger.

"Then how do people get back?"

"Some do."

"And the others?"

He turned a page.

"They continue."

I waited for him to explain, but he had begun writing again.

In the waiting room I found three passengers. An elderly man was reading a newspaper whose pages were entirely blank. A young woman sat with a small suitcase between her feet. A child was drawing a railway line on the floor with a piece of chalk.

"Are you waiting for a train?" I asked the woman.

"No," she said. "I'm waiting for the line."

She looked towards the window.

"It has to come through here eventually."

The elderly man folded his newspaper.

"I've been waiting for the opposite direction," he said.

The child drew another line, crossing the first.

"Where does yours go?" I asked.

The child shrugged.

"Wherever it goes."

I went outside again. The plain beyond the wall had changed. There was now a narrow path leading away from the station, though I was certain it had not been there before.

I climbed over the wall and followed it.

After a short distance I looked back. The station was still visible, but the platform seemed to extend behind it, disappearing into the distance. I could see a train standing there, although the tracks on which it rested had not been present when I arrived.

A door opened in the side of the carriage.

A man stepped down.

He was carrying a suitcase identical to mine.

For a moment we stared at one another. Then he began walking towards me.

"You're late," he said.

"Have we met?"

"Not yet."

He glanced back at the train.

"I've come from the other end."

"Where is that?"

He considered the question.

"Further along, I suppose."

I looked towards the station. The child was standing on the platform now, drawing a line that extended beyond the end of the rails. The young woman was beside him. The elderly man had left his newspaper on the seat.

"Are you going back?" I asked.

The man with my suitcase shook his head.

"I've already been there."

He continued along the path. After a while, he became difficult to distinguish from the horizon.

I turned towards the station.

The train was gone. The tracks ended at the wall again. The clock above the entrance showed eleven minutes past four.

Inside, the ticket clerk was closing his ledger.

"One more question," I said. "If this really is the end of the line, what happens to the people who arrive here?"

He looked up.

"They get off."

"And then?"

He smiled faintly.

"Then the line continues without them."

I looked through the window. The child had finished his drawing. The chalk line crossed the platform, passed through the station wall and continued out into the plain.

At its far end he had drawn a small station.

"Is that where the line goes?" I asked.

The clerk followed my gaze.

"No," he said. "That's where it begins."

I bought a ticket. It had no destination printed on it, only a number and the words VALID FOR ONE JOURNEY.

When I stepped onto the platform, the child had disappeared. The young woman was still there, but her suitcase was gone.

"Has your line arrived?" I asked.

She nodded.

"Just now."

I looked down the platform. There was no train, no track beyond the wall, no sign of movement anywhere.

"Then why are you still here?"

She looked at me as though the answer were obvious.

"I'm waiting for you."

A whistle sounded somewhere beyond the station.

I turned towards it, but the woman had already begun walking. She passed through the station entrance and out onto the plain, following the chalk line.

I followed her.

Behind us, the station clock began to move. It passed four, then five, then six. The hands continued turning, but the station itself grew smaller until it was no more than a dark mark against the horizon.

Ahead of us, I could hear a train approaching.

I could not see the tracks.

I could not see where they were going.

But I knew, with a certainty I could not explain, that this time I would not miss it.

The Map of Stations That Never Existed

I found the map in a second-hand bookshop.

It was folded inside a railway timetable published in 1936, although the paper looked much older. There was no title, no publisher's mark and no indication of the country it represented.

It showed a railway network.

At first glance, the lines seemed ordinary enough: junctions, branches, sidings and stations, all carefully drawn in faded blue ink. But when I examined the names, I found that I recognised none of them.

There was a station called The Place Where We Met, another called The Road Not Taken, and a third whose name was simply A Little Further.

At the bottom of the map was a note:

Stations are shown in the order in which they become accessible.

I took the map home.

That evening I spread it across the table and examined it more closely. The railway lines did not obey any recognisable geography. Some crossed rivers without bridges, others passed through mountains without tunnels. One line circled a small blank space before disappearing into the margin.

I noticed that a station had been marked in pencil.

It was called HOME.

I had not noticed it before.

The following morning I decided to investigate.

I found a railway station at the end of a road I had never travelled. There were no signs outside, but the name above the entrance matched one on the map: THE PLACE WHERE WE MET.

I went inside.

The booking hall was empty. A timetable hung above the ticket windows, and a staircase led to the platforms.

I took out the map.

The station was marked at the end of a branch line, but the line continued beyond it, fading into the paper.

I climbed the stairs.

On the platform stood a woman carrying a red suitcase. She was looking at the timetable.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you know where this train goes?”

She glanced at the map in my hand.

“Where does it say?”

I showed her.

She shook her head.

“That's where it used to go.”

“And now?”

“Now it goes somewhere else.”

She pointed towards the end of the platform.

A train was approaching.

It stopped beside us, and she stepped aboard. Before the doors closed, she looked out of the window.

“Don't lose the map,” she said.

The train departed.

I looked down at the paper.

A new station had appeared.

It was called THE PLACE WHERE SHE WENT.

I followed the line with my finger. It ran eastwards, crossed another line, and ended at a small station marked THE LAST TIME.

I folded the map and put it away.

I had begun to feel that it was not merely showing me places.

Over the next few days I visited several of the stations.

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN was reached by a staircase behind a public library. Its platform was covered in fallen leaves, although there were no trees nearby. A train arrived carrying passengers who all seemed to be expecting someone else.

A LITTLE FURTHER was at the end of a corridor in a hotel. Its platforms extended in both directions, but the trains always stopped just beyond the point where I could see them clearly.

THE LAST TIME was a small station beside a river. There was no timetable, only a clock whose hands moved whenever someone remembered something.

Each time I visited a station, the map changed.

New lines appeared. Old ones vanished. Some stations moved, while others acquired additional platforms.

I began to suspect that the map was recording my journeys.

Then, one evening, I found a station that wasn't on it.

I was walking through a familiar part of town when I noticed a staircase descending beneath a railway bridge. I had passed the bridge many times, but had never seen the stairs.

At the bottom was a platform.

A sign read:

THE STATION OF THE UNMAPPED

I took out the map.

There was no station marked there.

I waited.

After a while, a train arrived. Its carriages were dark, and the windows reflected the platform. I could see myself standing there, holding the map.

The doors opened.

Inside, a man sat reading a newspaper.

He looked up.

“Have you brought it?” he asked.

“Brought what?”

“The map.”

I held it up.

He nodded.

“Good. We were wondering where you had got to.”

“Who are you?”

He folded his newspaper.

“I'm the person who drew it.”

I stepped aboard.

The carriage was almost empty. There were several seats, a small table and a window looking out onto a landscape I could not recognise.

“Why did you make the map?” I asked.

“To find the stations.”

“But how did you know where they were?”

He smiled.

“I didn't.”

“Then how could you draw them?”

“I drew the lines first.”

He opened a small leather case and took out a pencil.

“Stations appear where the lines meet.”

I looked at the map.

“Then the stations don't exist until someone draws them?”

He considered this.

“Some of them have existed for a very long time. Others are waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

He looked out of the window.

“For someone to arrive.”

The train began to move.

I examined the map again. A new line was appearing, running from the station where I had boarded towards a small blank space in the upper corner.

A station name slowly emerged.

It was mine.

I looked at the man.

“Where does this line go?”

He closed his leather case.

“That's for you to find out.”

The train stopped.

Outside was a small platform surrounded by trees. A sign above the entrance read HOME.

I looked at the map.

The station was still marked in pencil.

“Is this my destination?”

The man shook his head.

“It's where the map begins.”

I stepped onto the platform.

The train departed.

I stood alone beneath the trees, holding the map. The platform was empty except for a bench and a timetable. I sat down and unfolded the paper.

The railway network had changed again.

The lines now extended beyond the edges of the map, disappearing into the white margins. Several new stations had appeared, but their names were too faint to read.

I turned the map over.

On the reverse, in handwriting I recognised as my own, was a short instruction:

Draw the next line.

I looked around.

There was a path leading away from the platform. It had not been there when I arrived.

I took out my pencil.

On the map, I drew a line from HOME towards the edge of the paper.

A station appeared at the far end.

It was called THE PLACE WE HAVE NOT YET FOUND.

I put the pencil away.

Then I followed the path.

Behind me, somewhere among the trees, I heard a train whistle.

I did not turn around.

I had the curious feeling that the station was already on the map.

The Station That Had No Trains

I discovered the station while looking for a way out of the town.

I had been walking for some time, following a road that appeared on my map but seemed reluctant to lead anywhere. Eventually it brought me to a railway station.

The building was impressive, with a high glass roof, a broad concourse and a row of ticket windows. There were departure boards, platform signs and a large clock above the entrance.

There were no tracks.

I walked to the edge of the nearest platform and looked down. Beneath it lay a shallow garden, neatly planted with lavender and small white flowers. A narrow path wound between the beds and disappeared beneath the opposite platform.

A man in a railway uniform stood nearby.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Where are the trains?”

He looked at me with mild surprise.

“Trains?”

“Yes. I thought this was a railway station.”

“It is.”

“But there are no tracks.”

“Not at present.”

“Will they be installed?”

He considered this.

“That depends on whether anyone needs them.”

I looked towards the departure board. It was full of destinations, but every departure was marked ON TIME.

“Where do these trains go?”

“Wherever they're expected.”

“And when do they arrive?”

“When they're needed.”

I decided that the man was either a philosopher or a railway employee who had been in the job too long.

I walked along the platform.

There were several passengers waiting. An elderly woman held a birdcage. A young man was reading a book with no title. A little girl was drawing circles on the floor with a piece of chalk.

None of them seemed concerned by the absence of trains.

I sat beside the elderly woman.

“Have you been waiting long?” I asked.

She looked at the birdcage.

“Not as long as he has.”

The cage was empty.

“Who are you expecting?”

“My brother.”

“Is he arriving by train?”

She smiled.

“He always does.”

I looked at the empty cage again.

“Does he have a bird?”

“He used to.”

She returned to watching the platform.

A bell rang.

The passengers stood up.

I looked towards the tracks, but there was nothing there. The departure board changed. A destination appeared, then another, then a third. Finally the whole board went blank.

The little girl stopped drawing.

“It's coming,” she said.

“What is?” I asked.

She pointed towards the garden.

The flowers were moving.

Not in the wind. They were bending towards one another, their stems reaching across the beds until the white flowers touched. The lavender leaned over them, and the whole garden seemed to gather itself into a single shape.

Then I heard a sound.

A distant rumbling, followed by the familiar rhythm of wheels over rails.

I looked down.

The garden had become a railway line.

A train emerged from beneath the opposite platform. It was very old, with wooden carriages and brass fittings. It moved slowly, without a driver, and came to a stop beside us.

The doors opened.

The elderly woman stood up.

“That's him,” she said.

She stepped into the carriage.

I could see no one inside, but she appeared to be speaking to someone.

The doors closed.

The train departed, passing through the garden without disturbing a single flower.

The tracks disappeared.

The woman was gone.

I turned to the railway employee.

“What just happened?”

He adjusted his cap.

“Your train hasn't arrived yet.”

“But that train—”

“Was hers.”

I looked at the departure board. It had begun to display destinations again.

One of them was the town I had been trying to leave.

I pointed to it.

“Is that my train?”

The man shook his head.

“Not necessarily.”

“Why not?”

“Because you haven't decided where you're going.”

I looked at the board.

The town's name had disappeared.

In its place was a single word:

ELSEWHERE

I walked to the end of the platform, where a narrow passage led beneath the station building. It opened into a waiting room with a fireplace and several armchairs. A man sat beside the fire, reading a newspaper.

“Are there trains here?” I asked.

He lowered the newspaper.

“Not usually.”

“Then how do people leave?”

He looked at the empty fireplace.

“Some of them don't.”

I sat opposite him.

“Do you live here?”

He smiled.

“I'm waiting for my house.”

I looked at the newspaper. Its pages were covered with railway timetables, but the destinations were all names of people.

I recognised one.

It was mine.

“Why is my name on that?”

The man folded the paper.

“Because you've been here before.”

“I haven't.”

“Not this time.”

He returned to reading.

I stood up and went back to the platform.

The little girl was still there, drawing circles on the floor. Her drawing had grown into a complicated pattern of intersecting lines, loops and spirals. It looked rather like a railway map.

“What are you drawing?” I asked.

“A way home.”

“Where is home?”

She looked up.

“Wherever someone is waiting.”

I watched her add another line to the pattern.

“Does it go anywhere?”

She nodded.

“Everywhere.”

I thought about the woman and her brother, the empty birdcage, the man waiting for his house.

Perhaps the station was not a place where trains arrived and departed. Perhaps it was a place where people found what they had been waiting for, though not always in the form they expected.

I was still thinking about this when the railway employee approached.

“Your train is ready,” he said.

I looked around.

There were still no tracks.

“Where is it?”

He pointed towards the garden.

The flowers had moved apart, revealing a narrow path. At its end stood a door, painted blue.

I walked towards it.

“Is this the way out?” I asked.

The man nodded.

“Where does it go?”

“Home, I expect.”

I opened the door.

Beyond it was the road I had been following earlier. The town lay in the distance, and the afternoon sun was beginning to set.

I stepped outside.

When I turned around, the station had disappeared.

There was no building, no platform, no garden. Only a small wooden sign beside the road.

It read:

THE STATION THAT HAD NO TRAINS

Beneath the name, someone had written:

All departures are subject to the arrival of someone else.

I looked back towards the town.

A little girl was standing on the road, holding a piece of chalk.

She looked at me.

“Are you going somewhere?” she asked.

I considered the question.

“I think so.”

She smiled and drew a small circle on the ground.

“Then I'll wait here,” she said.

I walked on.

Behind me, I heard the sound of a train arriving.

The Passengers Who Knew My Name

I first noticed the station because the trains were stopping there.

I was walking beside the railway line one afternoon when I heard a whistle. A train emerged from a cutting, slowed, and stopped beside a platform I had never seen before.

There was no station building, only a shelter, a bench and a sign bearing the name of a town I did not recognise.

The doors opened.

A woman stepped down carrying a bouquet of flowers.

She looked directly at me.

“I'm sorry I'm late,” she said.

I had never seen her before.

“That's all right,” I replied, although I had no idea what she meant.

She looked towards the train.

“Are you expecting anyone else?”

“No.”

“Oh,” she said. “I thought you might be.”

She walked along the platform and sat on the bench. The train departed.

I watched it disappear into the cutting.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Where have you come from?”

She named a town several hundred miles away.

“And where are you going?”

She looked at the flowers.

“I'm not sure. I was told to get off here.”

“By whom?”

She hesitated.

“Someone who said you would be waiting.”

I glanced around the empty platform.

“I think there's been a mistake.”

She smiled.

“Perhaps.”

I decided to leave.

There was a footpath leading away from the station, but after a few minutes it brought me back to the platform. I tried the other direction, with the same result.

The woman was still sitting on the bench.

“Are you still here?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“But I thought you were leaving.”

“I was waiting for you.”

I looked at the railway line.

Another train was approaching.

It stopped beside the platform, and a man stepped down. He was carrying a small wooden box.

He looked at me.

“Ah,” he said. “There you are.”

I began to feel uncomfortable.

“Do I know you?”

“Not yet.”

He placed the box on the bench.

“Would you mind looking after this?”

“What is it?”

“Something I was asked to bring you.”

He opened the lid.

Inside lay a small brass key.

I picked it up.

It was warm.

“What does it open?” I asked.

The man looked towards the cutting.

“That depends on where you use it.”

He stepped back onto the train.

“Wait,” I called. “Who asked you to bring it?”

He smiled.

“You did.”

The doors closed.

The train departed.

I stood holding the key.

The woman with the flowers had gone.

The wooden box remained on the bench, but it was empty.

I turned it over. On the underside, someone had scratched a date into the wood.

It was tomorrow's date.

I looked at my watch.

The hands had stopped.

There was a sound behind me.

A door opening.

I turned.

The station shelter had acquired a door, though I was certain it had been open on all sides a moment earlier. It was painted green, with a small brass lock.

I tried the key.

It fitted.

Inside was a waiting room. There were two chairs, a table, and a large mirror. On the table lay a timetable.

I picked it up.

There were several departures listed. Each was headed by a name.

The first was the woman with the flowers.

The second was the man with the wooden box.

The third was my own name.

Beside it was a time: eleven minutes past midnight.

I looked at my watch.

It had started again.

The hands showed eleven minutes past midnight.

I heard a train approaching.

Through the mirror I could see the platform. A carriage was drawing in, and a passenger was standing at the window.

It was me.

Not someone who resembled me. Not a reflection. I could see the small scar above my left eyebrow, the way I held my shoulders, the familiar expression of someone who had been travelling too long.

The passenger looked towards the waiting room.

Then he smiled.

I turned towards the door.

It was locked.

I tried the key, but it would not turn.

The train stopped.

The doors opened.

I heard footsteps on the platform, approaching the shelter.

Someone knocked.

“Are you there?” a voice called.

I recognised it.

It was my own.

I did not answer.

The knocking stopped.

Then I heard the voice say:

“Never mind. I'll wait.”

I looked at the timetable again.

My departure time had changed.

It now read:

WHEN THE OTHER ONE ARRIVES.

I sat down.

The mirror showed the empty platform, the train standing with its doors open, and a man waiting beside the carriage.

He was holding a brass key.

I looked at the key in my hand.

It was gone.

The man in the mirror raised his hand and showed me the key.

Then he walked towards the waiting room.

I stood up.

The door opened.

I stepped outside.

The platform was empty. The train had departed. The shelter had returned to its former appearance, with no door, no waiting room and no mirror.

Only the bench remained.

On it lay a small bouquet of flowers.

I picked them up.

They were still fresh.

A train whistle sounded in the distance.

I looked towards the cutting, wondering whether I should wait.

Then I noticed a sign beside the platform that I had not seen before.

It read:

THIS STATION DOES NOT APPEAR ON ANY TIMETABLE. PASSENGERS SHOULD ALIGHT WHEN THEY RECOGNISE SOMEONE.

I put the flowers down.

I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was expected somewhere.

I just couldn't remember who was waiting.

The Last Train Had Already Arrived

I arrived at the station just as the last train was leaving.

At least, that was what the stationmaster told me.

“I'm afraid you've missed it,” he said, looking at his watch.

“But I haven't seen it.”

“You wouldn't.”

He pointed towards the far end of the concourse, where a pair of glass doors stood beneath a sign marked ARRIVALS.

“Your train came through there.”

I looked at the doors.

“That's the arrivals entrance.”

“Precisely.”

“But I haven't arrived.”

The stationmaster regarded me with an expression suggesting that this was a familiar difficulty.

“Not yet,” he said.

I decided to find the timetable.

It was displayed on a large board above the booking office. There were several departures listed, but all had the same destination: HERE. Their times were different, though some were marked yesterday and others tomorrow.

At the bottom of the board, in a smaller typeface, was a single announcement:

THE LAST TRAIN HAS ALREADY ARRIVED.

I asked the woman at the booking office whether she could tell me when it had departed.

She examined the timetable.

“That's difficult to say.”

“Why?”

“Because it hasn't left yet.”

“But the announcement says it has arrived.”

“Yes.”

“Then surely it must have departed.”

She smiled politely.

“Only if you intend to arrive somewhere else.”

I bought a ticket.

It was printed with a time, a platform number and a destination. The time was tomorrow morning, the platform was seventeen, and the destination was the station where I was standing.

I asked for another ticket.

The woman shook her head.

“You can't travel there twice.”

I went in search of Platform 17.

The stairs were at the far end of the concourse. I climbed them and found a corridor lined with doors. Each door had a small brass number. I passed 11, 12, 13, 14, 15 and 16.

There was no 17.

At the end of the corridor stood a mirror.

I looked into it and saw the concourse below, the booking office, and a man climbing the stairs.

He was carrying a suitcase.

I turned around.

The corridor was empty.

I looked into the mirror again.

The man had reached the top of the stairs. He looked tired. He stopped outside the door marked 16 and examined his ticket.

I recognised the suitcase.

It was mine.

I stepped closer to the mirror.

The man looked up.

For a moment we stared at one another. Then he smiled, opened the door marked 16 and disappeared.

I heard a train whistle.

Behind me, a door opened.

It was marked 17.

Beyond it lay a platform.

There was no roof, no station clock, and no tracks. Instead, a long flight of steps descended into a pale landscape. At the bottom stood a railway carriage with its doors open.

I began to descend.

The steps were uneven. Some were worn smooth, others seemed newly made. Halfway down, I noticed that the staircase was not fixed to anything. It continued upwards behind me, though I had been descending all the while.

I stopped.

A woman was standing on the step below.

“Are you going down?” she asked.

“I think so.”

“Then why have you stopped?”

“I was wondering where the staircase leads.”

She looked down.

“Wherever you leave it.”

She continued walking.

I followed her.

At the bottom, the railway carriage was waiting. The woman stepped inside and took a seat by the window. I followed.

The interior was familiar. I had travelled in this carriage many times, though I couldn't remember when. There was a small table between the seats, and on it lay a folded newspaper.

I picked it up.

The date was tomorrow.

The front page carried a photograph of the station concourse. In the foreground stood a man with a suitcase.

It was me.

I turned to the woman.

“Have you seen this?”

She glanced at the photograph.

“Of course.”

“Where?”

“On the platform.”

“But I haven't been there yet.”

She folded her hands.

“Perhaps you should read the newspaper.”

I opened it again.

Beneath the photograph was a short announcement:

The last train arrived this morning. Passengers are advised to collect their luggage before leaving the station.

I looked up.

The carriage had begun to move.

Outside the window, the landscape passed slowly. I saw a row of houses, a river, a bridge and a small station with a clock above its entrance.

Then I saw the station again.

And again.

Each time it was a little different. In one version the clock was missing. In another, the bridge crossed the railway line. In another, there was no river, only a long platform extending into the distance.

The woman watched the passing landscape.

“Do you know where we're going?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Back.”

“Back where?”

“To the beginning.”

I looked out of the window.

The station was approaching once more.

This time I could see the concourse through the glass doors. A man stood beneath the arrivals sign, holding a suitcase.

I recognised him.

He was looking towards the platform, waiting for someone.

The train slowed.

The woman stood up.

“Are you getting off?” I asked.

“I'm arriving.”

She stepped through the open doors.

I remained in my seat.

The train continued without her.

A few moments later it stopped again.

I looked out.

We were at the same platform, but the carriage doors opened onto the concourse. The stationmaster was waiting.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning.”

“I'm afraid you've missed the last train.”

I looked at my watch.

It was tomorrow morning.

“Has it arrived?”

He nodded.

“Some time ago.”

I stepped down from the carriage.

The stationmaster examined my ticket.

“Platform seventeen,” he said.

“That's right.”

“Did you find it?”

“Yes.”

He seemed relieved.

“Good. We were beginning to think you might not.”

I looked towards the glass doors.

A man was standing beneath the arrivals sign, holding a suitcase. He seemed tired, and rather uncertain.

I recognised the suitcase.

It was mine.

I began walking towards him.

The stationmaster called after me.

“Excuse me. Are you arriving or departing?”

I stopped.

I looked at the man beyond the glass doors. He looked up, and I saw that he was waiting for me.

“I'm not sure,” I said.

The stationmaster nodded.

“That's usually a good sign.”

I walked through the doors.

The man with the suitcase smiled.

“About time,” he said.

I looked back towards the concourse.

The stationmaster was no longer there. The doors had disappeared, and in their place was a long platform with a train standing beside it.

Its destination board displayed a single word:

HERE

The man picked up his suitcase.

“Shall we go?” he asked.

I looked at the train.

Then I looked at the station.

For the first time, I understood why the last train had already arrived.

It had been waiting for us to leave.

The Platform Between Two Places

The first thing I noticed was that the station had no opposite side.

I had arrived on Platform 4, although the train's destination board had displayed Platform 9. The conductor had assured me that this was quite normal, but when I asked him where Platform 9 was, he pointed through the window and said, “Over there, of course.”

There was nothing over there except another platform.

I stepped down onto the paving. A station sign read:

PLATFORM 4

Beneath it, in smaller letters:

THE OTHER SIDE IS NOT NECESSARILY OPPOSITE.

I looked across the tracks. A man stood on the opposite platform, holding a red umbrella. He was looking directly at me.

I raised my hand.

He raised his.

Then he walked away.

I decided to find the station entrance. There was a staircase at the far end of the platform, but it led down to a waiting room, and the waiting room had three doors. One was marked TICKETS, another REFRESHMENTS, and the third had no label.

I opened the third door.

It led onto Platform 4.

I was beginning to suspect that the station had been badly designed.

A woman was sitting on a bench. She had a small notebook open on her lap and was drawing something with a pencil.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Could you tell me how to leave the station?”

She looked up.

“Which station?”

“This one.”

She considered the question.

“Are you meeting someone?”

“No.”

“Then it may be difficult.”

I looked at the notebook. She had drawn two platforms, facing one another across a narrow space. Between them was a small black square.

“What is that?” I asked.

“The place where they meet.”

“But the platforms are opposite one another.”

“Are they?”

She closed the notebook.

“Have you tried looking at the other platform?”

“I have.”

“No,” she said. “You looked at your platform.”

She stood and walked towards the end of the bench. I followed her through a passage that seemed to narrow as we approached it. At the far end was a staircase.

“Where does that go?” I asked.

“To the other side.”

I descended.

At the bottom I found myself standing on Platform 9.

The man with the red umbrella was there.

He looked surprised to see me.

“Ah,” he said. “You've come across.”

“I suppose I have.”

He glanced at the tracks.

“It's a long way, isn't it?”

I looked around. The two platforms appeared to be separated by no more than a few metres.

“Not particularly.”

He shook his head.

“From here, it is.”

He opened his umbrella, although there was no rain, and walked towards the far end of the platform.

I followed him.

The platform stretched ahead of us. It seemed to lengthen with every step. The man remained just within sight, his red umbrella moving steadily away.

I began to hurry.

The platform lengthened again.

Eventually I stopped.

The man stopped too.

He turned and looked at me.

“There's no point trying to catch up,” he called.

“Why not?”

“Because you're still looking at me from where you were.”

I looked down at the paving. The tiles were numbered. I was standing on tile 47. A few metres ahead, the man stood on tile 12.

I walked backwards.

The numbers decreased.

When I reached tile 12, the man was standing beside me.

“That's better,” he said.

We looked around.

The platform was now quite short. At one end stood a staircase; at the other, a ticket office.

“Do you know where we are?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“I thought you did.”

“Why?”

“You seemed to know how to get here.”

He smiled.

“I've been here before. But not with you.”

He pointed towards the ticket office.

“Perhaps we should ask.”

Inside, a clerk sat behind a glass screen. He appeared to be asleep.

I knocked.

He opened one eye.

“Two tickets, please,” I said.

“Where to?”

I looked at the man with the umbrella.

He looked at me.

“Together,” he said.

The clerk frowned.

“That's not a destination.”

“It's where we're going,” I said.

The clerk took two tickets from a drawer and passed them beneath the glass.

They were blank.

“Which train?” I asked.

“Any train that stops here.”

“But how will we know?”

The clerk closed his eye again.

“You'll know when it arrives.”

We returned to the platform.

There was now a train standing beside it. Its doors were open, and the windows showed a landscape of green fields beneath a pale sky.

The man with the umbrella stepped aboard.

I followed.

Inside, the carriage was empty except for two seats facing one another. We sat down.

The train began to move.

Through the window I could see the station receding. Platform 9 curved away to the left; Platform 4 curved away to the right. They seemed to circle one another, growing smaller until they became a single narrow line.

“Where do you think we're going?” I asked.

The man folded his umbrella.

“I don't know.”

“Do you mind?”

He thought about it.

“Not if you're here.”

I looked out of the window.

The landscape had changed. We were passing through a town I recognised, although I had never visited it. There was a church with a square tower, a row of houses with blue doors, and a river crossed by a stone bridge.

I had seen these things before.

Not in a picture, or a dream. I had seen them from the other side of the river, looking towards the town.

The man was watching me.

“Do you know this place?” he asked.

“I think so.”

He nodded.

“Then perhaps we're nearly there.”

The train slowed.

Outside, a station sign appeared.

PLATFORM BETWEEN

The doors opened.

The man stood up, but I remained seated.

“Are you getting off?” he asked.

“I don't know. Is this your station?”

He looked at the sign.

“I thought it was yours.”

For a moment neither of us moved.

Then the doors began to close.

I stood up quickly, and we stepped onto the platform together.

The train departed.

There was no station building, no timetable, no staircase. Only a bench and a small signpost bearing two arrows.

One pointed towards the town.

The other pointed towards the river.

The man with the red umbrella looked at me.

“Which way?”

I looked at the two arrows.

“Perhaps we should go together.”

He smiled.

We walked towards the river.

After a little while I turned to look back, but the platform had disappeared. The station was nowhere to be seen.

I stopped.

“Do you think we can find our way back?”

The man opened his umbrella.

“Back to where?”

I looked at the river, and then at the town on the opposite bank.

I couldn't remember which of us had arrived first.

“Never mind,” I said.

We continued walking.

And for the first time since I had arrived at the station, I knew exactly where I was.

The Platform for the Unchosen Train

I found the platform by accident.

I had been looking for the station exit, having arrived on a train whose destination I had forgotten. The main concourse was deserted, and the signs seemed determined to send me in circles. Eventually I found a narrow passage behind a vending machine. It ended at a door marked PLATFORM 0.

I opened it.

The platform was quite ordinary. There was a bench, a litter bin and a clock. Beyond the edge, however, there were no tracks. Instead, a narrow path descended through a landscape of grey stone, disappearing beneath an archway.

A timetable was fixed to the wall.

There was only one departure.

THE TRAIN YOU DID NOT TAKE

Destination: Not shown

Departure: When ready

Platform: 0

I sat on the bench.

After a while, a woman came through the door carrying a small suitcase. She looked around, then sat at the other end of the bench.

“Is this the right platform?” she asked.

“I believe so.”

“Are you waiting for the train?”

“Yes.”

She considered this.

“I thought I had missed it.”

“Has it been?”

“I don't know. I was supposed to take it years ago.”

She opened her suitcase. Inside was a folded coat, a book, and a small glass jar containing what looked like rainwater.

“Where were you going?” I asked.

She looked at me with some surprise.

“I don't remember.”

She closed the suitcase.

We waited.

The clock moved backwards by one minute.

Then it moved forwards by three.

I got up and walked to the end of the platform. The path beneath the archway seemed to descend further than the surrounding landscape allowed. I could see a small station in the distance, with a platform and a train standing beside it.

The train was empty.

I turned back to tell the woman, but she had gone.

Her suitcase remained on the bench.

I opened it. The coat and book were still there, but the jar was empty. On the bottom of the suitcase lay a ticket bearing my name.

I had never seen it before.

The destination was the name of a town where I had once intended to live. I had been offered a position there many years ago, but had declined it. I had not thought about the matter for a long time.

The ticket was dated the day I had made my decision.

I looked towards the distant station.

The train was still there.

I began walking down the path.

The archway grew larger as I approached it, though the station beyond it seemed to remain at the same distance. When I passed beneath it, I found myself on a staircase leading upwards.

At the top was another platform.

It was the same platform I had just left, but the bench stood on the opposite side, and the clock showed a different time.

A man was sitting there reading a newspaper.

I recognised him.

He was me, or someone who might have been me. He looked younger, and wore a coat I had once owned. Beside him stood a suitcase.

I approached.

“Excuse me,” I said.

He looked up.

“Yes?”

“Are you waiting for a train?”

He glanced at the timetable.

“I think so.”

“Where are you going?”

He smiled.

“I'm not sure yet.”

I looked at the suitcase. It was the same one I had found on the other platform.

“Have you been here long?”

“Not really. I only just arrived.”

I wanted to tell him something. I wanted to explain about the ticket, the woman, the train and the town. But I could not find a way to begin.

He returned to his newspaper.

I noticed that the pages were blank.

“Do you know,” I said, “whether the train has been?”

He looked up again.

“Which train?”

“The one we didn't take.”

He folded the newspaper.

“Perhaps it hasn't arrived yet.”

We stood together at the edge of the platform.

Below us, the grey path had become a railway line. A train was approaching, though it seemed to be travelling away from us. Its carriages passed beneath the platform, one after another, without disturbing the stone.

In the windows I saw brief scenes: a house I had never lived in; a garden I had never planted; a woman whose face I almost recognised; a room in which a fire was burning.

Then the train was gone.

My younger self picked up his suitcase.

“Are you coming?” he asked.

I looked at the ticket in my hand.

“I don't think I can.”

He nodded, as though he had expected this.

“Then perhaps I'll go alone.”

He walked towards the end of the platform and disappeared beneath the archway.

I remained where I was.

The clock began to move normally.

A train arrived on the platform, its doors opening with a familiar sigh. I could see the station concourse through its windows. The vending machine stood beside the passage. The exit signs pointed towards the street.

I stepped aboard.

As the train pulled away, I looked back through the window.

The platform was empty.

Then, just before it disappeared, I saw a woman sitting on the bench with a small suitcase. She was holding a glass jar up to the light.

I wondered where she was going.

I wondered whether she had already arrived.

I took the ticket from my pocket.

The destination had disappeared.

On the reverse, someone had written:

There are no trains to the places we did not go.

I read it twice.

Then I turned it over again.

The words had changed.

There are no places we did not go.

I put the ticket away.

The train continued into the dark, and I could no longer tell whether we were approaching the next station or leaving the last one.

The Station That Was Waiting for Me

I arrived at the station shortly before midnight.

I had never been there before, although something about the entrance seemed familiar. The clock above it showed eleven minutes past nine. My watch showed eleven minutes past midnight. I assumed the station clock had stopped.

Inside, I found a long booking hall with a vaulted ceiling and a row of ticket windows. All were closed except the last, where a woman sat reading a newspaper.

“I'd like a ticket,” I said.

“Where to?”

I gave her the name of the town I was travelling to.

She looked at me over the top of her newspaper.

“You'll need to know where you're starting from.”

“Here, surely.”

She glanced towards the hall.

“Are you certain?”

I turned to look. The entrance was no longer visible. In its place stood a flight of stairs descending into darkness.

“I came in that way,” I said.

“Of course,” she replied. “But that doesn't necessarily mean you came from there.”

She pushed a ticket beneath the glass. It had no destination printed on it, only a platform number.

“Platform twelve,” she said.

“Where is that?”

“Upstairs.”

I looked towards the stairs.

“Those go down.”

“Not from here.”

I took the ticket and walked towards them.

The stairs descended for what seemed a considerable distance. At the bottom I found another booking hall, almost identical to the first, except that its clock showed eleven minutes past nine and its ticket windows were all open.

A man stood behind one of them.

“Platform twelve?” I asked.

He pointed towards a corridor.

“Straight ahead. Then turn left.”

The corridor was long and narrow. At the far end I turned left, as instructed, and found myself at the top of the same staircase.

I went down again.

This time the booking hall was empty. The clocks had disappeared, and the walls were covered with old railway posters advertising places I did not recognise. One showed a seaside town beneath the words A PLACE YOU HAVE ALREADY LEFT. Another depicted a mountain railway with the announcement ALL TRAINS ARRIVE FROM THE SAME DIRECTION.

I continued along the corridor.

It opened onto a platform.

There were no tracks, only a broad expanse of polished stone extending into the distance. A bench stood beside a timetable. I sat down and examined the ticket.

Platform twelve.

The timetable listed a train to my destination, due at eleven minutes past nine.

I looked at my watch. It was eleven minutes past midnight.

A train arrived without making a sound.

It had no visible driver. Its windows were dark, but I could see the interior reflected in them: the platform, the bench, the timetable, and myself sitting with my ticket in my hand.

The doors opened.

I stood up.

Before I could board, a man stepped down from the train. He carried a small suitcase and looked rather tired.

“Is this the station?” he asked.

“I think so.”

“Good. I've been trying to find it for some time.”

He looked around.

“Do you know where the booking hall is?”

I pointed towards the corridor.

“Down there. Then turn right.”

He thanked me and disappeared into the train.

The doors closed. The train departed.

I watched it recede into the distance. For a moment I thought I could see the man sitting by a window, looking out at me.

Then I noticed that the platform was changing.

The polished stone had become railway sleepers. The bench stood between two tracks. Beyond them, another platform stretched away, and on it stood a figure holding a suitcase.

I recognised the figure.

It was me.

I stood up and walked towards the tracks. The other me remained perfectly still.

A train passed between us, although I heard no sound and felt no movement of air. When it had gone, the other platform was empty.

I looked down at my ticket again.

On the reverse, in small lettering, was a message:

PLEASE REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE. YOUR TRAIN WILL FIND YOU.

I decided to follow the instruction.

After a while, I heard footsteps approaching along the platform. A woman came towards me carrying a newspaper.

She stopped beside the bench.

“Have you been waiting long?” she asked.

“I'm not sure.”

“Are you waiting for a train?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must be at the right station.”

She sat down and opened her newspaper.

I noticed that it was the same newspaper I had seen at the ticket window. The pages were blank.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you know where this station is?”

She folded the newspaper.

“It's wherever you arrive.”

“And where does it go?”

She looked towards the tracks.

“That's not for the station to decide.”

I wanted to ask her what she meant, but the sound of an approaching train interrupted us.

It came slowly, with its lights shining into the distance. As it drew level with the platform, I saw that every carriage was empty.

The doors opened.

The woman stood up.

“Are you coming?” she asked.

I looked at the train, then at the platform.

“Where does it go?”

She smiled.

“I'm getting off.”

She stepped aboard.

The doors closed, and the train departed.

I was alone again.

I looked at my watch. It was eleven minutes past nine.

At the far end of the platform, a sign had appeared.

EXIT

I walked towards it. The sign stood above a doorway, and beyond the doorway I could see the booking hall where I had first bought my ticket.

I went through.

The woman was still sitting behind the last ticket window, reading her newspaper.

“I've been waiting for my train,” I said.

She looked up.

“Have you?”

“Yes. But I don't think it came.”

“Perhaps it did.”

She put down the newspaper and held out her hand.

“Your ticket, please.”

I gave it to her.

She examined it, then nodded.

“That's all right. You're here.”

“Here?”

She gestured towards the booking hall.

“Where you started.”

I looked behind me. The doorway had disappeared. In its place was a staircase descending into darkness.

“But I came from the platform.”

“Of course.”

“And the platform was reached by going down the stairs.”

“Quite right.”

I hesitated.

“Then where am I?”

The woman returned to her newspaper.

“That's a question for the next passenger.”

I turned towards the entrance.

There was a man standing there with a small suitcase. He looked tired, and seemed uncertain whether he had arrived or was about to leave.

He glanced at me.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Could you tell me where I can find the ticket office?”

I looked towards the woman behind the glass.

Then I looked at the man.

“Certainly,” I said. “It's just down the stairs.”

He thanked me and began to walk.

I watched him disappear.

Then I noticed that the station clock had started moving.

It was eleven minutes past midnight.