‘The twenty-fifty-seven service to Liverpool Lime Street is delayed by approximately seventy-eight minutes. We apologise for any inconvenience this may cause you.’ Great - a fantastic early Christmas present; you really shouldn’t have National Rail.
Slumping down on the cold wooden bench, Jim lets out a heavy sigh, breath clouding in the freezing air. Lifting the scarf over his frozen nose, the fibers pull on his stubbly cheeks. His cold-raw ears would have to defend for themselves.
The station was eerily quiet and almost deserted. A few fellow Christmas Eve stragglers, frozen and frustrated, were waiting for their respective trains. The silence was lifted by a soft whistling. Jim recognised it as the chorus of Santa Claus Is Coming To Town and with a clomp of black boots and a gentle tinkle of the silver bells on the side of his rucksack, the whistler makes his way over to the bench.
The chubby figure looked about sixty and a little over six-foot. On his back he was carrying a big rucksack that looked close to burst and despite his age, he showed no sign of struggling with it. Now making a start on Jingle Bells, he places his jingling rucksack gently on the floor, propping it up against the bench. With a tired groan, he lands heavily next to Jim.
‘Ah. It’s good to rest these ol’ bones!’ He rubs his naked hands together quickly, blowing hard into them. Jim looks at the old man’s wrinkled hands. His hands must be freezing! Where’re his gloves?
Jim smiles. With his bushy eyebrows and short white beard, the old man reminded him of a cross between his grandfather and Brian Blessed. ‘Sounds like you’re having a pleasant Christmas Eve.’
The old man pulls back the hood of his scuffed red jacket and turns his bright, smiling eyes on Jim. ‘Indeed I am, my good sir! A finer day you could not find on any calendar! All men smile a little easier on this day... Except when waiting for a delayed train, eh? Ha, ha! Ho, ho!’ The old man laughs heartily and pats Jim on the shoulder.
Smiling back, Jim offers his hand. ‘The name’s Jim.’
The old man takes Jim’s hand and shakes it firmly. ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance Jim, m’boy! You may call me Chris.’ Chris then reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a tall thermos.
Jim’s mouth falls open. ‘How did you do that?! That pocket is far too small to have had that thermos in it!’
Chris smiles and taps the side of his nose. ‘A secret.’ And proceeds to pour a steaming, creamy brown liquid into a little plastic cup and hands it to Jim. ‘Drink up. You’ll feel all the warmer for it I guarantee.’
Slightly dumbstruck, Jim takes the cup of hot chocolate in his gloved hands. Its sweet smell fills his senses reminding him of Christmases long past. ‘Are you sure? Thank you. Mmm... This is fantastic.’ The warmth from the drink fills his body, rushing to his fingers and toes.
The old man beams with pride. ‘It’s my own recipe. And think nothing of it, lad. Consider it a Christmas present. I have plenty of it to tide me over and I have a long night ahead of me.’
Jim drains the small cup of its sweet contents, relishing the gentle burn forming on the roof of his mouth and hands the cup back to Chris. A pang of sadness rises as the warm cup leaves his hands. ‘You’re working Christmas Eve? I hope you’re getting a decent rate!’
Slumping down on the cold wooden bench, Jim lets out a heavy sigh, breath clouding in the freezing air. Lifting the scarf over his frozen nose, the fibers pull on his stubbly cheeks. His cold-raw ears would have to defend for themselves.
The station was eerily quiet and almost deserted. A few fellow Christmas Eve stragglers, frozen and frustrated, were waiting for their respective trains. The silence was lifted by a soft whistling. Jim recognised it as the chorus of Santa Claus Is Coming To Town and with a clomp of black boots and a gentle tinkle of the silver bells on the side of his rucksack, the whistler makes his way over to the bench.
The chubby figure looked about sixty and a little over six-foot. On his back he was carrying a big rucksack that looked close to burst and despite his age, he showed no sign of struggling with it. Now making a start on Jingle Bells, he places his jingling rucksack gently on the floor, propping it up against the bench. With a tired groan, he lands heavily next to Jim.
‘Ah. It’s good to rest these ol’ bones!’ He rubs his naked hands together quickly, blowing hard into them. Jim looks at the old man’s wrinkled hands. His hands must be freezing! Where’re his gloves?
Jim smiles. With his bushy eyebrows and short white beard, the old man reminded him of a cross between his grandfather and Brian Blessed. ‘Sounds like you’re having a pleasant Christmas Eve.’
The old man pulls back the hood of his scuffed red jacket and turns his bright, smiling eyes on Jim. ‘Indeed I am, my good sir! A finer day you could not find on any calendar! All men smile a little easier on this day... Except when waiting for a delayed train, eh? Ha, ha! Ho, ho!’ The old man laughs heartily and pats Jim on the shoulder.
Smiling back, Jim offers his hand. ‘The name’s Jim.’
The old man takes Jim’s hand and shakes it firmly. ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance Jim, m’boy! You may call me Chris.’ Chris then reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a tall thermos.
Jim’s mouth falls open. ‘How did you do that?! That pocket is far too small to have had that thermos in it!’
Chris smiles and taps the side of his nose. ‘A secret.’ And proceeds to pour a steaming, creamy brown liquid into a little plastic cup and hands it to Jim. ‘Drink up. You’ll feel all the warmer for it I guarantee.’
Slightly dumbstruck, Jim takes the cup of hot chocolate in his gloved hands. Its sweet smell fills his senses reminding him of Christmases long past. ‘Are you sure? Thank you. Mmm... This is fantastic.’ The warmth from the drink fills his body, rushing to his fingers and toes.
The old man beams with pride. ‘It’s my own recipe. And think nothing of it, lad. Consider it a Christmas present. I have plenty of it to tide me over and I have a long night ahead of me.’
Jim drains the small cup of its sweet contents, relishing the gentle burn forming on the roof of his mouth and hands the cup back to Chris. A pang of sadness rises as the warm cup leaves his hands. ‘You’re working Christmas Eve? I hope you’re getting a decent rate!’
‘The train now approaching platform three is the delayed twenty-fifty-seven service to Liverpool Lime Street. Calling at Stalybridge, Manchester Piccadilly...’
Jim rises from the wooden seat, his rear end both aching and numb from the wait. He looks down at Chris and sees him rubbing his hands together. Jim looks at his own thickly gloved hands, and pulls off his black woolen gloves, holding them out to the old man. ‘Here, Chris. Take these.’
‘Jim, I couldn’t possibly!’
Jim smiles. ‘If you are working Christmas Eve, you’re gonna need ‘em a lot more than me!’
‘But... But...’
Jim rises from the wooden seat, his rear end both aching and numb from the wait. He looks down at Chris and sees him rubbing his hands together. Jim looks at his own thickly gloved hands, and pulls off his black woolen gloves, holding them out to the old man. ‘Here, Chris. Take these.’
‘Jim, I couldn’t possibly!’
Jim smiles. ‘If you are working Christmas Eve, you’re gonna need ‘em a lot more than me!’
‘But... But...’
Jim takes the old man’s hands and places the gloves firmly in them. ‘Consider it a Christmas present.’
The old man sighs and with a grin, takes the gloves. ‘Thank you.’
The train doors bleep and open. ‘Right. This is me. Take care, Chris.’
Chris pulls on the gloves. ‘You too, m’boy.’
The pair shake hands once more and Jim hops on to his train. The carriage empty, Jim takes a window seat with a table. He stares at the old man and looks on enviously as he swigs a fresh cup of steaming hot chocolate. The engine groans to a crescendo and with a freshly gloved hand, Chris waves to Jim. With a smile, Jim waves back with the unshakeable feeling that he’ll see Chris again.
The old man sighs and with a grin, takes the gloves. ‘Thank you.’
The train doors bleep and open. ‘Right. This is me. Take care, Chris.’
Chris pulls on the gloves. ‘You too, m’boy.’
The pair shake hands once more and Jim hops on to his train. The carriage empty, Jim takes a window seat with a table. He stares at the old man and looks on enviously as he swigs a fresh cup of steaming hot chocolate. The engine groans to a crescendo and with a freshly gloved hand, Chris waves to Jim. With a smile, Jim waves back with the unshakeable feeling that he’ll see Chris again.
