This
story received a Judge's Choice Award in the Toronto
Star's short story contest of 1990.
Personal
note: While the characters and story are pure fiction - written at
the time the Canadian Government was cutting passenger service on
the railroad - the personality of Molly is, in my mind at least, a
fairly faithful representation of my maternal grandmother, Alice Faye
MacDonald.
Molly
Kauffman, an elderly lady with more extra pounds than her doctor liked
and vast webs of varicose veins, ceased walking to shift her bulging
purse from the left to the right hand. When she was satisfied, she
resumed trudging along the uneven sidewalk until she reached the path
leading to the tiny railway station. The path wasn’t the main
sidewalk; it was a narrow strip of dirt worn hard over years of use,
and it cut its straight channel across the grass that Mr. Weaver kept
neatly manicured.
Molly
had taken this path at least twice a week for as long as anyone could
remember. She preferred to do her shopping in a larger town. In fact,
she had always felt she was a little too good for the village. After
all, her father was a well-to-do land-owner in England. She could
have had her choice of any number of eligible young men. Why she allowed
a brash young soldier from Canada to sweep her off her feet...? But
she had never regretted her choice of the man. His country was a different
matter!
Today,
Molly’s step was slower than usual, approaching the reluctant
walk of a prisoner facing his execution in the days before murder
in Canada became a slightly less onerous crime. But the path was not
that long, so in a short space of time Molly found herself on the
platform at the back of the station.
She
shifted the purse again, and made her way heavily to the small window
where Mr. Weaver’s charcoal head could usually be found relaxing
with the current month’s crossword puzzle digest.
Molly
watched him. He shifted and said, “Be one minute. Need a seven
letter word for ‘ignorant.’"
“Government,”
she said in her high-pitched voice.
“That’s
more than seven letters,” Mr. Weaver said as he set the magazine
face down on the old desk and stood up. He walked over to the small
window. His name was Joe, but no one had called him that for at least
eighteen years. Not since his wife died.
“What’ll
it be?” he asked.
“Ticket,”
she replied.
"Where
to?” he countered, and they continued the worn conversation,
as if Mr. Weaver didn’t know where Molly wanted to go, where
Molly always went.
At
last, ticket purchased and held in her arthritic fingers, she stood
on the platform and waited. From time to time she shifted the purse,
for the weight of it made her shoulders and back ache.
She
was not alone on the platform. Pete Grumanski was there, sitting on
the weather-beaten bench against the station wall, smoking his pipe,
his hands and face gnarled and permanently darkened from the farm
work he’d done for sixty-odd years. Tom Bridges was there, too,
all dressed up in a brown tweed sports jacket and grey pants. Tom
had been a conductor on the train for forty years, until his retirement
several years ago. His wife had been so pleased to have him at home
with her for a change! Now Tom stood alone near the tracks at the
end of the platform, looking down the long lines of iron as if seeing
the countless trains of his past.
And
there were a few others. Sightseers. A family with young children. Molly
heard the father say to the mother, “They’ll always remember
this.”
Molly
sniffed to herself. Her mind dropped years as she remembered sitting
in a buggy with a fancy canvas top. She was wearing a long dress with
crinolines. Everything was fine until suddenly a steam engine sped
by on the neighbouring tracks, and the horse shied and nearly broke
free with fear. She remembered her father swearing and, with fist
raised after the long-departed train, declaring, “I won’t
forget that!” Then he turned to Molly and said, “Those monstrous
devils! Don’t you ever go in one of them!” That was a long
time ago. Molly had forgotten all about it. She would have been seven
then, for she was ninety-one now.
And
now, after all those years when she had depended on this passenger train,
the VIA rail had decided it was expendable.
A long,
low whistle brought the group to attention. Molly shifted her purse
for the last time and took a step closer to the tracks. Pete removed
his pipe, stared at it hard for a minute, then knocked it against
the bench before carefully fitting it into his jacket pocket. Tom
continued to stare down the tracks, his hands clenched tightly at
his sides.
The
mother of the family with young children gathered her little ones together
as a hen would gather chicks. Until the train had stopped, they remained
in a tight circle.
The
rest of the onlookers, none of whom Molly knew except by sight, just
waited.
Mr.
Wheeler stood and put a black jacket over his shirt and vest. He came
out of his tiny office and carefully locked the door. He turned and
stood waiting.
Ed Sawchuk
got out of the second last car and put down the steps.
Then,
as if by mutual consent, Molly led the way.
She
allowed Ed to assist her in climbing the three steps up to the back
of the car. Clutching at the seats, she waddled from side to side
as she made her way to the fifth seat on the right, against the window.
Mr.
Wheeler came in with Ed Sawchuck and stood against the window next
to the door. Pete went to the very front seat. The others distributed
themselves about the car.
Ed carried
out the ticket-gathering ritual. Pete made his usual joke, accusing
Ed of “breaking his train of thought” by asking for the
ticket. Today, no one smiled, not even Pete.
The
whistle blew, and the train started.
Molly
remembered another old joke she’d often heard Pete use on Mr. Wheeler.
Pete had always accused him of being afraid to ride trains, and said
that was why he was the stationmaster and not a conductor. But, today,
Mr. Wheeler had become a passenger.
The
train picked up speed and flew along the farmyards, groves of trees,
and small hamlets of south-eastern Ontario. Sugar maples appeared
in all their crimson glory, and other trees added their golden and
russet hues. The sightseers on board talked about the beauty of the
countryside flashing by, and thought but little of the clickety-clack
of the rails beneath their feet, which was central in Tom Bridge’s
mind.
But
Molly’s thought were none of these. She was remembering other times
she had taken this ride. The time she was going to Sam Porter’s
funeral and the train had been late. The time she bought new clothes
when her son, Bob, was given a bonus and sent a good share of it to
her as a kind of payment for all the hard work she had done cleaning
houses so he could get an education. The many times she had gone with
her husband Roy, who couldn’t see well enough to drive a car because
of his war wounds, and who always made the trip seem like a lark.
And
before that, when they’d come here from Halifax after the war,
and the train had been full of laughing soldiers and their young wives,
all looking for a better life now that peace had come. They had all
had their dreams, then.
She
remembered how shocked she felt as a young war-bride being overwhelmed,
first by the vastness of this enormous, rugged country, and then by
the isolation of the little village Roy called home. And there’d
been no moving him.
The
compromise was that she could go twice a week into Peterborough and
once a month into Toronto. She came to think of the rails as her link
with sanity.
The
forty-two kilometers (twenty-five miles to Molly) flew by, and the train
gave a long whistle and then slowed as it approached the Peterborough
station. The people in the passenger car sat there, staring out, conversations
ended in mid-sentence.
The
train came to a noisy, rumbling halt in front of the station.
For
a long moment, no one moved.
Molly
fumbled inside her purse for a handkerchief. When she found it--a
man’s white one, frayed and yellowed, with a barely legible embroidered
monogram saying R.K. in one corner--she blew her nose.
Ed
was already putting down the steps. Mr. Weaver sat alone, staring into
space. So did Tom. The family with the young children bustled about
and laughed and chattered, as did the other, younger passengers. Noisily,
the others left, but the four old people lingered.
Finally,
Ed came inside and coughed.
As
if a spell had been broken, Pete stood up. His hands trembled as he
began to walk down the aisle, clutching at each seat as he passed. He
came up level to Molly’s seat, and said, “Well, old girl,
I guess now she’s officially put out to pasture.”
Molly
sniffed and refrained from answering. She had never been friendly
to Pete or any of the farm workers, and she wasn’t about to encourage
him now.
Tom
got up. He left his seat and walked down the aisle, but his eyes were
sightless, his movements purely instinct.
Mr.
Weaver stood, turned, and went through the door.
With
a last glance at Molly, Pete followed.
Ed came
to help Molly out of her seat. She was breathing hard, and leaned
heavily on his arm, almost stumbling as she made her way down the
steps.
Then
they stood on the platform, each lost in his or her own thoughts.
Tom
finally broke the silence by walked over to touch the rough side of
the car. “She was a great one, she was,” he said to himself.
“I’ll
sure miss her,” Mr. Weaver said quietly.
Molly
unashamedly wiped tears from her flowing eyes.
Pete
sniffed a couple of times before pulling out a cheap red handkerchief.
He took a swipe at his eyes before blowing his nose.
Ed
put up the steps and stood there, unsure of his role. He was forty-eight,
and for him, there would be another job, perhaps a more demanding, more
interesting one. But at this moment he felt he was participating in
the funeral of a very dear friend, and he himself, though he had a part,
was really a stranger.
When
he judged it time, he walked down to the engine and quietly told Frank
Rawlins to take the small train off the tracks and drop the passenger
car in its assigned location. Then the engine could hook up to a freight
train.
The
train chugged slowly away, and the four still left on the platform watched
it go. When it was out of sight, Tom began to walk away. Halfway to
the sidewalk he stopped, looked back as if weighing something, and then
returned to offer his arm to Molly. Surprised, she shifted her purse
to the left arm and placed arthritic fingers against the rough tweed
of his suit jacket.
Pete
fell into step. Molly glared at him, about to ask where he thought
he was going, but for some reason held her tongue.
The
three covered about twenty metres; then, as if by command, stopped to
look back. Mr. Weaver stood alone, staring into empty space.
Pete
cleared his throat. “Coming, Mr. Weaver?”
Mr.
Weaver hesitated, as if trying to figure out the meaning of the question.
Nervous fingers opened and shut. Finally, he nodded and began to walk
toward them.
The
four reached the street. “How were you planning to get back?”
Pete asked.
“There’ll
be a bus late tonight,” Mr. Weaver said.
“Won’t
be the same,” Pete said. “Cramped. Unfriendly.”
The
others nodded agreement.
“Why
don’t we get some lunch?” Pete said.
Tom
came out of his silence. “Maybe we could take in a movie.”
“Long
as it ain’t one of these `modern’ ones,” Pete said.
“All sex and fighting.”
“Like
it was in the war,” Molly cackled.
The
others laughed, though the laughter sounded forced.
Tom
diffidently mentioned that there was a restaurant down the street if
the others wanted to go to it.
Pete
said, “That one’s fine with me. How about you, Molly? Mr.
Wheeler?”
Molly
had to think now. It was one thing to walk down a street with Pete on
the other side. You could always say he was tagging along. But to sit
in a booth with him? And what about the others? What did she have in
common with any of them, except living in the same village and caring
about the same passenger train?
But
maybe that was enough. After all, wasn’t that what this country
was about? This big, sprawling country. Like Pete, it was ugly and
brash and sure it knew everything. She had been here seventy years,
but never had she thought of it as home.
The
old lady took a deep breath before tucking her free arm around Pete’s.
The purse dangled between them. Funny how a common pain draws people
together, she thought. Just like in the war. Out loud, she said, “Roy
and I used to go to that restaurant all the time. Of course, it’s
changed now.”
Beside
her, Tom said in a faraway voice, “Doesn’t everything change?
Eh, Mr. Wheeler?”
Mr.
Wheeler said, “Why don’t you all call me Joe?”
Copyright
1992 for "One Last Ride on the VIA Rail" is owned
by N. J. Lindquist. It may not be reused anywhere or in any form without
permission.
