Mistakes .... I've made a few!

Separation in times of crisis is always difficult.



Imagine a time before mobile phones and widespread internet.

Mistakes … I’ve made a few!

‘Well off to meet up with the criminals again are you’?

‘Ha ha’! Jill rolls her eyes, as in, that gag, again! 

Truth of the matter is she is going to her monthly crime book club.

Okay, I admit to overuse of my in jest provocation but there is something about a room full of people enthralled and committed to discussing fictional crime that intrigues me. The fact that apparently it is the most popular book club at our favourite bookshop adds more grist to my curious mind. After all, it generally involves harm and damage to life and property, in many instances towards the extreme end of human suffering. 

My version, (having never attended), is that the room would be like a criminal hookup or a seminar series; ‘Evading police roadblocks’, ‘Create a false identity’, ‘Money laundering: the self help guide’. I am assured none of these take place. Rather, participants are from a wide cross- section of admirable citizens from psychologists, to retired English teachers to farmers who travel a hundred kilometres to attend, to librarians, to lawyers to thoroughly honest, lovely people like Jill. She enjoys the company and parley immensely!

In the early evening cool we wait for the train at our local station. I am going in the same direction but to a gallery talk. Jill mentions I might like to read the current book. ‘You should read it, I’m giving it my vote for best of the year’. 

An erudite endorsement! I can attest to her many laugh out loud moments. Even so, I decline as I have a large pile of books on the edge of my desk waiting to be read plus a dedicated note on my mobile device with an ever-expanding list.

‘Tell me what it’s about’, I offer as a compromise.

Jill proceeds to outline the story, first setting the scene and describing the main characters, the fictional plot and its twists and turns, some of which involve gruesome paybacks, knife wielding thugs, threats on family, fatal heart attacks and throats cut. 

The railway station public address announces our train. Like a long serpent it arrives, lights defining passengers in each of the cocoon like carriages, oblivious to the darkness outside. We step onboard, a few spare seats; happily we find two together as Jill continues, talking with passion and detail about how the story unfolds. Those around us are quiet and I have a sense of others listening to probably what sounds like real life events, so convincing is the description they might get the impression it was Jill’s family and friends.

Not long before our stop a woman who has been sitting directly in front of us for the whole journey prepares to alight. She stands and looks directly at us. A little too intense, I feel like I’ve just had a facial scan as she walks past. Outside on the platform she stops and reaches for her phone.  Still glancing our way, she makes a call as the train moves off.

Jill and I look at each other wide-eyed, ‘Where did you learn all that drug dealer talk’? I whispered.  I half expect to see the Police waiting for us at the next station.

The story setting is contemporary, interesting in its use of technology, in particular mobile phones. A drug smuggler is contacted whilst they drive. Google maps pinpoint that same driver as well as giving directions. The police track suspects utilizing the driver’s mobile. That same mobile thrown out the window gives rise to the protagonist being able to locate stashed drugs. All this and more from a small object held in the palm of a hand.

Stepping off the train I look up and down the platform, ‘The coast is clear but we had better split up’ I suggest.

‘I think you’re over reacting … send me a text when your talk is finished, Bye!’  Jill disappears down a different exit.

*

Within a short space of time mobile phones have certainly changed how we conduct our lives. Oh how I wish we had had such a device for a train journey we did twenty-five years ago whilst travelling in the Andalucía region of southern Spain. No mobile phones then, even email was fairly new, no such thing as booking sites on the Internet to arrange accommodation or reserve and pay for train journeys. You could call from a public phone box or hotel (and speak in Spanish) but often as not I recall a lot more shoe leather, walking, knocking on doors to ask for accommodation, and front up to the train station the day before to reserve a seat on the required train.

It was just this situation we found ourselves in on a dark wintery morning in Cordoba. Our booking was on the fast AVE train to Madrid. We were on our way home, a flight later that afternoon to Hong Kong via Paris. Then after a few days, the final leg to Brisbane. We had enjoyed a wonderful few weeks, amazing sites, beautiful people, and sumptuous food. On our travels we had acquired a number of possessions, gifts for friends, ceramics which I collect and funnily enough a huge plastic bag of empty Coke cans, my son being an avid collector. In the days before the now ubiquitous international style, unique Spanish language cans, even ones with special football player promotions. So along with big bags and backpacks (no wheeled luggage then either) we were returning with a lot of extra baggage.

Goodbye Hostel Seneca, goodbye Mezquita, goodbye Taberna San Miguel, we are somewhat sad to leave – Adiós, till next time! These memories and more fill our minds as we wait for the train feeling a little out of place, scruffy as compared to the well-dressed custom evident in the passengers surrounding us.

The sleek white train appears out of the dark mist and slides to the edge of the platform; small automatic doors slide open. We glance up and down the platform looking for our car number then hurry along, standing back to allow the locals to board. With all our bags we are cumbersome at best.  

‘Why don’t I get on first with the big bags and find our seats’ I suggest. 

First one, then a second, I place them in a vestibule area when I hear a beeping sound. What is that? I ask myself. Looking behind I notice the door is sliding. I first try to stop it with my hand … it keeps sliding! Then my foot, but I have to quickly pull it out … the door closes completely … the train starts to move.

That sight through the glass window I will never forget. Jill in disbelief walks a few steps along the platform; her face framed in the oval window turns to horror as the train picks up speed. There is no one in the small vestibule to hear my cry for HELP! Frantically I look for any emergency stop buttons … a red one labeled, ‘ayuda de emergencia’, could be the one! I push it … a lot, and hard, a lot … nothing! Cordoba station slides out of view.

Oh shit, what have I done, how do I stop this train … stay calm! 

I find our … my seat, and deal with the bags. What should I do? Get off at the next stop and hope there is a train to get me back to Cordoba? Get off and wait for the next train and hope Jill has thought the same? No, both almost certainly could make matters worse. I know the next fast train is midday, which is too late for our flight. There must be other slower trains during the morning but I can’t be sure. What will/would Jill anticipate/do/think? Oh shit, what have I done! Will she be okay? She has no money but I know she has a credit card, which is good because I have her train ticket. Shit! Only one thing to do, stay on the train to its destination, Madrid, 400 kilometres and over two hours away.

*

I can remember the day because we left very early; the hostel owner had packed us a breakfast that she left in our room the night before. She had also done our washing, or at least taken it to a group of Nuns who for a small charge took in washing. They had trouble getting it to dry as it was winter and the day had been grey and overcast. On our way to the station we were shocked to see a number of homeless people being moved on. About half a dozen had spent the night on the footpath in front of a row of shops, sheltering under an awning for a bit of weather protection. They must have been freezing cold. A man was forcefully hosing the shop fronts. The homeless men scattered in different directions disappearing down narrow laneways.

As the train pulled in I thought it was strange that all the passengers were in one place, as it was a tiny door. Why they didn’t spread out to other carriages I don’t know. Scott took our big bags and I had two smaller ones and this big plastic bag full of all this Coca-Cola paraphernalia. Every Spanish train we had caught in the preceding weeks stopped for what seemed like excessive amounts of time at every station, this one however only stopped for a few seconds. Before I knew it the door closed. I tried to run after the train as it moved away hoping that someone might see me. Scott was looking out from onboard, gesturing wildly. All to no avail: the train kept going.

I was a bit stunned. It really threw me actually. The platform guard who signaled for the train to go looked at me; he quickly averted his eyes and disappeared. I’m sure he knew he’d made a mistake, as I was the only one left on the platform. So I went to the ticket office and just spoke English, on and on, but no one understood me or wanted to understand, and help me for that matter. I couldn’t speak any Spanish beyond basics. A timetable on the counter enabled me to see what other trains were scheduled. There appeared to be a train that would get me to Madrid with hopefully enough time to catch a taxi to the airport, all being well, and if and when I would meet up with Scott.

I’d been there an hour or so with no offer of a drink or even a comfortable place to sit, absolutely zilch! The station staff knew they had to deal with me. Eventually a young woman about twenty introduced herself. She spoke English well enough and said her job was to take me and put me on the right train. She was very nice and walked me to the platform. A train arrived but she said ‘no, no, not this one’! 

‘Are you sure’? I replied, thinking how time was fast evaporating.

‘Wait for the next one. You will be in first class, you will be looked after on the train’.

My seat was in the back row of the carriage and I felt very conspicuous in my travel-tired clothing, especially compared to the smartly dressed business men and women. First class had a butler, a little man in a very dapper uniform. It was only about three minutes into the journey when he gave me a look that said, ‘I don’t think so’. He promptly picked up my bags and walked through the train depositing me back amongst the ordinary classes. I was so looking forward to perusing the Spanish newspaper and being served a meal. I didn’t see him again.

I had no money to buy a drink or a pastry and by this stage I was feeling very tired so all I could do was count the kilometres to Madrid Atocha. I knew time was going to be tight.

*

The countryside flashes past in a blur. I occupy my time running through all the possible scenarios, some become very dark and end with me having to call her parents: ‘Umm … I’ve lost Jill’.  I just hope she is okay. She is someone who when the chips are down rises to the occasion, a bit of country girl toughness.

‘Habla ingles por favor’, (Speak English please) … as much as I had practiced this the station platform attendant picked me as a foreigner after the first syllable. I thought I had a partial European accent, admittedly a botch mix of French, Italian, and Spanish with a hint of a slow Finnish delivery as in Hel..sin..ki. To no avail, he just points to an upstairs office. 

‘Gracias’, I struggle off weighed down with bags that give rise to an extreme limp.

I repeat my practiced phrase in the large Atocha railway office and after a short wait a young woman comes to the counter. I proceed to tell her the story, as unemotionally and as concisely as I can, she listens intently then asks, 

‘She disappear on train’?

‘No, no’! I say. I can sense a ‘Murder on the Orient Express’ scenario about to play out. 

‘She was left on the platform at Cordoba station, like the train went without her. Would you be able to call the station and inquire about a lone Australian woman, one carrying a big bag of empty cans’? 

‘Si, I can do that. What is her name’?

‘Jill Ole’

‘Can you spell that’?

I realize a weird moment is approaching, as Jill’s surname is Danish in origin and is pronounced with no emphasis on the ‘e’. Not so in Spanish however: ‘ole’ means something like, ‘hooray’! I write her name down and a mood of disbelief comes over my lifeline to the Spanish rail system. She obviously thinks I’m a bit of a nutter.

A phone call does happen out of my hearing, but the report is ‘Sorry, no. Cordoba station has no knowledge of someone by that name or anyone left on the platform’. I thank her and resolve that all I can do is wait, so I consult the timetables to see what train Jill might have been able to catch. The first is still almost two hours away so I just find a comfortable seat and wait. 

My guidebook tells me the airport is fifteen kilometres, so a taxi should be able to cover that in less than thirty minutes, depending on traffic. Should I try to call Air France? Please, please let there be a flight delay!

All the trains from the south come to Atocha, which is good, but there are so many platforms. Checking and double-checking my first option, looking at the indicator board, like about once a minute, I cross my fingers that indeed Jill has managed to get herself aboard 02081. 

The train noses in and screeches to a stop, streams of passengers alight and so I position myself so they walk past me. Dressed in big coats with scarves looped around their necks, dominant blacks and greys blend with the same steel and concrete tones of the station. The platform fills with voices of excited arrivals, but no Jill. Then towards the rear as the first wave dissipates I make out the distinctive plastic bag, … Yes! It is Jill … she did it! Cue ‘Titanic’ soundtrack now! 

An embrace never felt so good. First thing she says is, ‘I didn’t cry’. Told you she was tough. Not so for me, I shed a few tears. No time for small talk though, we hurry to the taxi rank.

We fill the boot and jump in the back seat … ‘aeropuerto internacional por favor’. Pedro weaves through the heavy traffic at speed. First time ever I am pleased to have a maniac taxi driver. Jill whispers to me, ‘Did you say to him muy rapido’?No I didn’t, it was just his style, but he dropped us at airport departures with only a few minutes to spare, so as hair-raising as it was, we are forever grateful.

An oval window view of the snow covered Pyrenees … my goodness what a journey it has been … think I will start writing crime fiction.  Imagine what I could do with trains, a bag lady, mysterious disappearance, a crazy taxi driver and all leading to the grisly end of a sour faced butler … Olĕ!

Note: Crime novel mentioned in the story is ‘The Godmother’ by Hannelore Cayre. 

Scott Avery

2020