Last Train to Cork City
Brendan Gerad O'Brien
Last Train to Cork City
by
Brendan Gerad O’Brien
*****
PUBLISHED BY:
Last Train to Cork City
Copyright © 2011 by Brendan Gerad O’Brien
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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A story from Dreamin Dreams
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Last Train to Cork City
Richard Mann braced himself against the blustery wet night as he darted across the road to the letterbox set in the old brick wall of the Post Office. The trees rocked and the rain blew in waves across the solitary streetlight as he checked the two letters for the very last time.
He sighed and dropped them through the slot.
It had to be done - he knew that! Sooner or later it had to be sorted, and it might as well be now. So he timed the letters to arrive by the first post on Friday.
Back in the car he wiped the wet from his face, annoyed that he couldn’t stop the guilt from tugging at his heart.
Because the first letter was to Bridget, his wife of twenty years.
With her flame coloured hair and slate-grey eyes he once thought she was the most beautiful woman in the whole world. She loved him too, of course. But somewhere along the way the light began to fade until eventually those same eyes looked back at him with total indifference. So now they just drifted along from day to day, tolerating each other, going out to work in the morning and coming home again at night.
Richard Mann knew tonight wouldn’t be any different. By the time he got home she’d have already eaten. She’d ask politely about his day as she put his meal on the table. But she’d turn away and carry on doing something else as his answer drifted past her. He’d go for a shower, read the paper, and she’d watch television late into the night.
Maybe if the children were still at home, maybe if … well, it was too late now, anyway.
The letter simply said;
‘Bridget,
You knew in your heart this day would come, and I only hope we can part with dignity. By the time you get this letter I’ll be far away, starting a new life somewhere else. I want nothing from you, so you’ll never hear from me again. And you’ll never find me anyway, even if you wanted to.
Richard.’
The second letter was to a girl who was also called Bridget. Everyone called her Bridie, and she was very special to Richard Mann.
Richard Mann smiled as he remembered how, years ago when they’d first met, he used to call his wife Bridie. But as their lives slipped into a more formal phase the endearment began to sound hollow. So she became Bridget again.
The long, deep sigh he gave caused a patch of the windscreen to steam up. As he wiped it away he wondered how different things would have been if the factory where he worked hadn’t hit the buffers recently. A crucial order from their key customer was cancelled at the last minute and it threw the whole operation into turmoil. It was touch and go as to whether the factory could survive such a serious downturn.
Everyone braced themselves for the worst. But at the last minute they were merged with a much larger company and their jobs were secure again - for the moment. However, the new management wanted far more stock than the workforce was used to producing, so their working routines were changed. Everyone was so grateful to still have a job they agreed to work twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week, until the re-structuring was bedded down.
People were shifted around, moved to different machines, sometimes even to different departments. And they often worked in pairs. Bridie Cox and Richard Mann slotted in so well together the supervisor was impressed enough to keep them on the same rota throughout the emergency.
What amazed Richard Mann was that both he and Bridie Cox had actually worked in the factory for years, but it was only when they were thrown together under such enormous pressure that he really noticed her. And for the first time in years he looked forward to going to work again.
The work was hard and the hours were long so everyone felt they deserved a quick drink and a chance to unwind on the way home. And in the lounge of the Stoker’s Lodge Richard Mann and Bridie Cox seemed to gravitate naturally towards each other at every opportunity.
Then the crisis resolved itself and things started to return to normal. But they both knew they couldn’t just slip back into the old routine of eight hour shifts and not see each other every day. What they felt for each other was only a few weeks old but it had already burrowed itself deep into their lives and it was not so easy to let go of.
So what used to be snatched tea breaks behind the sheds now became a whole lunch hour together in the canteen. And the quick drink in the pub after work turned into a drive in the country. They looked for reasons to work late at the factory, or to go away on training courses together.
Eventually it started to consume them both to the point where they flip-flopped between two intense emotions - guilt about the way they were betraying their partners, and an overwhelming need to be together. One day they’d agree to finish the affair and never see each other again. But the next they’d realise they couldn’t and they would discuss making the ultimate break from their partners.
A friend even offered to rent them a couple of rooms in her house.
But Richard Mann was well aware that for Bridie it would mean making a tremendous sacrifice. Her husband, Tom, was a good man and a loving father. And he worshipped Bridie.
One thing Bridie knew for sure was that Tom would be desperately hurt. And she had no way of knowing how he’d react. He certainly wouldn’t let her take the children from him, not without a fight.
Sometime Bridie wondered if Tom already knew something was going on. She’d catch him looking at her, watching her quietly, as if searching for a sign.
One day he tried to ask her outright, fumbling awkwardly over his words and stuttering nervously. She couldn’t bear to tell him the truth. She hugged him close and promised him that nothing had changed, there was nothing going on.
Friday was her day off. She should be at home when the letter arrived.
It, too, was very brief;
‘Bridie Darling,
I know this will be a great shock to you, but I’ll be taking the six fifteen train to Cork City today, Friday the twenty first.
I’ve got a new job with more money, and, would you believe, a company house - with a garden! Isn’t that brilliant? The kids would love it; it’s big enough to play football in. I’m sorry I had to keep it a secret from you. I just couldn’t tell you before because I know it’s going to be the hardest decision you’ll ever have to make, and it would have been harder still if you had time to think about it. I’ve told no one where I’m going, especially at work. That way no one will ever find us. So if you really want to make that new start we talked about, and begin the new life that we dreamed about, meet me at the Railway Station.
See you at six fifteen.
I love you so much,
Richard.’
***
When Friday came Richard Mann left work as soon as he possibly could and took a taxi to the station. But he still hit the rush hour traffic. As he ran onto the platform the noise from the train was drowning out the muffled announcement from the old green speakers up in the rafters.
Doors were already being slammed as he pushed through the crowd, his eyes straining for any sign of Bridie and the kids.
He scanned the windows of the train then ran across to the waiting-room. She wasn’t in the cafe either, and a terrible dread filled his heart. Time was running out. Make or break, he’d said. If she wasn’t there now then the answer was very clear.
He looked back at the train. And he froze when something sharp pressed into his side.
‘Hello, Richard!’
He turned slowly. ‘Tom?’
‘Steady, now. This knife is very sharp. And we don’t want any accidents now, do we?’
‘I ... I don’t understand. What do you want?’
‘Well now, Richard, I think you already know what I want.’ Sour breath tinged with alcohol. ‘You see, you made one hell of a mistake.’
He manoeuvred Richard towards the car park where an old Ford Transit van was parked right over by the bushes.
‘Bridie’s away for the weekend, you know.’ Tom had a strange sinister chuckle in his voice. ‘She’s at her mother’s. She didn’t tell you? Anyway, I opened her letter, you see ... just in case.’
He pulled open the creaking back doors of the van.
‘I sealed the letter back up, of course.’ He chuckled again. ‘It’ll be on the kitchen table for her when she gets home. I imagine she’ll be very disappointed that she missed saying goodbye to you. But she’ll cover it up. She’s good at covering up her feelings. But she’ll get over it, especially as she’ll believe you’ve gone away forever.’
Now the chuckle became a deep, cruel laugh. ‘But it’s your own words I like the best, the ones where you said you told no one where you were going. So no one will ever find you. Well, now, isn’t that the truth!’
The End
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Thank you for taking the time to read Last Train to Cork City. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I would be delighted if you were to visit my web site at https://www.bgobrien.com/ and let me know what you thought of it by leaving your views on my guestbook page.
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Brief Bio:
Brendan Gerad O’Brien was born in Tralee, on the west coast of Ireland, and now he lives in Newport, South Wales with his wife Jennifer and daughters Shelly and Sarah.
As a child he spent his summer holidays in Listowel, Co Kerry, where his uncle Moss Scanlon had a harness maker’s shop, sadly now long gone.
The shop was a magnet for all sorts of colourful characters. It was there that his love of words was kindled by the stories of John B. Keane and Bryan MacMahon, who often wandered in for a chat and a bit of jovial banter.
After serving nine years in the Royal Navy, Brendan progressed to retail management, working as a Department manager with one of the UK’s largest supermarkets.
Now retired, his hobby is writing short stories, twenty of which have already been published individually over the years, and now available in his collection Dreamin’ Dreams
Gallows Field
