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The city lay dark and silent under
the muffling blanket of January snow. Flakes swirled and danced
in their countless millions, sparkling underneath the amber
glow of street lamps, finally ending their long descent by
clinging to roofs, fences, roads and fields. Vehicles plowed
sluggishly through the rutted streets, and only the odd warmly
clad figure could be seen hurrying home, perhaps to a hot
drink with their Sunday evening paper.
1954 had been a particularly bad winter
for the east coast of England, but the trains through Yarmouth's
Longport railway station were still running on time. Passengers
sat huddled on wood benches inside the typically spartan British
Railways waiting room, warming hands against the meager gas
fire and conversing in low tones. The stationmaster, a portly,
aged fellow who had spent most of his life on the railway,
stepped onto the wind-swept platform, deftly removed his watch
from a vest pocket and compared it to the large clock overhead.
It was getting on to 8 o'clock and the 'Queen of Scots' would
be due in a few minutes.
With a practiced hand he lit his tarnished
oil lamp and swinging it as he walked, made his way across
the rail lines to the fence that bordered the road. Directing
its beam to the rails, he grunted with satisfaction and moved
on.
Approaching the arches of the old Victorian
Dimsdale Bridge, he was momentarily blinded by the headlights
of a car he recognized as an antiquated Rolls Royce. Throwing
spray to either side, it pulled off and parked beside the
station fence, immediately disgorging five occupants, who
immediately began an animated conversation.
There were three women, one of whom appeared
to be in her teens. She stalked away from the group, kicking
up the snow. One of the other women had taken out a handkerchief
and began to sob uncontrollably. "I just don't want to
say goodbye, Stephen," she cried.
The taller of the two men, a gaunt looking
figure wearing a Fedora and clutching a suitcase, looked away
down the road, his expression twisting in pain. "Belinda,
please…. you must understand that it's God's work I must
do first. I'll be back for you."
'Two years is a long time," she responded,
her voice blurred with emotion.
"Stephen, I'm asking you to reconsider,"
said the third woman, a tall blonde. "There are hospitals
here, people who just as dearly need your surgeon's skills."
"You must understand," Stephen
replied, "Where I'm going, they don't even have the basics
of life. I must go where I'm called."
"Well, I'm calling you,"
the young woman answered, throwing her arms around him. He
dropped his suitcase and embraced her tenderly. They clung
to each other and she saw the anguish in his expression. "Don't
do this," her eyes pleaded. But then she could not suppress
a shudder as she noticed a shadow pass briefly across his
face, and she knew he was resolute.
Slowly and gently he withdrew, and
picking up his suitcase, strode quickly to the end of the
fence, crossed the rail line and ascended the platform.
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Overall size:
40" wide x 22" high.
| Misty
Departure by Robert Bailey |
| 50 Artist's proofs signed
by artist. |
US $155 |
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Just at that moment, the sounds of an approaching
locomotive could be heard, and within seconds steamed into
view through the swirling snow flurries on the other side
of the arched bridge.
The stationmaster, meanwhile, had moved
off down the line. As the train pulled into the station with
a clattering of iron and bellowing of steam, he looked up
at the passengers sitting in the compartments, reading newspapers
or peering through the windows.
The little group beside the car had fallen
silent. The teenage girl still stood beside the road, looking
on as the taller woman took out her handkerchief and wiped
a tear away. The driver was leaning on the Rolls, seemingly
forlorn. Belinda had gripped the top of the fence, her head
bowed in defeat.
The gaunt man with the suitcase had paused,
facing them across the track. He lifted a hand in silent farewell.
"Wait!" called Belinda, looking
up, her whole body shaking. "Wait! Stephen!"
From where he was standing, peering through
the clouds of smoke and steam, Stephen could barely see her
waving at him. It wasn't as if he was leaving his own family
behind. It was Belinda's family, after all. He had asked her
to marry him, and marry her he would, if she saw fit to wait
for him. It would be a trial for them both. He would be in
the tropics of Africa, but he'd be thinking of her. If her
love for him was not true, she would find another man, and
then he would know the truth. He turned to go.
"Wait! I love you! I want you to
know I'll wait!" Belinda shouted to him, her voice lost
in a sudden burst of pressurized steam from the locomotive.
Her taller companion waved her handkerchief in desperation,
but Stephen's form wavered and disappeared amidst the backlit
clouds of vapor. Then he was gone.
Belinda turned suddenly with her back to
the fence and buried her face in her hands.
"Maybe it's best this way", said
the driver kindly. "At least, for now."
The two women clung to each other and
with a giant gasp, the train began to slowly pull away. Stephen
was at the carriage window, but they could not see the tear
spring to his eye, nor see the slight trembling of his lip
as the train pulled them farther and farther apart. As the
rear lights of the carriages disappeared into the midst, the
old stationmaster ascended the platform, glanced at the clock
and watched as the Rolls reversed out into the road and slowly
moved away, leaving only its tire tracks and a little cluster
of footprints to mark where it had been.
The snow continued falling, and in
a little while, even these fleeting impressions had disappeared,
just as utterly as if they had never existed. |
