The girl ran at full pelt across the bridge in Central Station, holding her boyfriend’s hand as they ran. The 16:03 was still in the platform: perhaps they might still make it?
They were half way down the stairs (taken two at a time) when the guard’s whistle sounded. We glimpsed them again on the platform, moments later, pleading for him to revoke his order, praying that the electric doors would slide open once more and let them on board. But it was too late: the train had started to glide from the platform on its journey north. She turned to her boyfriend, and buried her head against his shoulder; he hugged her, as the tears started to flow.
For her father knew that the library closed at one. He’d warned her last week when she’d returned home so late, and not for the first time – clearly suspicious as to how she might have passed so much time alone in the city. A final warning, ominous in implication.
And three hours could – just – have been explained away, had he been in a good mood. The library stayed open a little longer; she had to grab some lunch; there was a book she needed to look at in Waterstone’s. The previous train had been delayed, cancelled; hers had broken down, been subject to failing signals. (Surely he wouldn’t phone the train company to check?)
But the extra hour? She knew full well the implication, and the thought of daddy’s unforgiving belt was almost too much to bear…
PS actually, they caught the train, but you know how our minds work!!!