Page 6 of The Secret Christmas Library
There are many beautiful railway stations in Britain. Euston Station, London, is emphaticallynot one of them.
It isasquat, grey,low-ceilinged box thatsmells of anxiety.Attempts to brighten it up – colourful pictures of happy blended families in the countryside;pianos everywhere – seemto do absolutely nothing except highlight the dinginess,the greyness of it all, as if thetrainsthemselvesstill gave off thick black soot.
There arenumerousfast-foodconcessions,and lots and lots of people staring at their phones and then peeringupwards againat the departure boards, and if one person twitches as if they’ve seen the platform being announced, everyone else twitches too, like a flock of startled birds. When the platforms finallyappear,peoplerunasif theirlivesdepend on it, knowingthat the crush will leave behind the burdened,theold and theweak.This makes everyone feel slightly unhappy and ashamed, and these feelings run into the very concrete of the building, givingit a patina ofgreasy worrythatyou cansense the second you walk through the low,smeared doors, buses belching in your face as you do so.
On this cold, wet December night, it isfreezing and filthy andnot a very happy orChristmassyplace to be, particularlyif, like Mirren, you are standing outside it, currentlycollapsedinheaving fits of sobs; sobswhich can be heard even above the optimistic Salvation Army carol singers trying to raise some money from sentimental commuterson their way back fromtheiroffice parties, bestrewn with defeated tinsel.
‘But I’mstreet-smart,’Mirren is currently sobbing. ‘I’m aLondoner!Ilivehere!I thought those guys were meant to target green tourists who’d just arrived.’
It had taken milliseconds. She had exited the tube, been crossing the road, pulling the ticket up on her phone and –whoosh: a darting figure on an electric bike had zoomed straight past her and snatched the phone right out of her hand, disappearing into the mass of wet headlights and tail-lights bullying their way up the Euston Road.
The friendly Scottish British Transport Policeman who was trying to help thecryinglady at the end of a very long shift didn’t think this wishing of bad luck on to tourists was a particularly charitable response, but he did his best.
‘Yes, well,’ he said, pointing at a poster nearby informing everyone that Thieves Operate in the Area. ‘We do tell everyone to keep their phones out of sight.’
‘But I’m at a train station, and my train ticket is on my phone!’ snivelled Mirren. ‘It didn’tfeellike a very controversial thing to be doing.’
She sniffed loudly and other people looked at her. She tugged hard on one of the chestnut curls that was poking out from her beanie, an old habit.
‘Would you like tocome into theoffice,and we’ll file a report?’ said the policeman.
‘I need my phone! Can you get it back?’ implored Mirren desperately.‘There’s loads of CCTV around here.’
‘No,’ said the policeman. ‘You haven’t had your phonestolen very often, have you?’
The roomthey take you to at Euston if you havehadsomething bad happen to you is, almostunbelievably, even worse than the rest of the station.There is a cheap box of tissues on a scuffed low table, andtwo chairs which have had the stuffing pulled out of them.
‘Sodo you want to hear the whole story?’ said Mirren, sitting down, as the officer took out a notepad.
‘Not really,’ said the policeman. ‘Iwas just going to give you this for your insurance.’
‘But I really need my phone!’ said Mirren. ‘It’s like . . . having yourdaemon guillotined from your body – do you know what I mean?’
‘Aye. No’really,’ said the man,as if he didn’t have to listen to this exact same thinga hundredtimes a day.
‘Why won’t somebodystopit?’
‘It’s the wee lads on bikes,’ said theofficer, sagely.‘They’re pretty fast.’
‘You sound like you think they’re cool!’
‘I did not say cool,’ said the man. ‘I said fast.’
‘They should set up electrical tripwires,’ said Mirren, with unusual verve. Like most people she was not, day-to-day, a cruel person. ‘And pull them up at the station exit.’
‘And catapult the wee laddies out into the traffic,’ said the man thoughtfully.
‘Yes!’
‘So. Capital punishment.’
‘It would stop the thefts,’ said Mirren, sullenly.
‘Well, there is that.’
They satin silence for a little longer and she cried on filling out the form for her insurance.
‘Oh,God,’ said Mirren. ‘This can’t be happening. I have a train to catch. And the ticket’son my phone!’
