Hugo
He supposes all rivers must look somewhat alike.
At first he’d been delighted to have it all to himself, this little corner of the train, and he settled inside all that silence and space like it was a woolly blanket.
There was something so peaceful about it: nobody telling him to take his feet off the seat or asking him for help with their homework or nattering on while he’s trying to read.
But soon the quiet starts to feel loud, and he’s unable to shake the feeling that something is missing.
Maybe it’s that Margaret was supposed to be here, the two of them wedged together on a single seat, the hours flying by as fast as the telephone poles.
Or maybe he’s just not used to being alone; maybe that’s something you need to practice, like playing football or the violin.
He picks up the phone and sends a text to the group.
Hugo: Hi from New York.
Poppy: Hi from the kitchen.
Alfie: Hi from the loo.
Isla: Gross.
Oscar: Hurry up. I need to get in there.
George: How’s the train?
Alfie: How’s the girl?
Hugo: Nice.
Poppy: The train or the girl?
Hugo: Both.
George: Do you miss us yet?
Hugo: At least two or three of you.
There’s a knock at the door, and then Ludovic pops his head in.
Hugo pulls his socked feet off the opposite seat. “Hello,” he says so brightly that the attendant looks a little startled.
“Hello,” Ludovic says, examining his notepad. “So we’ll need two sets of sheets in here, yes? What time do you want me to make up the beds?”
“Uh,” Hugo says, wishing he’d thought to ask Mae before she left. “I’m not sure. What time do you reckon?”
“A lot of people have requested nine,” Ludovic says with a shrug, “but a lot of people are also very old. How about ten?”
“Sure,” he says, but once Ludovic is gone, Hugo glances at his watch and realizes that ten o’clock is still hours away.
He yawns and presses his cheek to the window, still knackered from all the travel and excitement and jet lag.
The rumble of the train is enough to make his eyes flutter shut, and he wakes later to an announcement about dinner.
“All passengers for the six-thirty dinner seating, please make your way to the dining car. That’s six-thirty, folks.”
Hugo stands and examines what he’s wearing: worn jeans and a fraying yellow shirt and a thin pair of flip-flops.
He wonders if he looks smart enough, suddenly picturing the scene with all the tuxes in Titanic, which is probably not the best image to call to mind.
But it’s not as if he has anything much nicer to wear, so he pulls a jumper on over his shirt and heads off, swaying as he makes his way down toward the dining car.
When he reaches it, there’s a backlog of people waiting to be seated, and so he stands in the metal section that joins two of the cars, the plates sliding beneath his feet like the base of a Tilt-A-Whirl.
He looks around for Mae and spots her at the other end—past all the waiters and white tablecloths and other diners, the bread baskets and silverware and menus—waiting in the same spot, and she gives him a smile.
They’ve spent only twenty minutes together. Maybe thirty.
But still, there’s already something familiar about her, standing there in the doorway with a book in her arms, and Hugo can’t help wondering if maybe the thing he was missing earlier was her.