We arose at the crack of dawn to accompany our son to the airport.  He had said,

“Mum, you don’t have to come,” to which I had replied,

“If I don’t come then your father is going to have to make the long, lonely journey home, on his own…”  We both looked at each other in a knowing way.  He let the suggestion drop.

We made him a bacon baguette and packed two bags of his favourite crisps, Prawn Cocktail, and four chocolate swiss rolls, not as many as it sounds, for Simon they are almost bite size.

We left in time to catch the “something to six” train.

Our walk down the hill to the station was eventful only because the handle on Simon’s rolling suitcase would not pull out.  After a few steps of watching him struggle I took off my wool scarf and looped it through the handle and together we pulled the bag along.  I kept thinking,

“When we get to the check in desk and pop it on the scales, the handle will release…” but it didn’t!

The platform was deserted, so was the train, proving that “something to six” in the morning is not a popular time for commuters.

“Have a good Thanksgiving, Simon.  We’ll miss you.  Call us if you can?”  Hubs was hugging his son.  We still had 90 minutes left of our journey together and the goodbyes had begun.

Expecting the train to fill up on its approach to London we were thoughtful of the space we occupied but no-one was awake in most of the towns through which we passed.

At Victoria, the busiest station in the capital, we were among the few people bustling towards the underground, down the stairs, across the concourse.  My oyster card was tucked inside my glove and I could tap the ticket reader with my open palm and impressively the gates swung open for me.  The train was pulling in as we descended to the platform, our hair was ruffled by the wind.  Hardly occupied we sat comfortably for the seven stops.  At Hammersmith we changed trains.  A simple walk across the platform did the trick and again found seats for the eleven stops to Heathrow, Terminal 3.

I watched our fellow passengers, all of them had head phones in, oblivious to the outside world.  I remembered the ending of Brixton Beach, by Roma Tearne and shivered.

It was cold!  Every time the doors opened the temperature dropped.  Later on in the day body heat from the travelers will warm the carriages to unbearable levels; with their heavy wool coats and scarves they will long for the biting wind to swoop through the train.  But for now, the wind was an unwelcome intruder.

We sat quietly and hugged ourselves.

At Heathrow we strode along the moving walkways.

We stood with him while he checked in.  Each uncrowded moment bringing us closer to goodbye.

Now, without the burden of a broken case he turned to us at security and hugged us each in turn, patting our backs, squeezing us in his strong embrace.

“Thanks for everything…”

He hugged us both again, patted our backs, seemingly reluctant to let go.

“Go on and eat your bacon baguette,” I said releasing him from our spell.

We watched him as he threaded his way through the barriers.  I knew his sadness would dissipate on the other side of the X-ray machines to be replaced by a bubbling anticipation.  He was going home.

We plunged our faces into the cold morning air and made the long, lonely journey back, together.

We stood for most of the way, jostled by rolling suitcases and businessmen.

London had woken up.

At Victoria our train was waiting, quiet and empty, to take us home.

Leaving the overcrowded city we held hands and the sun dazzled our eyes as we stared through the windows at nothing.

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