“It’s you again.” The old man says it with pretend weariness – betrayed by a wide smile. The grin doesn’t fit with the grey surroundings of this place. It never does.
“Don’t sound so happy.” The young woman replies with a smile of her own, flumping onto his bed.
He is perched on a throne of worn fabric – a slice of sunshine from the window turning his white hair into silver. “Dinnae know why you waste your time.”
“Gee thanks, I thought you’d be glad to see me.”
“I’m eyewis glad to see you, but I’m worried.”
“About what?” She takes off her jacket, slipping easily into the old routine.
“Time might seem infinite when you’ve got a spring in your step, love is in the air and the birds are in the trees, but it’s no’.”
“Love isn’t in the air and the birds are all fighting over crumbs being thrown about by your neighbour.”
“That old bamstick. We’ll wind up wi’ rats. She should be saving the bread for her cauldron,” he laughs at his own joke. “Still sailing solo then?”
“Best way to be.”
“Aye, for a while, you better be careful though,” he raises a bony finger. “Dinnae get used to it.”
“Hark at this – the Old Man of ‘Hoy Ya Bampot’ is telling me to find friends.”
“Pals, a sweetheart, a friendly ear – I’ve had plenty of all three over the years and I’m glad. Even now. ”
“Yeah, they’re forming a queue outside – thank god you’ve got security.”
“They might no’ be here, but they’re here,” a bony finger points at his head and then it shifts to hover over his heart. “And here.”
“And so am I.”
“You’ve been coming here a long time – longer than you remember.”
She looks slightly abject. “I like to see you.”
“You’ve seen plenty o’ me – time for you to make new friends – ones wi’ their own hips and nae marbles running loose upstairs.”
“No one tells a story like you. Or listens.”
“You’ve heard a’ ma stories before. Its just that you dinnae eyewis remember them.”
“I remember them,” she says quietly. “I just like to hear you tell them.”
“You tell me one first.”
“About what?”
“Not about what – about who.”
The young woman is silent for a moment which spills into seconds and onwards towards eternity.
“There’s one boy … at college. I think we’re friends – I don’t know, maybe more. But what if – what if he doesn’t like me? What if I say something and he stops speaking to me. What if…”
He shakes his head. “Ma old mum used to say the saddest two words in the dictionary are 'what if', but that’s no’ true. Those two words can be happy, hopeful, sad, confusing or whatever you want. But keep them unsaid and you fill them to the brim with regret. The only way to find out is to 'find out'.”
“I’d rather reject before I’m rejected,” she insists. “Then it’s not 'what if' – it’s a question of 'who’s to blame'. Better to play it safe.”
“Better for who?” he asks. “I mind an old auntie of mine. Jean. Got in tow late on in life with a lad called Gerry. They were just pals, but I think she wanted more. Eyewis talked about how handsome he wis. Now ah'm no Omar Sharif. But when he finally showed his coupon – oof, he wis mair 'oh-mammy daddy'.”
The young woman laughs and looks like a child again.
“One eye going east, the other west – never the twain shall meet,” he chuckles. “Love might no’ be blind, but hers definitely had a squint.
“Now, Jean had designs on romance, but she wis shy – eyewis put off telling him. She used to meet him off the train – waiting for him after his nightshift. I'd see her in the mornings – back then I wis riding the tracks to a welding job out Paisley way. She would sit holding a flask, in her best red coat – waiting for Gerry.
“One day, I forgot ma gear and had to come back on the next train. Jean was still sitting there. Station deserted, just her and that wee flask.”
He meets her eyes. “That’s the thing about the future. You never know when it’s going to trundle by while you’re waiting for it to arrive. Wee Gerry had died the year before. Jean never telt anyone. I dinnae know why she kept sitting there. I think she missed the routine. But most of all she missed him.
“The world forgot him and moved on, but she didnae. She kept a vigil. Waiting for a wee cross-eyed man she secretly loved, who was never going to come home again.”
The young woman nods, blinking back tears. “Maybe I’ll tell her tomorrow.”
The old man looks at her and the terrible wisdom in his gaze pulls at her heart. “Dinnae leave it too late.”
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“That’s what pals are for,” he replies with a smile. “Remember, love is energy – and energy cannae be destroyed, only converted.” He opens his hands wide, like he’s performing a trick. “Every sun is a star and even stars fall from the sky eventually, but the light from them never disappears, not completely. It’s still travelling – off to reach and warm another world.”
He says the words as usual and then she wakes.
And suddenly, the young woman and the old man are 47 years and thousands of miles away.
As the dream fades, there’s the familiar heartsick sadness, but also profound gratitude … and relief. She leans across and touches the man sleeping beside her. He sighs softly, but doesn’t stir.
The young soul who has become old, lies back and thinks of her grandpa – as far away as the rays of the sun, but as close as the heart beating in her chest – their love and friendship echoing through the years like the sound of a train going home.