The Colour of Rust
© Stephen Cain
580 words
He could see nothing as he walked, but could sense the solid wall of a building on one side of his face and empty space on the other. Taking small steps, he turned and advanced towards the space, tapping right and left with his stick. He felt the rough asphalt give way to smooth concrete through the leather soles of his shoes just as his stick swung in empty space. Having found his way to the edge of the platform, the man with the white stick stepped back two paces.
There were three people waiting at the railway station this day. No one had spoken, but he could hear their clothes rustling. One was obese — he could tell by the laboured breathing. There was a smell of stone dust and a trace of rose-scented moisturising cream mingled with new gabardine.
The man in the quiet worsted suit looked at his watch impatiently. "Does anyone know whether the train has been through yet?" he asked.
"Dunno, mate," said the big man in the dusty overalls.
The girl in the gabardine overcoat shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
"It should be here in a few minutes," said the blind man.
"It's very late," said the impatient man. "It might have passed through already ."
"No, it's still on its way — I can hear it coming," said the blind man.
They became silent, three of them straining to separate the sound of an approaching train from a towering silence made up of the roar of distant traffic and the snarling of heavy machinery from a nearby quarry, a silence that was punctuated by an assortment of bird calls and given shape by the empty sky and station wall behind them.
"I can't hear it," said the impatient man.
"If you look along the track, you'll be able to see it round the bend in a moment," said the blind man.
Three pairs of eyes searched the distance where the track disappeared around the shoulder of a hill.
"See?"
"Oh yes — I see the headlight," said the impatient man.
"Why is it so bright?" asked the girl.
No one answered.
Suddenly the watchers too could hear the bellowing of the approaching diesel engine. The blare of its horns sounded from all sides as echoes flew back and forth across the towering space. The train took several more minutes to reach them, its clanking rhythm slowing as it glided into the station.
"After you," said the impatient man to the blind man when the train had finally come to rest.
"Thank you, but this is not my train," said the blind man.
The impatient man, the quiet girl in the gabardine overcoat, and the big man in the dusty overalls climbed aboard.
When the sound of the departing train had faded completely, the blind man turned and walked slowly, very slowly, back along the platform. How he wished that he too could see the train's headlight wink on as it rounded the bend, that he too might gasp at its golden brilliance, might be lost in silent awe as the unimaginable splendour of the light filled his universe from top to bottom! He wondered when his train would come. Perhaps it would be tomorrow.
The tapping of his stick grew fainter as he left the station where everything was the colour of rust — everything, the ancient weatherboards, the tattered posters, the broken benches, the crumbling platform, the sleepers, the long-disused railway tracks...