Megan        by Ron Giles

We caught our train home from Temple Meads. As usual, the train was crowded. We were lucky and found a compartment with some empty seats. Dad put our bags on the luggage rack, and ushered Mum, and we two kids, into the three empty spaces. The people sitting opposite moved up to make room for Dad, but he preferred to stand in the corridor. Dad was like that, and Mum knew that it was no use arguing with him.

It was only a short journey, as we had to change trains at Radstock. Our journey home was completed on the local milk train. There was just a short wait at Radstock.

Our train, a tank engine, pulling one passenger coach, a freight van and a guard’s van, duly ground to a halt at the platform, with much hissing of steam and squealing of brakes. It was the milk train to Devizes. The coach did not have a corridor, just separate compartments.

Mum opened the nearest door, and we got into what we thought was an empty compartment, only to find that there was an elderly lady sat knitting in the far corner. This was no problem, in fact, as Mum said afterwards, we thought that the old dear would welcome some company. But Mum’s

"Good evening, we hope that we are not disturbing you." met with no response.

It was obvious that our fellow traveller did not intend to be disturbed. She just carried on with her knitting and completely ignored us.

Our travelling companion was dressed all in black. A black straw hat, a lacy black frock, finished off with black lace up shoes. In fact she was very much like our own Aunty Agnes. But no way would Aunt Agnes be able to get into a railway carriage, the steps alone would have defeated her. And this lady was knitting; Aunt Agnes’s fingers were all knotted up with rheumatics, she had problems even holding a fork or spoon. Aunt Agnes was ninety years old, this lady looked about the same age.

We trieed to catch her eye, but she never so much as glanced in our direction. My younger brother, Eric, offered her a sweet, but she just kept on knitting. Mum whispered that perhaps she was deaf. Eric wanted to blow up his paper sweet bag, and burst it, just to see if she jumped. But this idea just made Dad cross.

It was a lovely sunset as we travelled slowly, stopping at each station and halt to collect the churns of milk, and dumping off the empty churns and racing pigeon baskets. It reminded me of the poem that we had read at school. Adlestrop.

"No one left and no one came - on the bare platform.

What I saw was Adlestrop - only the name."

The sun was getting low in the sky, and was lost to view as we passed through the cuttings, or was hidden by a rise in the land.

We had come to the conclusion that the old lady was deaf, or very hard of hearing. Dad asked her, in quite a loud voice, if she minded if she minded if he lit his pipe. It was obvious that she had not heard of him. As it was a smoking compartment, Dad lit up. There was no reaction whatsoever, so we just ignored her, and talked normally.

The train was crossing a bridge over a river, the track ran alongside the river bank. A fishing competition was in progress. Fishermen and their fishing tackle were spread all along the bank. I moved over to the other side of the compartment to look out of the window, because the river was now on that side. I decided to stay on this side opposite the old girl. I had the window to myself, but I soon found that it was very cold on this side. The sun was still shining through the windows. The cold seemed to be coming from the old lady, but I knew this ridiculous, There must be an air vent under the seat. I moved back to Mum and Dad.

Whenever we lost sight of the sun, the compartment became very cold. Eric climbed onto the seat and moved the lever over from cool to heat, but it made no difference. The heat was probably turned off for the summer.

I was becoming intrigued by the old lady, I thought that she looked a nice kind person, and I wondered if she had any grandchildren. I was looking at her and wondering all sorts about her. There was something strange, something more than being deaf. She seemed to be alert, yet she showed no reaction whatsoever to any thing that we did. She was in a world of her own, in which we did not exist.

Then I noticed it. She had been busy knitting ever since we had come on the train, and yet there was only one row of stitches on her needles. Her hands were going through the motions of knitting, she did have the wool in her hands, it was connected to the row of stitches on the needles, but no stitches were being formed. No clicking sounds were coming from the needles.

Eric let his window down, a warm stream of air was coming in. I quietly told Mum and Dad about the knitting. They said that, yes, they had noticed the same thing. But that I was not to mention it to Eric.

We were getting near to our home station, so Dad started to get all our things together. He went over to the other window. The lady never looked up from her knitting. Dad spoke to her,

"I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was so cold over here. Had we known, we would have closed our window." She never as much as looked up. Dad turned to Mum and pulled a face, and sat back down.

Our friend, if friend she was, carefully put her knitting in her bag; presumably she was getting out at our station too.

The train pulled up at the platform. Mum got out first and helped Eric and me down, Dad followed with our bits and pieces. Mum turned to see if she could help the old girl, but the compartment was empty. Mum climbed aboard and went to the opposite side, the door was firmly closed. She opened the window and looked out, it was a long drop to the ground, there was no sign of our travelling companion. It was as if she had never been.

The guard was on the platform, and seeing that Mum was agitated, he came along. He heard part of our tale -

"Oh" he said "don’t worry, you’ve had Meg with you". He went on to explain that Fred Cooper and his wife Megan had lived in the Station Cottage some twenty five yearsago (long before the guard’s time on the railway). Fred was the Stationmaster. When Fred retired they had gone to Birmingham, to be near their son and grandchildren.

No one seems to know much about them; the old Railway Cottage has long gone. He went on to tell us that over the years there had been a number of tales of sightings of Mrs Megan Cooper, just as we had described her. Always on the milk train, always between Radstock and here. Never going the other way.

Her journeys are unpredictable. Sometimes, like today, a hot summers day; sometimes in the depth of winter, when snow lays on the ground. Summer or winter she is always dressed the same.

The guard thinks that she probably makes the journey many times without ever being noticed. Few passengers use the milk train, and those that do have very little interest in their fellow travellers. No one has ever reported her boarding or leaving the train.

"And," he laughingly said, "she never buys a ticket."

All of this happened about sixty years ago, when I was about fourteen years old. From time to time I still think of Mrs Cooper and feel sad. Was she trying to get back home ? There will no longer be a milk train from Radstock. Will she travel on the modern diesel trains ? I don’t think so.