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Chapter 4
The Gare du Nord was ridiculously busy, like Waterloo at its worst. It was a stunning building, I had to give it that, all peaked roofs and arched windows, but not quite beautiful enough to make up for the crowds and the noise and the slippery floors and the irate drivers outside in the taxi rank. And the fact that I was freezing cold, soaked through and wearing what I suspected was now a completely see-through vest. I joined a cluster of people huddled around the departures and arrivals screen, my lungs burning with the exertion of charging uphill, my eyes scanning through a list of places I’d never heard of. I needed there to be a very fast train to Amsterdam leaving pretty much immediately, which given that I couldn’t seem to catch a break today, was possibly asking a bit much. I spotted one, though, halfway down: the 07.20 calling first at Brussels, then at Antwerp, Rotterdam, Schiphol (which I thought was the airport) and finally Centraal. I had no idea how long all this was going to take, although Holland sounded far away, and I would have passed through two other countries to get there. It was 7.09; I had eleven minutes to buy a ticket and board the train, and then at least I would be on my way. There would be some good news to report to Si when he called me back.
I spotted a sign for Billets at the back of the building, although it was the most stylish ticket office I’d ever seen and looked more like the open-plan office of some sort of creative start-up, with wooden desks and computer screens and huge pewter lampshades numbered one to thirteen hanging over each pod. I ran to join the back of the queue. People were grumbling to each other and looking at watches and nobody seemed to be moving and even when they did, they fussed and dithered about which desk to approach. There were two guys standing at the front dressed in black: I had no idea whether they were security guards there to control the crowds, or ticket officers strategically placed to help. I stood on tiptoes, struggling to gauge what the situation actually was. There were at least fifteen people in front of me and although there were several kiosks open, each transaction seemed to be taking forever, with people taking out maps and pointing at things, then fumbling around in their backpacks. I was pretty sure that whatever it was they needed, they could have got it ready while they were waiting in the queue. I felt like shouting: Just buy your ticket and fucking well go!
From the depths of my bag I heard a ringing sound. It must be Si.
‘Hello?’ I said, pressing my finger to my ear.
‘Hannah? It’s me.’
‘Oh Si, thank God.’
‘What’s happened? Are you seriously in Paris?’
‘You got my messages, then,’ I said, cringing. I could just imagine his face; the way his eyes turned from green to slate-grey when he was annoyed about something.
‘Eventually,’ he said, ‘but only after I’d walked up and down the length of the train about five times wondering what the fuck was going on. I’ve been out of my mind with worry here, Han.’
The queue moved forward by about an inch. If I’d had the guts I would have waltzed straight to the front, begged someone to take pity on me; charmed them into letting me cut the queue.
‘I can imagine, Si, honestly, I can. I should never have moved seats. I couldn’t sleep and I panicked.’
‘Since when do trains just split like that, anyway?’ he said, sounding out of breath, like he’d just come back from one of his runs. ‘I’ll be calling the train company the minute we get home. They absolutely did not make their instructions clear.’
‘I know,’ I said, relieved that it wasn’t me he was blaming, at least not entirely.
He sighed. ‘Look, the main thing is that you’re all right. You are, aren’t you?’
‘Course,’ I reassured him.
‘Jesus, Han. Are you even going to make it in time for the wedding?’
There was a sudden surge of activity and I moved about five places forward.
‘There’s a train in ten minutes,’ I told him glancing back up at the screen. ‘I’m nearly at the front of the queue.’
‘Call me back, then, when you know what’s happening.’
‘Where are you now?’ I asked.
‘Still on the train. We’ve got another couple of hours at least. God, I’m going to have to explain this to Mum and Catherine when I get there. Wish me luck.’
A window came free and I scrambled over to the counter, telling the cashier what it was I wanted in a garbled mix of English and French.
‘Si, I’ll speak to you later.’
‘I’ve got your suitcase, ok, so don’t worry about that. It’ll be waiting for you at the hotel.’
‘And tell Catherine I’ll be there, whatever it takes.’
I then became one of those people I had literally just vilified, beginning a frantic search for my credit card, pulling things out of my bag, lobbing my phone and my book and a handful of coins on the counter. I felt all jittery, like when I’d drunk more than one espresso on the trot. Why wasn’t it in the zipped section of the bag where I’d put it? After a bit more rummaging I found the card for the joint account, which Si had instructed me was only to be used for bills and household emergencies. It must have fallen out of my purse at some point in Venice and since this was clearly a matter of urgency, I handed it to the cashier without hesitation. Si would understand. I watched her punch digits into the card machine, doing a double take when I realised it was going to cost me 180 euros.
‘Is that the cheapest ticket?’ I asked, gutted that a one-way train journey could cost that much.
‘It is, Madame,’ she said, looking down her nose at me. Admittedly, I doubted I was looking my best, all sweaty and grubby and dripping all over her counter.
‘I’ll take one,’ I said, having very little choice. If this was what it took to get everything back on track, then it would be worth every penny.
