The passenger

 

There was an old man who used to catch my ferry every morning. Battered brown briefcase, dark blue pinstripe and white pocket handkerchief, you know the type. His folded Telegraph and thin greased hair were daily sights for some years. I never once saw him speak to another passenger though. Short-distance commuters seldom engage in deep conversation but most at least develop travel friends and perhaps exchange a few words. Not this man.

Same seat every morning, cheeks shaved and black brogues polished. He never made eye contact, just seemed to look right through you. Sad, because a study of his face left you with the distinct impression he would be interesting to talk to. Sometimes he opened the briefcase with a soft click and slipped a liver-spotted hand inside. He might have been rearranging papers.

Alighting at the quay he walked purposefully towards the High Street each day. Somehow I always lost sight of him in the shifting crowd. One day last year as we queued to disembark I passed his seat and was surprised to see the familiar briefcase lying unattended. The old man was nowhere to be seen so I flipped the catch and looked inside hoping for a name. The case was empty. I never saw him again.

Green waves still buoy us passengers up each day.

 

"Yesterday upon the stair

I met a man who wasn't there.

He wasn't there again today

Oh how I wish he'd go away."

Hughes Mearns