The Anniversary Trip – A Short Story

His old bones creaked as he climbed out of bed. Frank steadied himself and stretched the worst of the stiffness from his limbs. Three unsteady steps took him to the window, where he tugged the curtain open. A cloudless blue sky greeted him.

“Perfect,” he croaked.

Frank had been planning this day for months. The weather was the one thing beyond his control, but it would take more than a few spots of rain to deter him from taking the trip. Nevertheless, a sunny sky was a blessing.

He slipped into his dressing gown and hobbled down the hallway of his compact bungalow. The gentle hum of the fridge greeted him in the otherwise silent kitchen. He filled the kettle with enough water for a single cup and switched it on. Frank gazed out of the window as the kettle rumbled away. The view of the garden, once his pride and joy, offered little of either these days.

The old man poured himself a cup of tea and shuffled over to a chair at the kitchen table. Careful not to spill his morning brew, he slowly eased himself down. On any other day he’d breakfast on buttered toast, but a mixture of excitement and apprehension had quashed his appetite.

It would take precisely six minutes to finish his tea. With so much time on his hands, Frank had become adept at calculating ways to waste it. In reality, that meant long hours in an armchair, reminiscing over a life that had passed by in a heartbeat. Now, the slow crawl of time was a constant torment.

Still, planning the trip had given him something meaningful to focus on.

On cue, Frank gulped back the last dregs of tea and padded over to the sink. For as long as he could remember, Joyce had nagged him for leaving unwashed cups for her to deal with. He allowed himself a wry smile as he rinsed the cup and placed it on the drainer.

Bolstered by the injection of caffeine, Frank shuffled back down the hallway to the bathroom. Everything he needed was already positioned on the shelf: a razor, his trusty old shaving brush, a bar of coal tar soap, and a jar of his favourite pomade. He filled the sink with hot water and set about his ablutions.

Fifteen minutes later, with stubble shaved and hair coiffed, Frank opened the bathroom cabinet. He reached for a near-empty bottle of cologne and pulled out the stopper. The warm scent of musk and sandalwood escaped, triggering memories of happier times. He splashed the last dozen drops of amber liquid into his palm and patted his cheeks; an act that once made him wince.

Pain is relative, he thought.

He returned to the bedroom and opened the wardrobe door.

Much like Frank, the navy-blue suit had seen better days. Unlike Frank, it still served a purpose. He slipped into a starched cotton shirt and put on the suit. Leather brogues and his regimental tie completed the ensemble.

Frank was almost ready, bar one final addition. He reached up and pulled a shoebox from a shelf in the wardrobe. Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, he opened the lid.

Amongst the letters and certificates lay a trinket box containing seven silver discs, each attached to a coloured ribbon. Although worthy of pride, the medals were scant consolation for the horrors he’d witnessed during tours he’d tried hard to forget.

With an unsteady hand, he pinned them one by one to his jacket.

With the job done, Frank inspected the barely recognisable figure staring back at him in the mirror. Life had given him everything he had asked for, but time and God’s will had taken it all away, leaving behind a sad husk of a man. No more a soldier. No more a husband. No more a father. Frank had fought too many battles and suffered too many wounds. Most, he knew, would never heal.

He straightened and stood to attention.

Frank allowed himself a few seconds of quiet contemplation, then met his own gaze once more.

“All set, my old mate?” he whispered.

The reflection returned a faint nod. Frank steeled himself and made his way to the front door. After a quick check to ensure he had everything for his trip, he said goodbye to his little bungalow.

May was a fine month — never too hot, never too cold — and this day in May was as good as he could have wished for. With the sun on his back, Frank forced his weary legs to march on. He navigated a quiet lane until the train station came into sight. He checked his watch.

The young man behind the counter processed his request with polite efficiency. Ticket acquired, Frank made his way to the platform. Another check of his watch — the 10:16 to King’s Cross due in three minutes.

Frank looked up and down the empty platform. The small suburban station was only ever busy when commuters bustled to and from work. He didn’t envy their daily pilgrimage in crowded carriages; a waste of so much precious time.

The distant rumble dragged Frank from his thoughts. Turning to his right, he could just make out the approaching train. Punctuality pleased the old soldier.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds and assured himself the trip would be worthwhile. Another glance up the track — three hundred yards and closing. Frank looked to the sky and uttered the words he’d prepared the night before.

“I’m coming, Joyce,” he whispered. “Be there soon, sweetheart.”

Intent on keeping his word, Frank took four strides forward — three across the tarmac platform, the fourth beyond its edge.

The 10:16 non-stop service to King’s Cross thundered on.