‘Carry-on luggage,’ said the trip organiser by email. ‘If we all take only carry-on luggage we won’t have to do any hanging about at the airport.’ I spent the evening before I left packing, unpacking, sifting, making new decisions and repacking my smallest suitcase until I was more or less satisfied I had made the neatest use of the limited space available. In the process of reorganisation, I swapped a pair of thick cotton pyjamas for a thinner pair and my electric toothbrush for a folding one. The long linen trousers stayed, but out went socks and underwear.
Books I considered carefully. Many a time I’ve gone away laden with a small library, then read nothing all week except laminated menu cards and the contraindications advice for medicines. One good thick book, I decided, was my allowance, and I put in Sir James Frazer’s The Golden Bough. Then I came to my senses and changed this for the less substantial Customs and Language of the Nandi by A.C. Boyle. In the final cut, however, that was jettisoned in favour of an old paperback copy of Dr No. My one indefensible extravagance was a stick-on England tattoo, in gothic lettering, water-resistant for up to three days, an impulse buy at the supermarket checkout. If I didn’t make use of the tattoo myself, I figured, I could always leave it as a tip for the hotel chambermaid.
Normally when I go away, I leave the house in a blind panic. But on this occasion I was calm. The case was packed and I was certain in my mind that I had omitted nothing essential. The rail tickets to and from Gatwick were booked and paid for. My passport was valid and the visa arranged. My phone and camera batteries were fully charged. I knew which pocket my passport was in and which my wallet.
I arrived at the sunny country station in good time. And as I sat on the old station bench on the crumbling, sun-baked platform listening to the birds, it occurred to me that my life had reached a pitch of perfection that in the not so distant past I would not have believed possible. I was fit as a fiddle. South Devon, where I live, and now that spring has sprung so gorgeously, is surely the most beautiful place in the world. My credit card was viable and I had a decent haircut. Going abroad thrills me to the marrow still. And by this time tomorrow, I speculated, I would be relaxing on a white beach beside a turquoise sea.
I called up my boy on the mobile to say goodbye and ask him what sort of fags I should bring back. ‘Any,’ he said. He put his six-month-old son on to say farewell to his grandfather. I didn’t imagine for a moment that the cheerful incoherent ravings I now heard represented a valediction, or were even directed at me, but my cup of happiness was full.
The InterCity express rumbled alongside the rural platform, shutting out the sun. Dead on time. Empty seats, loads of them. Room for everyone. Room to stretch out and be human. About a dozen of us converged at the doors. After you. No, please, after you. I mounted the steps, heard the familiar whoosh of the sliding door as I entered the carriage. My favourite seat, the one backing on to the lavatory, was free. I sat down and unlaced my shoes. A pregnant pause, then silently, barely perceptibly, the platform fell away, then, as the train picked up speed, a derelict dairy, a still river, water meadows, a meditative cow by a gate. So many significant episodes in my life have begun at that country station and with that sequence. Some were disastrous, but most have been happy. I’ve had a fortunate life, I thought to myself.
It was at this point, roughly, that it occurred to me that my suitcase wasn’t with me; that I had got on the train without it; that I’d left it on the platform. I stood up as though electrocuted. I went on tiptoe to search the luggage rack, then down on my knees to look under the seat. Nothing. Just air. Twenty-five minutes later, I was leaning out of the window of the next-down train, frantically scanning the platform for my suitcase. It was gone. I checked the ticket office to see if it had been removed there for security reasons. The office was closed. The station had been unmanned for the last two hours, said a taxi-driver waiting by the kerb outside. Staff shortages, he added knowledgeably. I told him about my suitcase. He drew judiciously on his cigarette as he listened. ‘Who’s a silly boy, then?’ he said when I’d finished.
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