Short Story: A man in the central reservation near the station

Colchester’s North Station is not a glamorous place. Part Victorian, Part 1960’s, it features the kind of long, slow incline up to the platform that makes you think you might be ascending to some kind of greatness. Instead you’ll find overpriced tea, and not enough seats.

There’s an optimum train to catch if I’m not heading to London early: the 7:17. It doesn’t stop at some of the main commuter towns on the line and manages to get to London just before the perennially overcrowded ‘express’ service.

On the mornings when I’m on my way to that train I notice a man. He’s standing in the middle of the busy main road that runs past the station, traffic flying past him as he leans against the central crash barrier. Dressed in the commuter uniform of chinos and Gore-Tex, he’s always rolling a cigarette. What he does next astounds me.

Lifting one leg over the barrier he balances astride it. Picking his tobacco from the pouch he studies the traffic. Sensing his moment he leans forward, his other leg barely clearing the barrier, and stumbles forward into the traffic; missing the early morning buses and Chelsea tractors by inches. Onwards he dashes, up the gentle incline and off to London. All whilst still casually rolling himself a fag.

I’ve seen this feat of extreme pedestrianeering three times now. Same man. Same place. Same time.

I’ve never seen him on the train, or in the station. Only in the central reservation.