by Abigail Phillips

Created on: June 01, 2008   Last Updated: November 28, 2011

It was a high urban platform, on a level with upstairs windows, and it came just before a bridge over a busy road. On one side there was an enormous billboard and then a cluster of terraced houses. On the other a giant McDonalds M' above a drive - through. On this particular Tuesday morning the day was already hot, the sky an oppressive white, and the silent grey strips of platform were deserted.

There were three people who had seen it in all weathers; when the steps were covered with ice and orange-brown grit, when the smoke from the traffic or an early morning cigarette hung motionless in the air, when the first damp, festering smell of spring arrived, when weeds began to straggle through cracks in the concrete and rain scattered them towards the platform shelter.

These same three people caught the 8.45 from Tottenham Hale to Kings Cross St. Pancras every morning and this day was no exception.

At 8.43 arrived a tall man in his 30s, his white shirt already losing its crispness, his head already starting to hurt. He walked like a man tired of effort but his long legs ensured he reached any destination quickly.

At 8.44 came a large black woman, puffing for breath and inwardly cursing the steps she had to climb every morning. For the privilege of waiting for a train that would probably be late. Gripping the dirty metal railings she wrenched herself onto the platform and made her way to the seats in the shelter. Spreading herself over the narrow plastic slats, she examined her red nails. "Fine nails" she thought to herself and began to recite under her breath her lunch break tasks. "Birthday card for Rosie, something pretty. Pay cheque into Abbey National. Buy milk. Always need milk. Perhaps, if there's time, browse the sale in Dorothy Perkins".

The tall man waited, glanced up the shimmering track, and saw nothing. Then he heard the next familiar sound, the light shuffling of small feet on metal steps. He held his breath but he knew it had to be her. At exactly 8.45 a small copper head bobbed up the steps at odds with the weary, hot body beneath it. Of course it was her. She had discarded the black duffel coat in favour of a denim jacket. "It must be summer", he thought as she arrived on the platform, expressionless, her curls straggling out of their clip, and slumped onto a seat. He relaxed. The trio was complete.

And so they waited. One leaning languidly against the shelter, another squashed uncomfortably on a small plastic seat, the third sitting at the other

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