THE FRIDAY SPECIAL
(A Snippets Book)
David Elvar
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 David Elvar
Smashwords Edition License Notes
Thank you for downloading this free e-book. It may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes provided it remains in its complete and original form, and that the author and Smashwords are given full acknowledgement.
~oOo~
Mrs. Johnson settled quickly into her retirement cottage.
She moved in with her cat, her knitting and memories of a whole lifetime of adventure. What she didn’t know, though, was that she was about to have her greatest adventure of all.
Her cottage was an old railway station. The railway itself had long gone, leaving a charming old building and a long, thin garden that stretched away from either end of the platform. And it was in this garden, where there used to be railway tracks, that her adventure took place.
The previous owner had let the garden run wild, and she set to work clearing the weeds and cutting the grass, and within a few days, she had the trimmest, primmest garden she could have wished for.
It was on the Friday evening as she was sitting in her favourite chair on the platform and enjoying a well-earned cup of tea that she heard a most curious sound. It was a kind of wheesh—wheesh that was almost a little frightening. Quick as a flash, she jumped up and hid behind her chair. And as she peered out, she couldn’t believe what her eyes were telling her.
It was a steam train. More than that, this steam train was coming along her garden. And more than even that, it was glowing faintly in the dark. It slowed…stopped right beside the potted geraniums…waited for a few minutes, then—
Whuff!…Whuff!…Whuff!
—it started away and she could see her lawn again.
Well, she thought, that was a sight and no mistake! But what was it? She decided to find out.
She tried the Post Office, because she knew a Post office was where she would find all the best gossip and local knowledge.
‘Just out of interest,’ she asked the lady behind the counter, ‘when did the last train run through here?’
‘That’s just it,’ the lady replied. ‘One still does run through here. A ghost train. The Friday Special, folk call it.’
‘Friday Special?’ she repeated, puzzled.
‘That’s right! Every Friday just after dark, it steams into the old station and stops for a few minutes then goes on its way again, and nobody knows why.’
Well, Mrs Johnson wasn’t at all troubled by this story. She’d had a lifetime of adventure and nothing really fazed her any more. But she was curious to know why this train still stopped, and always at the same time on a Friday. She decided to find out. And the way to do that, she thought, was simply to ask the driver.
So there she was, that next Friday evening, sitting at her kitchen window as the sun went down. And sure enough, right on time, she heard the faint wheesh—wheesh of a steam train drifting into the station and stopping. Taking all her courage in her hands, she stepped out her back door and marched boldly up to the engine’s cab.
‘Good evening,’ she called out, and in the doorway of the cab appeared the engine driver, a pale white figure that glowed faintly in the dark.
‘Good evening,’ he replied.
‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘why do you stop here every Friday?’
‘Because that’s the timetable,’ said the driver. ‘Once a week, this train. And on a Friday.’
‘I see,’ said Mrs. Johnson, beginning to understand. ‘And why do you stop? To pick up passengers?’
‘That’s the idea but this line hasn’t seen passengers in years. No, I stop now because the stationmaster would bring me out a cup of tea. He hasn’t been out for some time, though.’
‘I see,’ Mrs. Johnson said again. ‘Well, as it happens, I’m rather good at making tea. Would you like a cup?’
‘Missus,’ said the driver, ‘I’d love one.’
Mrs. Johnson nodded and went to put the kettle on.
It didn’t take her long, and she was soon back with a steaming cup of hot tea, made really strong with lots of sugar, as she knew engine drivers liked it.
‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘Now, drink up before it gets cold.’
The driver went to take it, but as he did so, his hand passed straight through it.
Oh, dear,’ said Mrs. Johnson. ‘I forgot. You’re a ghost.’
The engine driver nodded glumly. ‘I was looking forward to that tea, too.’
‘I think,’ she said, ‘what you need is not a cup of tea but the ghost of one.’
As she finished speaking, she dropped the cup and it shattered into a hundred pieces on the platform. Almost immediately, the misty form of a steaming cup rose up and hovered before them. The driver reached out to take it and was soon enjoying the first tea break he’d had in years.
‘That was a good idea,’ he said as he drank.
‘Yes, I thought so, too,’ she said. ‘If you like, I’ll do this every Friday.’
‘Won’t you run out of cups?’
Mrs. Johnson smiled. ‘I have a whole box of them. I think I can spare a few.’
So every Friday from that day on, the ghostly train would stop in the garden and Mrs. Johnson would take a cup of tea out to the driver. She would drop it on the platform so he could have his tea break. And they would chat until the time came for him to leave again, for it would not do for even ghost trains to disobey the timetable.
If you should ever go to this village, the people there will tell you that a ghost train called the Friday Special stops at the old station, waits a few minutes then moves off again. And nobody knows why…
…except Mrs Johnson, of course…
~oOo~
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