NanaNana always said that the best secrets were the ones buried in the garden, so I started digging with my bare hands.

The platform announcement had already been made, and I walked out onto the platform. After a week away on business, I was heading home. As I entered the sleeper carriage and found my lower berth, I heard someone coming down the aisle, breathing heavily. I turned round. An elderly woman was standing opposite, trying to catch her breath. She had a wheeled bag that looked more like a rucksack, and wore an autumn coat and a bright headscarf.

“Oh, that’s all I need,” I thought. “Gran’s obviously my neighbour. She’ll want the lower berth.”

“Look here, sonny,” she said when she’d got her breath back, “I think mine’s the lower one.”

And so it was. She made a fuss, stowing her things. I noticed she was well past seventy. “Fancy that,” I thought, “and at that age she’s still travelling. Why can’t she stay at home…”

At last she sat down on her berth, folded her hands on her knees like a schoolgirl. Passengers were boarding, but no one came to the upper bunks in our section, so I resigned myself to the journey with an elderly woman I’d have nothing to say to.

The train pulled out. Soon the attendant came round with the linen. The woman fussed over the bedding, smoothing and tucking it in carefully. Then she sat back and spoke first.

“I’m not used to a bed like this. I’ve got a nice soft mattress at home, and here I’ll be lying on a plank and jolting my ribs. I haven’t travelled since my young days. I never thought I’d travel again.”

I nodded and kept quiet.

“My name’s Mildred Cartwright. What should I call you?”

“Victor.”

“And your surname?”

“Matthews. But Victor’s fine.”

“Yes, you’re young, so Victor it is. Off to see someone?”

“Why would I be?” I said, surprised. “I’m going home from a business trip.”

“Really! Home, that’s good. And here I am leaving home in my old age.” She suddenly went quiet and looked out of the window. I thought I saw tears in her eyes, though she wasn’t crying. I felt ashamed that I’d been so unfriendly to my elderly neighbour.

“So are you going home, or leaving it?” I said, hoping to soften my earlier coldness.

“Leaving it, love, leaving it. That’s why it feels strange. The journey’s only a day and a bit, but I’m restless in the train.”

“Who are you going to?”

“To my daughter.” Mildred Cartwright took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped away the tear that had escaped.

“That should make you happy, not sad.”

“Oh, I am happy. I hadn’t seen my daughter for five years. I’d begun to think I’d never see her again.”

“Had you quarrelled?”

“Yes, sonny, and it was my fault as much as hers. Our tempers didn’t let us live in peace when she was younger. Pride got in the way. That’s why we didn’t see each other all those years. Once she’d grown up we couldn’t get on. I brought her up without her father, and it wasn’t easy—we were always rowing. She married the first time just to spite me, and it didn’t work out. And I didn’t give her one kind word; I kept blaming her. That’s how we went through life. She turned my granddaughter against me; everything she did was to cross me. And five years ago she sold her flat and moved away without saying where. I went to the police and made enquiries—I was worried out of my mind, because she’d taken my granddaughter with her.

Then she got in touch. She wrote that she was fine, that she’d remarried, but I was not to look for her or come and see her, ever. So I carried that burden all those years. In that time I understood I’d been wrong too. She didn’t listen to me, she held it against me, but she was still my daughter.

Then a year ago a letter came from Tracy—that’s my daughter’s name. She wrote where she lived, that she’d divorced long ago, and that she was a grandmother herself. She asked after my health. I cried all night, and then I wrote back that I couldn’t live without them. We spoke on the phone and realised we were both to blame.

My granddaughter’s just had a child, so I’m a great-grandmother now. Tracy helps her with everything, and with her job she can’t get away, so she asked me to come. What was I to do? I locked up the little cottage, gave the key to my neighbour and asked her to keep an eye on it and put the heating on if it turned cold. I packed my bag and made up my mind to go to my daughter. Who knows how much time I’ve got left? I want to see her.”

I didn’t say anything. I was thinking about my own mother, whom I rarely went to see. She lived in a village, and so did my elder sister. I’d always assumed my sister would look after her. But now, after hearing this, my chest ached and a sadness came over me. I was her son. She missed me and wanted to see me more often.

I talked with Mildred Cartwright for the whole journey, and the time passed before we knew it. I helped her off the train and saw a pleasant-looking woman coming towards us, staring anxiously in our direction. I stood aside. The two women met each other’s eyes, embraced, and held on to each other for a long time. Both were crying. It was such a moving meeting that I had no doubt they would be all right now. Yes, definitely all right.

I walked away, wanting to shake off the emotion that had surged up in me. So much had become clear after that meeting. I took out my mobile and dialled my mother’s number. I just wanted to say:

“Mum, I’ve arrived, I’m here. Expect me at the weekend.”Mum? Yes, it’s me. I’m fine. I’ll be there on Saturday. I promise.

He listened for a moment, and a smile crept across his face. “No, nothing’s wrong. I just… I wanted to hear your voice. That’s all. I wanted to tell you I love you.”

The words came out before he could stop them, and for a long moment the line was silent. When his mother spoke again, her voice was small and trembling, the way it used to be when he was a boy and she tucked him in at night.

“I love you too, Victor. I always have. I’ll bake your favourite cake.”

He swallowed hard, blinked the sting from his eyes, and said goodbye. Then he pocketed the phone and stood still on the platform as the world rushed past him. Ahead, Mildred Cartwright and her daughter were still holding each other, laughing now through their tears. He watched them for a moment, then turned away—but this time the weight in his chest had lifted.

The train had carried him home, but an old woman in a bright headscarf had shown him the way. He walked on, lighter than he had felt in years, already counting the hours until Saturday.