Sheila worked the Edinburgh to Inverness line. She believed in customer service—always alert and accommodating, the epitome of professionalism. She took care with her appearance. Minimal makeup accentuated her freckles, and a hint of lipstick livened her welcoming smile. Her curly auburn hair brushed the shoulders of her navy-blue Scotrail jacket.
Kenny’s new job entailed regular trips to Inverness. He took the train, the seven- thirty service from Edinburgh Waverley station, returning on the five-fifteen. Kenny’s trips coincided with Sheila’s shifts.
She afforded him a brief smile the first time he handed her his ticket.
In due course, she added a “good morning” or “good evening”.
This, in turn, led to a passing comment: “I hope you’re enjoying your journey” or “Take care, have a good day.”
Kenny would nod, as he was not one for small talk. He watched her move along the train aisle, stopping to check other passengers’ tickets before pressing the button on the door that led into the next carriage.
One Saturday afternoon, Kenny took his weekly stroll in Princes Street Gardens. He recognised the woman walking ahead of him. She was not wearing her Scotrail uniform. He recognised her gait—the way she held out her right hand to steady herself.
It was a crisp autumn day, the final leaves clinging to the silver birches, the ground solid underfoot. Earthquakes in Edinburgh rarely exceeded 1 on the Richter scale. Sheila raised her arm through force of habit, accustomed to walking back and forth on a swaying train, accompanied by the whoosh and click of metal wheels on metal rails.
When Kenny got closer, she turned and smiled.
“It’s you,” she said.
“Yes.” He nodded. “It’s me.”
“Waverley to Inverness,” she said. “The seven-thirty.”
“Back on the five-fifteen.”
He asked if she would like to go for a coffee. It was unlike him, normally awkward around people he didn’t know, but that’s not how he felt with Sheila.
They met several times after that—trips to the theatre or cinema, followed by drinks in The Blue Blazer. Kenny told her about his life, his routines and circumscribed expectations.
He continued his regular trips to Inverness, but used a later service: the eight-ten north and the six-fifteen south, so he wouldn’t meet Sheila. He preferred to keep their relationship separate from work.
Six months later, Kenny and Sheila sat at the table in his kitchen. They had finished eating, a Sunday roast with Kenny’s special onion gravy. He reached for her hand, and asked her to marry him. Sheila accepted his proposal.
Kenny watched her go down the hall to the bathroom. She listed to one side, righted herself, and extended an arm for balance.
He took the flute glasses from the dresser and a bottle of Moët from the fridge.
When she returned, he handed her a glass of champagne. They sat on the living room couch and toasted their future.
“You said you never believed you’d get married. A dyed-in-the-wool bachelor.” Sheila smiled. “What is it about me that’s changed your mind?”
“You’re the one for me.” Kenny raised his glass. “The one and only.”
“But why?” She leaned forward, expectation shimmering in her eyes. “What is it you really like about me?”
Kenny put his glass on the coffee table. “It’s the way you walk.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “Like you’re constantly doubtful. It’s as if you feel everything around you is unreliable.”
“Really?” Sheila laughed and shook her head. “And that’s the reason you’d marry me?”
“Is it not enough?”
INSTANT NOODLES 