The train was late. Twenty minutes. Nothing new for the Sligo/Dublin train. Late, always late.
“There must be extra cows on the line this morning,” Dad laughed, sharing our usual joke. His eyes danced with devilment.
I turned to look up at the passenger information screen.
Eighteen minutes.
“It’ll get to fifteen and then it will jump back up to seventeen. Wait until you see. And when it does arrive someone will be sitting in our seats… again. I turned back to my… Dad!”
I look up and down the platform. Where was he? I began to tremble.
“Dad?” I called frantically.
Everyone stared. I had their attention instantly. I ran to the platforms and looked down the track. As I turned, there was a shocked look on everyone’s face.
“Did anyone see a man? Em… peak cap, navy wool coat, brown shoes, late eighties, about five foot eight?
They all shook their heads.
Why would they notice?
Old people were invisible, after all.

They were too busy looking at their phones. Why would they notice?
I scanned the crowd. He was nowhere to be seen.
I flew up and down the platform and then into the ticket area. No sign. I ran outside to the car park. No sign. Up the road to the train station entrance, up the steps to the pedestrian bridge where I stood and scanned every square inch around me, including the track. I needed to find him before that train came.
I needed to find him.
“The station master, the train dispatcher?”

I ran back. Still, no sign.
Frantic now I raced back to the platform, time was of the essence.
“Excuse me, sorry, I’m trying to find my dad. Peak cap, navy wool coat, brown shoes, late eighties, about five foot eight?” I repeated the description to everyone in my way.
“Did anyone see the train dispatcher?”
“The station master?”
They all looked at me blankly. A kind lady shook her head.
I ran back inside, the ticket office was empty, I hammered on the office door.

“Hold up young lad, leave the door standing, there’s a ticket machine here,” he pointed to his left, “and the train is delayed, so you have plenty of t…” he stopped.
“Are you okay?”

“My dad, I need to find him. Peak cap, navy wool coat, brown shoes, late eighties, about five foot eight before the train comes. He might get hurt.”
“Why?” he looked puzzled.
“Because he might get on the track. Please, have you seen him?
“Have you tried…?”
“I tried the track, the platform, outside the station, the carpark, the steps, the waiting passengers and the track… the track!”
I made a move and he stopped me.
“Have you tried the old track? The Athlone line.” He pointed in the opposite direction. “Go, I’ll stop the train coming in.”
I ran to the right fork of the station to the old abandoned line.
There he was. On the track.
He looked up.
“This is a right mess.”
I helped him up.
“It sure is Dad, I bet they didn’t know the track inspector was coming today. There will be wigs on the green tomorrow.”
He grinned.
“Let’s go and make up your report.”
With explanations given and gratitude expressed, we climbed aboard the waiting train. I wanted to go home. But I knew how important the thrice-weekly train journey to Dublin and straight back was for Dad.

Coach B.
Seats five and six were waiting.

Dad looked up,
“Look Mark. Our names,” he smiled.
“Father and son.”