I looked up from my book to see a flustered looking woman, loaded down with bags. She had that slightly desperate look on her face, you know the one that seems to beg for the seat. Luckily it was not my brother’s seat so I offered it up.
“No, not at all. Please…”
She visibly relaxed then struggled to put her bags up on the overhead rack. After a lot of huffing and puffing she managed to get all but her handbag up on the rack and then she slumped down into the seat with more relief than one often sees over a seat on a train.
“Thanks.”
Her smile was delightful, and I realised that her voice was not what I had been used to hearing for the past few weeks, since we had been in the States.
“No problem. You’re British, right?”
She smiled and nodded;
“Yes, yes I am. I’m from a little place called Manchester, and not the one in New Hampshire, I’m from the original one.”
I consciously dropped my faux mid-Atlantic;
“Me too, me an’ our Kid, ‘e’ll be back wit’bevvies any minute.”
I love the memory of her face.
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