Angels Singing In The Wires
Having hung around most of the day, hubby, daughter and I boarded our train from Belgium to Holland. We were greeted by the news that we would have to get out, just short of the border and from there be bussed over the border to the nearest available train station to resume our travels. Apparently the train would be unable to cross, since the points on this side of the border were not working or were incompatible with those on the other side. The outward leg of our journey into Belgium had gone without a hitch; and you would think that this problem, which sounded a fairly regular occurrence, would have been sorted by now. Whatever the reason, it meant that we were disgorged at a small border town, providing Sunday evening entertainment for a child and her father who hung out of the window of their flat under the roof. It was sporting a national flag. At the borders, I imagine that patriotism becomes more colourful. Not knowing how long we would have to stand and wait for a bus, hubby went to buy a bottle of water, and I calculated when would be the best time to share out our small packet of biscuits, the last of the snacks we had brought with us from Scotland.
Then, buses arrived singly or in pairs. The waiting passengers surged like the waves of the sea, as the more able and faster travellers got to the front, boarded buses under siege and left the rest of us waiting. It really made no difference where you might be in any queue. The only determining factor was how fast you could run. Mummies with babies in prams, pensioners, and the elderly were basically left to fend for themselves. Noticing this, eventually I gave up worrying and let a young mother and her baby in a pram on the bus ahead of me. It was a symbolic gesture, but somehow it mattered to me that she should receive some consideration, even if I was just a tourist passing through. Actually, not entirely a tourist; visiting family, who happen to live in two countries.
Finally, the crowds were catered for and the three of us managed to get on the same bus, which took us an hour’s drive over the border and to the next main station, where our train was quick in coming. I judged it a good time to share out the remains of the biscuits and sat back in my seat.
In among the jolts and metallic screeching, I heard singing; high pitched long notes, with pulses braking the sound fractionally, then resuming an inimitable line of music, yellow and orange harmonies beneath, blending: The sounds of the wires vibrating. Under taut wires, the train cruised the tracks. I knew we would be fine, and so it proved.
Flying Concrete Angels – Chrispackerstudio Kenny Hill, 200
