Yellowbrick Station
You meet some interesting characters in this place. Most people are unremarkable, but sometimes you meet someone who stands a little taller than the rest. One of those people was James Moreland, and at first he seemed like every other soul that walks into the staff room for the first time.
On hearing my whistle, the cab driver blasted his horn, a short, deep sound that reverberated off the station walls and roof, and was followed by the beep-beep-beep-beep that warned passengers that the doors were about to close. As the train heaved into life, slowly at first like an old man pulling himself up from his armchair, I turned and headed towards the staff room. I pushed the sturdy wooden door open and stepped past it’s peeling, red face and into the steam beyond.
“How many times do I have to say? Don’t turn the water drums up so high!” I grumbled as I walked over to the metal urns that were spewing steam haphazardly. We had two of them, each filled with water and kept on a constant heat so that they were always ready for workers to make a cup of tea or coffee. Some people turned the temperature too high though and it turned the room into a sauna. As I wafted the steam with my hands, I half expected to find my friends sitting around the table wearing nothing but a small towel. Thankfully that sight didn’t greet me; the room was empty. I spooned some coffee into a cup, added water from one of the urns and topped it with sugar, poured straight from the bag. I stirred my drink and crossed to the main table, pulled up a chair and sat down.
It had been an easy morning so far, nothing unusual, but even so I was happy for the chance to rest, and have a break from the faces that wandered the platforms. If I was hoping for a bit of peace and quiet, I got it for about 40 seconds before the door was shoved open so hard it banged the wall. I didn’t even need to look up to see who it was; nobody else banged the door open like that.
“Morning Neil,” I said genially.
“Morning Albert!” he replied, boisterous as usual.
I turned and looked at him, and as always the first thing you notice about Neil is his hat. It isn’t cold here, it never is, but he always wears his woollen hat. But a hat in itself isn’t a particular eye-catcher, except when it’s luminous yellow. If you stood at one end of Platform 1, the longest platform in the station, and the platform was jam packed full of people, you could still spot Neil if he was standing at the other end, his hat was like a beacon. I prefer to tell him he looks like a walking zit though.
“So what’s going on today? Other than you slacking off.” he asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“Slacking off?” I replied, feigning indignance. “Listen mate, if you ever worked half as hard as I do, then you’d have earned your coffee break for once.”
“Yeah, sure. You’re an example to us all, you know that?”
I smiled but didn’t take the banter further.
“There’s a new guy starting today, should be here soon. I’m just waiting for him now.”
He raised an eyebrow. “New guy, huh? It’s been a while since our section got someone new. What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing, as far as I know. We’re probably getting him because we’re under-staffed… too many guys sitting around in the staff room at all hours of the day, maybe? When they should be using their zit to help people find their train?”
“Are you kidding me? This is the first break I’ve had all morning!”
I grinned at him. “You only started an hour ago.”
“Quality, Albert, not quantity. You should try it sometime.”
Before I could respond there was a knock on the door. I waited for the visitor to enter, but the door stayed shut. There was a second knock, louder this time. I nodded for Neil to open it and he rolled his eyes at me before striding across the room and pulling the door wide open in one swift movement.
“What?” he said bluntly.
I listened for a response but heard nothing at first, then a quiet voice asked Neil if this was Section C.
“Certainly is, my friend!” he confirmed, stepping back and beckoning for the visitor to enter with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. “Come on in! I’m Neil, and I run the show. That’s Albert, he thinks he runs the show. I’ll catch you later, I don’t like to be away from my work for too long.”
And with that he paced out onto the platform, leaving the new guy standing just inside the staff room. The door banged behind him and he jumped, startled.
I smiled at him. “Sit down,” I told him. “Would you like a drink? We have tea or coffee.”
He shook his head and crossed to the table, sitting down opposite me. I reached across the table and offered him my hand, which he shook gently.
“Don’t pay any attention to Neil, he’s just a bit loud. Like his hat. He’s a supervisor here, but he’s a good guy. I’m the manager of this Section, so I’ll be looking after you at first. You may as well take your coat off, we won’t be going anywhere for a while, it’s important that we get you inducted first.”
He nodded but kept his coat on, so I continued.
“Okay. James Moreland, yes?” He nodded again.
“And this morning you found yourself stood in front of the arrivals boards, holding a letter that told you to report here.” I knew I was right, but I waited for another nod from him.
“Good. Now tell me; before that, what’s the last thing you remember doing?”
He averted his eyes to the table and mumbled something I couldn’t quite make out. I asked him to repeat it.
James lifted his head and spoke a little louder. “Cutting my wrists,” he said.
It was my turn to nod. “Exactly. Welcome to Yellowbrick Station.”
* * *
James listened to my explanation mainly in silence, with the occasional nod or frown. Most people get upset, they start protesting and tell me I’m lying, or they get hysterical. Some people shake their heads and are resigned to it, as if they’ve greeted death with apathy. But James listened attentively and with an awareness to the situation that makes this part of the job a whole lot easier.
You see, Yellowbrick Station is where everybody goes when they die. It’s not an afterlife for most people, it’s a thoroughfare to their ultimate destination. I guess it saves queueing at the Pearly Gates or waiting nervously at the dock beside the Lake of Fire. People find themselves at the station with a ticket in their hand telling them which platform their train is leaving from; but it doesn’t tell them where they’re going, I think that would be too much. I mean, can you imagine having a ticket for Hell and voluntarily getting on that train? No, me neither. All the trains look the same, the platforms look the same; there is nothing to suggest which train goes where, and if somebody tries to figure it out and climb aboard another train, they’re found out when they produce their ticket and are escorted to the correct platform. It’s a pretty good system.
So with that said, why did James have a letter instead of a ticket? Well, there’s the snag. A lot of people who take their own lives don’t get a ticket because it’s undecided where they should go. Instead, they find themselves being given employment at the Station because, let’s face it, an operation of this size can’t run itself. So we are given a uniform and a job, and we work here until our fate is decided. Suicides are unique in that way. For a person to take their own life is a sin, high up on the sin-list, but it could be that up until that point they’d led a good, god-fearing life, doing everything right so to speak. Does all that count for nothing because they decide to kill themselves? What circumstances pushed them to such a desperate act? That’s the kind of thing that needs to be analysed and decided, although the majority of the time, access to Heaven is still denied. It takes a very special life to pardon the manner of death, and it’s rare. Sometimes people start work at the Station in the morning and in the afternoon are given a ticket to the underworld. These people have to be accompanied on their journey because when a decision is made that quickly they know exactly where they’re going. And then you get the people like me who are given the third option, which of course is to keep us working here for all eternity. We’re the ones who won’t be granted Heaven but also, the lives we’ve lived weren’t deserving of Hell, so we stay in this steam-filled limbo. It’s not a bad after-life, once you get your brain to accept the fact that you’re here to stay.
But anyway, this is what I explained to James that morning in the staff room. When I was done, I asked if he had any questions.
“Where do I start?” he asked, surprising me.
I stared at him for a second in case there was more, but that was all he wanted to know. I glanced at my clipboard. “Well, right now I could do with somebody on Platform 1. That’s the longest Platform we have and at the moment Neil’s down there by himself. It’s not that it’s always busy down there, but there are times when it’s so crowded that we need good people to make sure everything runs smoothly. So I’m going to start you down there, show you the ropes and by the time we get a rush of travellers, you’ll know exactly what you’re doing. Okay?”
“Sounds good,” James replied, nodding and offering a brief shadow of a smile.
“Let’s get going then, I’ll give you a tour and then we’ll come back for lunch and you can meet the rest of the team.”
We both rose from our chairs and crossed to the door, which James pulled open and then stood back to let me pass through onto the platform, before stepping out himself and closing the door quietly behind him.
* * *
That first meeting is pretty much a fine example of how James was. Quiet, thoughtful, understanding; patient. He summed up a situation in his head and then dealt with it as best he could, no drama and no fussing, he’d get straight to it. James got on well straight away with the rest of the guys, it was as though he just slotted into a space that was just the right shape for him. He constantly surprised me with his reactions as the months and years went by. I remember on that first afternoon he saw a Station worker standing on Platform 1 holding the hand of a child, a tussle-haired brunette looking a little overwhelmed. She wasn’t upset, just a little confused and in awe. James turned to me and asked if there was something wrong, as she was being kept company by a staff member, a woman called Laura who was the mother figure to our section. I explained to him that none of the children passed through the station unaccompanied, they were met on the platform by one of the Wee Ones staff, of which Laura was the supervisor for this platform.
“The Wee Ones?” he asked.
I looked at his face which was waiting expectantly for an answer.
“The Wee Ones wait near the arrivals boards and greet children when they arrive, checking their tickets and bringing them to the right platform, where they’re met by a supervisor – Laura, for your platform. She keeps all the kids close by and looks after them until the train arrives, when she makes sure they get safely into the children’s carriage.”
James smiled at me. “I guess this can be a pretty daunting place for a child to find themselves, all alone. That’s nice, I like it. How come there’s only one girl with Laura?”
“Just timing, I suppose. There’ll be more by the time the train shows up, I’m sure. They’ll keep each other entertained on the journey.”
“Aren’t they scared?”
“You’d think they would be, wouldn’t you? But they never seem to be, they just look curious as to what’s going on, and content.”
James thought about that for a moment. “I guess not many children go to Hell?”
I nodded agreement. “I don’t think so. I mean, there’s no rule or anything, but most kids are still so innocent at that age. Some of the older ones, well I don’t know about them, but the younger ones, I believe, go to Heaven.How could it be any other way?”
“So… that must mean that the trains from this platform go to Heaven?”
I laughed at his reasoning. “Don’t go getting ideas, lots of trains go from each platform, and they go to all destinations. This isn’t a platform to Heaven only. Besides, there’s always the Flower Stop.” I waited for him to ask the question, and he obliged.
“The Flower Stop?”
“It’s the only other station, and no-one knows exactly where it is. Trains often stop there and the children get out of their carriage and wait there for a while. Apparently it’s nothing like a train station, it’s more of a play area, and it’s always sunny and warm. There’s a woodland walk which is just packed with flowers, butterflies, birds, the most amazing scents. Some people say it’s like a suburb of Heaven. Anyway, children are gathered there until there’s enough to fill their own train, and then they continue their journey.”
“That sounds great,” James enthused, “but what’s the point of it?”
“The point?” I asked, confused.
“Well, why not just have them continue their journey with everyone else? Why drop them off and then put them on a train together?”
“Well – and again, this isn’t official – but I heard it’s because Heaven has a separate entrance for children, they don’t enter with the adults. They meet their family and friends once they’re inside. I think it’s just to make the journey as simple and enjoyable for them as possible.”
James looked thoughtful at this, approving. “I bet they get given sweets too!” he said, almost accusingly, making me laugh. “Maybe,” I said, “maybe.”
Smiling, he turned back to Laura and the girl. “That little girl has a lot to look forward to. She’s a lucky one.” And with that, we continued our tour of the platform.
* * *
Now, that might not seem all that remarkable, but compare it with Neil’s response when I first told him about the Flower Stop. He screwed his face up and said, “Typical. So if I’d have died when I was a kid, I’d be in Heaven now? Just my luck.”
This is a point which didn’t escape the attention of James, either. A couple of days after our discussion, he asked me if, for example, a murderer – no, a serial murderer – didn’t actually grow up but instead died when he was a child, would he go to Heaven even though, had he lived, he would have gone on to kill others? And I couldn’t answer that, because I just don’t know. I don’t know if children of Heaven stay forever youthful or if they grow older, and if it’s the latter, what kind of personalities they have as adults. There’s no way I can ever know the answer to that, but I wish I did.
A few weeks later, James had been doing his rounds when he came in for morning break, greeting us with a smile and a nod of the head. He put his clipboard on the table and waved his arm in the direction of the platform.
“There’s something really strange out there, boss, you should go and see it,” he announced. I raised my eyebrows, wondering if it could possibly be something I had never seen before.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Far end of the platform, there’s a whole crowd of women there, holding baskets, waiting for a train. I couldn’t believe it! Are they taking picnics to the Flower Stop? I’m right, aren’t I?”
Neil glanced up at me but quickly looked back to his plate when I caught his gaze. I shuffled uncomfortably in my seat and cleared my throat.
“These baskets,” I began, awkwardly, “what’s in them?”
James noticed the awkwardness but carried on anyway. “I don’t know, whatever is in there is covered by a blanket.”
I stared at him, hoping for comprehension. “What colour blankets are they, James?”
“Some are blue, sky blue, and some are pastel pink.” he replied. I just stared at him and watched his expression change to one of disbelief. “Babies?” he asked quietly.
I was almost relieved that he had figured it out. “That’s right.” I confirmed gently.
James backed away from the table, shaking his head.
“It’s okay James, it’s okay. They’re only sleeping. Okay? They’re only sleeping.”
It was no use though. James turned and left the office, shaking his head. Neil looked up again and asked if I wanted him to go after James.
“No, it’s okay, thanks. Just let it sink in, he’ll be fine.”
I found James an hour later when I was escorting a huge bearded man to his train. I noticed that his cheeks were ruddy and his eyes were still red and damp, but he gave me a small smile as I walked past and I returned it. He never spoke of it again, but I think he came to terms with the babies that pass through Yellowbrick Station. After all, they’re going on to a better place, too.
* * *
James arrived at Yellowbrick Station in 1931AD. I tried coaxing information about his life from him on numerous occasions but he was always quite vague about everything. I know that he lived in the North-East of England and joined the British Army in 1914 to fight in the Great War. He fought for four years and when the war ended he opened up his own business, a tobacco store, which flourished as far as I can tell. The events that occur to the living are of course of enormous interest to those of us who are gone; it’s like watching a history book as it writes itself. I believe James was one of the ‘Lost Generation’, who suffered psychologically and sank into disillusionment and cynicism, despite being on the ‘winning’ side. I know that his business was successful enough to allow him to live comfortably with his wife and daughter. He attended Church and also formed a group that offered support to those who struggled with the effects of the war. The mourning and social impact of the War may have been felt in private in Britain, but there were still people who needed help, and James was one of those who reached out a hand. One thing he never talked about was his death and if the subject was brought up, he either left the room or made a joke. We didn’t press him too hard about it though.
Shortly after he joined us, another war broke out which kept us hugely busy for the best part of seven years, and it was during this time that James truly rose above us all, remaining calm and showing a tender compassion for those who died during this time. The platforms were filled not just with soldiers but also civilians who were killed in wartime, and we even built a new platform – Platform 1A – for a group of people who needed special attention. I promoted James to Supervisor and made this platform his responsibility. It had the potential to be a traumatic job but he proved to be the perfect man for the task. The need for a separate platform was quickly identified when a large group of frightened men, women and children arrived, huddling together and staring at the trains in horror. They refused to board, a lot of them tried to find an exit from the station, with no success. We couldn’t understand why they were so afraid of boarding the train, until James came to me and said that he’d talked with a few people to try to establish why they were so abhorred. I had no idea what he was talking about at first. “Concentration camp? What’s a concentration camp?” I asked. He wasn’t familiar with the term himself but apparently large numbers of people had been forced from their homes and taken, by train, to concentration camps, packed tight in the carriages and struggling for air. They were separated from their loved ones and their new ‘home’ was a labour camp overseen by military guards who hated them. They weren’t criminals, but they were treated much worse than if they had been, stripped of any possessions, forced to spend long hours doing physical tasks, fed just enough to keep breathing. Frequently beaten for any or even no reason, it was a life of fear and oppression, and often people just disappeared, never to be seen again. Sometimes their fellow ‘camp-mates’ were killed in front of them, and they even had to dig large graves for the bodies to be thrown into. And their journey to these camps was by train, which is why they were so reluctant to board another, even if it was going to take them to eternal safety. James excelled in his new post, talking to the newcomers, explaining the situation and showing understanding of where they had come from and why there were afraid. He spent entire days at his post so that he wouldn’t miss any arrivals, stopping only for tea breaks, and often working late. He showed such empathy towards these people and really was a God-send, if you’ll pardon the expression. After a few months he was assigned a new arrival called Viktor, who had himself been in one of these camps for almost a year before taking his own life and he, too, had an amazing impact under James’ direction. Between the two of them the next half dozen years passed as smoothly as you could have hoped. As events in the living world unfolded the need for Platform 1A became less and less, but we kept it anyway as there were a lot of people who would die naturally who would still suffer fear when they found themselves at the Station. In time Viktor took over the platform himself and James returned to his former duties, though he kept his role as supervisor.
Life in Yellowbrick Station continued pretty much as it had before the new World War broke out and James, like the rest of us, went about his work diligently and with his usual care and compassion, until one day in 1994AD. I remember this day well for two reasons; first, because there was suddenly an increase in the noise levels outside and when I marched out of the kitchen to see what was going on I found a crowd of people gathered around a slim, lank-haired young man who was trying to make his way towards my door. The reaction to his presence seemed to be one of surprise and delight, and I guessed that he had been a famous face in his lifetime. I was correct, as when he finally made it to the door and squeezed by me into the steam beyond, I found that he was a successful musician in a ‘rock’ band. He blew his floppy yellow hair from his face and introduced himself as Kurt. I gestured to him to sit down to begin the induction process, and to explain to him why he was here and what was expected of him, when the door opened once more and an elderly gentleman shuffled in. I waited for some kind of greeting or message but instead he made his way to the back of the kitchen and pushed open the door to my office – rarely used but still officially my office – and paused in the doorway, turning slightly to look at me. He had a long, lean face framed with shoulder length white hair, and kind, deep blue eyes. I just stared at him until he lifted his right arm and gestured for me to join him inside the cramped, dusty room. I asked Kurt to excuse me for a second and, confused and slightly concerned, walked quickly to my office and closed the door behind me. This meeting is the second reason why this day lingers in my memory, although it doesn’t linger in detail as it was such an awing experience to be in this mans presence, that i seem to recall it through a cloud. But I remember the importance of the message that was brought to me. He explained that he had travelled to the Station from Heaven, on an empty train making it’s return journey, as he had been examining the Death Records, which he is responsible for, and had discovered the record of James Moreland, which was literally a single sheet of paper containing details of his birth, death, and a brief summary of his life. This piece of paper had been ‘misplaced’ – don’t ask me how – for 63 years. Imagine that for a second, 63 years. It was this old mans job to check each record and make sure that, upon their death, the person had been assigned the correct afterlife, kind of a double-check. I listened intently, wondering exactly why he had come to see me, and he explained that there had been an error with James’ assignment; he should have gone to Paradise, not to spend eternity working with me. Confused, I explained to him how James himself had told me that the last thing he remembered was cutting his wrists, to which the old man responded with a nod and a smile.
“James did indeed cut his wrists, two months after his wife and child were murdered,” he confirmed, “and maybe this would have killed him, maybe it would not. We’ll never know because he suffered a fatal heart attack while unconscious, and it was this that killed him. Unfortunately because of the circumstances surrounding his death, he was assigned to work for you in error, when he should not have been. This mistake would have been corrected had the record not gone astray.”
I was amazed but delighted for James, genuinely delighted. I asked the old man to tell me more about James’ life on earth but he refused, and after being told where to find James – on Platform 1A, helping Viktor with a family of concentration camp survivors who had died in a car accident – he left my office, never to be seen again. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to James either, although Viktor told me that he boarded a train with the old man’s arm around his shoulders, weeping but smiling. It’s unlikely, but I hope that one day I get to see him again, or at least to somehow discover more about his life.
In the meantime, James has been replaced in my team by Kurt, who has settled into the job well. It was difficult at first as he was so recognisable to a lot of people, so we shaved his head and he grew a thick beard, which solved the problem for the most part. There isn’t a day that I don’t think of James and smile; if more people in the world were like him, maybe Yellowbrick Station would be seriously understaffed. I hope that one day, it is.
THE END
