The Seamstress of Platform Nine

How it begins

Jean charged sixpence for a button and nothing for the story that came with it.

By February, the stories were costing her more than the thread.

The woman at her table had a man's coat folded across both arms. It was good wool, prewar, with the sort of shoulders that could make an ordinary clerk look important. One sleeve was torn at the cuff.

"I can mend that," Jean said.

"It isn't the sleeve."

The woman turned the collar inside out. Beneath it, someone had sewn seven tiny blue crosses and one red line.

Jean set down her scissors.

Outside the waiting room, a porter called a destination nobody would reach before nightfall. Snow lay between the rails. The station clock had stopped at ten past eleven, although the official board continued to promise departures with admirable confidence.

"Where did you get this?"

"Lost property. They said it had been there since September."

"Is it your husband's?"

The woman pressed the wool between her palms.

"It was. I don't know what tense to use anymore."

Jean understood that better than she wished to. She drew out a chair and moved the little paraffin heater closer. There were rules about heaters in public waiting rooms. There were also rules about how long a person could sit in a wet coat, although those were less frequently printed.

David appeared at the door with his ledger tucked beneath his arm.

"They've canceled the northern service," he said.

Then he saw the woman and stopped.

Jean held up the collar.

"How many coats have you issued this week?"

"Four. Why?"

She reached beneath her table for the gray jacket she had promised to finish by noon. Its owner had paid in stamps and asked no questions when she offered tea.

Under that collar were seven blue crosses and one red line.

David put his ledger on the table.

For the first time all morning, Jean could no longer hear the station announcements.