The Railway Man

Remembering is not enough, if it simply hardens hate. Sometimes the hating has to stop.

physical healing happens so fast; it is the rest that takes time.

Torture, after all, is inconspicuous; all it needs is water, a piece of wood and a loud voice. It takes place in squalid rooms, dirty back yards and basements, and there is nothing left to preserve when it is over.

The wounds were not on the surface, nor detectable by stethoscope.

I didn’t understand yet that there are experiences you can’t walk away from, and that there is no statute of limitations on the effects of torture.

The passion for trains and railways is, I have been told, incurable.

From that day onwards I spent a lot of time on Park Bridge, and soon became aware of other boys with similar interests leaning out over the engines as they slowed down on their way into the goods yard, or cruised at speed further out on their way up the East Coast main line between Edinburgh and London. For Edinburgh was a rail centre, and I lived at the eastern end of a great loop of lines punctuated by stations, depots, tunnels, repair yards and goods terminals. I could watch the flagship engines of the London and North Eastern Railway rush by, a long procession of carriages drawn after them as they headed for Edinburgh Waverley - the company's very own station and a mecca for train lovers - or catch the smaller, older engines at the head of suburban and country trains. They were all trains, and that was enough for now.