I arrived at the eastern platform on a wet Tuesday evening in February, clutching a second-class compartment voucher and a leather valise my father had carried on the same route in 1923. The station smelled of coal and damp wool. Porters in navy greatcoats moved baggage trolleys past the sleeper cars with the practised indifference of men who had loaded trunks for kings and could not be impressed. Car No. 4075, a lacquered night coach with inlaid marquetry panels, sat gleaming under the gas lamps, its midnight-blue flank throwing back dull gold from every riveted seam.
The Geometry of Departure
There is a particular theatre to boarding a sleeper train that no aeroplane or motorcar has ever replicated: the steward at the door, linen already turned down, amber glass catching the last platform light.