small enough to fit a doll – and pours water from the heels. Inside my trainers, my feet wrinkle in slush. I trudge the bags over to her and rest my hands on my knees, shaking out my wet head like a dog.
‘Have I got panda eyes?’ Zara asks, breathless.
‘What’s that?’
She points to her cheekbones and bats her eyelashes, drawing imaginary circles around them with her fingertips. Her makeup has run giving her a couple of black eyes, one much more prominent than the other.
‘No,’ I tell her. ‘You look great.’
Zara blinks. ‘Thanks.’
I give another shake and water trickles down my nose, sprinkling Zara. She looks down at her wet clothes and she bends over and laughs. I laugh, too. You’ve got to hand it to the weather. My side aches with a stitch, yet I’m still laughing, and for a moment, I could give this girl a hug, wish her well for the remainder of her trip.
Zara straightens up, pulling the band from her hair and using it to harshly scrape it all back and tie a knot onto the top of her head. Her whole face is now unmasked, bright like the moon.
Except.
‘You missed a bit,’ I say.
And I reach out, taking the few loose strands dangling down the side of her face, tucking them behind her ear.
‘What time’s your train, then?’ I ask, removing my fleece, flapping it dry.
‘Well, it says 14.47.’
‘Perfect. Time to grab a butty from the Upper Crust.’
‘No …’
‘Burger King?’
‘No … it says 14.47 … Cancelled.’
I stop flapping and look up at the board. She’s right. The 14.47 to London Euston is cancelled. As is the 14.39 to Manchester Piccadilly. And the 14.42 to Newcastle. And the 15.47 to London Euston, too.
‘Maybe there’s something wrong with the board?’ Zara ponders.
I’d presumed the hectic rush within the station was an amalgamation of the weather and a Friday afternoon, but I notice now that this isn’t general train station bustle. The place is utter chaos. Queues of passengers are crammed together, all demanding refunds at the desk, phones pressed against their ears or fingers tapping frantically, all trying to find alternative ways of getting to where they need to get to.
An older couple, complete with overnight bags and matching beige raincoats, stop the fella pushing a trolley fitted with a bin, the fella who keeps Lime Street station clean and tidy. They’re demanding some sort of explanation. The fella picks up an empty crisp packet with a helping hand grabber and mutters something to the couple.
‘A tree?’ the wife exclaims. ‘You’re telling me we can’t get back to Manchester because there’s a tree on the line?’
The poor fella shrugs, trying to get on with his job.
‘A tree?’ she says again. ‘How can a tree cause this much disruption?’
Her husband offers the handle of his overnight bag to his wife and rolls up his sleeves.
‘Tell me where this tree is,’ he says. ‘And I’ll move the bloody thing with my bare hands.’
Me and Zara look at each other.
‘Must be one hell of a tree,’ Zara says. ‘I’ll have to take a taxi.’
The problem is, the whole of Liverpool seems to have had the same idea. The line waiting for black cabs is expanding and Zara runs ahead leaving me to follow behind with the cases, a slave to her actions. She waves, calling me over.
‘Here you are, your highness,’ I say, out of breath.
‘Why do you keep calling me that?’
‘This line’s moving quickly. You’ll be home in no time.’
Zara sulks. ‘Home.’
‘That’s where you’re going, isn’t it?’
‘My papa’s villa is certainly not home.’
What the bloody hell’s her problem now, eh? Just the thought of a villa in Dubai is uplifting.
‘So you’re gonna get a taxi all the way to London?’ I ask.
‘Are you stating the obvious?’
A man standing in front of us whips his head around. He’s stout, balding, with steamed-up glasses and a soggy newspaper tucked beneath his armpit. He looks as knackered as I feel.
‘A taxi won’t take you all the way to London,’ he says.
‘Why not?’ Zara asks.
‘You’re best getting them to drop you off at Crewe, get the train from there.’
‘But, what if another tree falls on the line?’
‘What if the sky comes crumbling down?’
‘Good point.’
The man returns to wait for his taxi.
‘It’s gonna cost you a fortune,’ I tell her. ‘Just to warn you.’
‘Well, what choice do I have, Jim?’
‘Don’t snap at me.’
‘I’m not snapping.’
‘You are. Your highness.’
‘You think I’m some stuck-up spoilt little princess, don’t you?’ she cries.