Cinq minutes can be a long time

The train I had booked from Calais Ville had built in a lot of travelling time to make certain we were not rushing. I showed our tickets to the lady in the ticket office and asked if we could board an earlier train. “It leaves in five minutes from platform 2” she said, in French.  I failed to grasp the meaning or the urgency and repeated “Avec les velos?” “Oui, Oui, cinq minutes” she said, with an exasperated huff and a fluttering of hers arms. At the end of the flourish five fingers were held up to the glass to emphasize the point.

We sped off towards the platform and were confronted by a wall of passengers marching abreast up the narrow stairway. I gave a token lateral sweep of my head to look for lift, but when I looked forward Sylvia had not broken stride. My frantic cries of “wait there while I carry your bike” were lost in the mayhem as she launched herself into the oncoming throng.  There were three stages of steps and Sylvia lost control of the bike on the first one, after only a couple of steps. She looked like she was trying to control a bucking bronco, as she seemed to ride it downhill, lurching all over the place.  The crowd parted like the Red Sea and offered no aid as she lunged this way and that trying to control the bestial bike.  Somehow she managed to subdue the brute, to the astonishment of the onlookers. Braving stages two and three she warmed to the task and masterfully swept downward, reaching the bottom with a semblance of control which had not seemed possible moments earlier.

“Lille monsieur, avec les velos” I blurted out.   “Non“, said the stationmaster with a firm conviction. My urgent expression frantically searching for the words quickly changed his mind.  Out came an impatient “Avant, Avant“, with a sweep of the hand towards the front of the train.  We rushed to the foremost carriage, found no dedicated area but struggled up the steps with the loaded bikes.  Five steps were child’s play.  We installed ourselves into the welcome security of an area between steps between the two tiered carriage and relaxed in this wholly unsuitable location for the whole journey.

The lady ticket inspector, with the typically jaunty grey cap tilted upward to her left, smiled sweetly, and as if wishing to avoid discovering our lack of an appropriate ticket, moved swiftly on. Not once, but twice. She couldn’t have seen our dramatic arrival onto the platform, could she?