It was the usual last minute rush to set off for the train. Was the heating off? Had we let the neighbours know? All was well (we thought) as we trundled along pulling cases to the metro station with well over half an hour to spare before the train to King’s Cross. A metro train was just pulling out as we reached the station. Then we read the sign. Industrial action! There wouldn’t be another train for 25 minutes, which meant we’d miss our London train. We started moaning and wondering what to do. I pressed the help button for a taxi but there was no reply.
Then a fellow passenger approached us.
”I have a car just on the next street,” she said. “I could run you to Central Station.”
Thinking it would be quicker, we ran after her, but lost her so returned to the metro station. Luckily she also had returned, but with her car. We dived in and zoomed off to the city centre where the traffic was frustratingly slow. Our Good Samaritan dropped us off a street away and it was already departure time, but as luck would have it, our train was running 5 minutes late. I rushed over the bridge intending to keep the doors open, struggling with luggage. It worked! As soon as we both got on, the doors closed and we walked through half the train to find our seats, dripping with sweat.
I tried to remember the name of the kind woman who had made it possible, but because of all the anxiety, all I could remember was the street and the fact that her house had a red door.
Once home again, I set about detective work to find our saviour. It took two afternoons of ringing bells on every red door, but with only two doors to go, there she was. She recently came for coffee and we have become the best of friends.