a tragedy

lundi 25 juillet

Our plodding Rhône-Alpes regional service from Grenoble connects with the TGV at Valence, which rockets through the French countryside toward Toulouse.

Earlier. A throng of apprehensive travellers gathers under the information board in Gare Grenoble; un accident personel means trains to Lyon are delayed. The platform for our service to Valence appears late and we scoot our bike pods to Quai F with little time to spare. Our train departs a minute or two late.

Gazing unfixedly out the window I wonder what constitutes un accident personel and whether the obvious translation is accurate. We are about to find out. About fifteen minutes before we are due in Toulouse our high-speed juggernaut judders to an unnatural halt.

“Well, that’s that,” I venture. It’s a flip remark but its underpinning premonition is uncanny. Passengers look at each other for any sign that someone knows more then they do about our unexpected stop.

My father has been on a train that struck and killed a schoolboy on Melbourne’s outskirts. A friend of a friend threw herself under a train at her local station in the throes of a deep depression. Watching someone leap out of bushes into the path of a train approaching Croydon Station traumatised a student I taught.

Only yesterday driving to Briancon, The Viking, a train driver for 30 years, regales us with train driving stories. He says matter-of-factly that trains strike and run over people; the implication is that if you drive the things, you’d better get used to it.

The announcement comes over the PA: there has been un accident personel. We will be delayed. Men in orange jackets walk the length of the train. People peer our the upper level windows though its more likely if someone was hit that the lower level is a better vantage point.

A helicopter woop-woops overhead then puts down in a field beside the train. SNCF staff come into the carriage to inform us of a two-hour delay. No one knows exactly what has happened. Two people hit has currency. A gendarme wanders along the adjacent tracks.

Passengers mingle and chat; the toilet does good service. The bar re-opens as the afternoon drags on. Straight grey rain descends and a thousand droplets trickle down my window. Two hours later it’s over and the train rolls silently to speed and rockets through the soggy French countryside.

Things that should happen don’t when I travel with The Iceman. And things that shouldn’t happen do.