There’s a special quiet to a town at half past eleven. The shops are shut, the takeaways are winding down, and every so often someone stands on a station forecourt staring at a departures board that has stopped being helpful.
My imaginary passenger tonight is a young woman — let’s call her Priya — who has just watched the last train home leave without her by ninety seconds. She’s not upset, exactly. More that particular tired that comes from a long day followed by a small disaster. She’d resigned herself to a very expensive, very uncertain wait.
The best part of the job
This is the bit people don’t see. Not the airport runs or the weddings — the quiet, unglamorous rescues. Someone stranded, a fixed price with no funny business, and a warm car that turns up when they’d half given up hope.
“You’re a lifesaver,” she said, which drivers hear more often than you’d think — and never get tired of.
We talked about nothing much on the way — the football, the weather, whether the chippy on the corner is as good as it used to be (verdict: yes). Twenty minutes later she was home, safe, texting someone to say she’d made it after all.
Why we’re out at that hour
Because trains stop and plans fall through, and someone should still be there when they do. That’s the confession, really: the late runs are some of the ones we’re quietly proudest of.
More tales when the roads are quiet. Stuck, or planning ahead? We’re here around the clock — see our services or private hire.