I boarded the train for Kings Cross – London, and as it moved I sat back.

Late, I’d had to sprint down to the platform at Edinburgh Haymarket, taking the steps two at a time, and I had only just got to the last carriage, next to the guard’s van, as he blew his whistle, so I got in.

My decision to get into the first available compartment, rather than walk further along the train, was a mistake but I was tired, and somewhat out of breath.  The train was tired too.  The state of the threadbare antimacassar was only surpassed by the grease-stained brocade fabric on the armrests.  I could almost hear my pristine Burberry raincoat protest.

It was my second mistake. The first was in not reserving a seat, and preferably in a first class compartment nearer to the restaurant car. 

I was alone, but the cigarette smoky fug, mixing with the condensation that obscured the window, made the presence of previous occupants almost palpable.  With my suitcase securely on the overhead rack I was ready to settle, but first got up again to prize open the window, stiff from lack of winter use.  I quickly changed my mind: sulphur laden smoke and grit billowed in as we passed into a tunnel just outside the station.  I had forgotten about it; it had been a long time since I caught the London train at Haymarket.

The rhythm of the train increased from a slow cha cha cha to a dissonant jolly rumba as we swayed across the points towards Waverley, but as I slumped back into my seat I noticed a parcel wrapped in newspaper on the netting of the luggage rack above the seat opposite.

Ordinarily I would have pointed it out to the ticket inspector, or waited for the call for dinner to do it but, by the time we had reached the first stop at Dunbar, no-one had come, no-one had got in at Waverley and my curiosity got the better of me.  I decided to lift it down.  Perhaps only 18 inches long and 6 or 8 around it was surprisingly heavy, 3 or 4 pounds at least, and a little thicker at one end than the other.  Soft to the initial touch, but then firm when squeezed, it had a vaguely earthy smell.  The newspaper sheets, from the Glasgow Herald, were slightly damp, and it had been there long enough to have taken the criss-cross imprint of the luggage rack netting.

Tied across the middle, and round both ends, with blue binder twine, there was no label.  The only way to explore it further was with a knife, and I had the one I used for trimming my cigars, but not the confidence to back up my curiosity so I decided to put the parcel back.

By the time the train was slowing for Berwick-on-Tweed I was in the more salubrious comfort of the restaurant, and trying to spoon Mulligatawny soup with a degree of decorum.  I should have taken more notice of the starched and white-coated waiter, bracing himself.  It was a jerky deceleration; the clanks and jerks, as the carriages knocked into each other, had my soup slopping back and forth over the rim of the bowl and onto the catch-plate underneath. The waiter and I exchanged looks, me with frustration and he with a mixture of pity and barely suppressed amusement.

Sighing, I wiped my mouth with the stiff linen napkin and then used it on the window to look out on the dimly lit platform, checking to see if there were enough passengers waiting for the train to threaten my unreserved seat at the end of the train.  There weren’t many, but as my anxiety subsided and my eyes began to drift back towards my dinner table I noticed a small man hurrying away from the train towards the exit, bent into the wind and collar turned up against the cold, carrying a parcel under his arm.  Unmistakably my mystery parcel.

As it hadn’t really been my parcel I had no grounds to raise the alarm, and, anyway, what could I tell the authorities or the guard?  I finished my meal, returned to my compartment and, after briefly looking at the now vacant space on the luggage rack, quickly forgot about it and went to sleep.

A week later I was on my way back north. Late again, I found myself running onto the platform at Kings Cross and, gasping, into a seat in the same compartment in the same last carriage.  When my ticket was being checked I remembered the parcel and the man, and mentioned it.

The guard, obviously a little embarrassed, slid the compartment door closed, as if to not be overheard, and came nearer.

“That would be the wife’s cousin, Donald.  He stays near Coldstream.  He’s an amateur taxiwhatsit, you know, stuffing dead animals and mounting them for display?  He’s pretty good, I think, and sometimes sells them at game fairs and the like.  He finds some animals but mostly people send them to him.  They sometimes bring them to me, and I take them on the train. Because it’s all very unofficial, like, it wouldn’t be very good to be seen handing parcels over, so I put them on a luggage rack in a compartment next to the van and he nips in and picks them up when we pass through Berwick. Last week I believe it was a couple of pine martens.

Now, then, there’s plenty of room nearer the restaurant car, if you want to move along there. Will you be taking lunch today?”