Anxiously he riffled through the notes, which didn’t take long, and pulled out everything in the credit card section. A few business cards and the odd receipt, but still he hadn’t found it. In desperation he tried the coins, but more to blank out the mounting horror. He had lost the photograph!

Dave stuffed his hands in his pockets - nothing. Next were his trousers but they too were photo-less. Now oblivious to the weather he b-unbuttoned his coat, trying the inside pockets and even his shirt. Still nothing. When a scan of the platform also failed to recover the picture he glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes until the train came; he was going to have to go back inside.

The floor of the short central corridor was bare and dusty, with a few wind-blown leaves huddling in the corners together with sweet wrappers and a forgotten ticket. Dave glanced at them, but there was no way the photo could be hiding beneath them. He pushed open the door to the waiting room.

Inside, a couple stood at the window of the ticket office and an old man in a tweed flat cap dozed in the corner. A knarled brown hand was wrapped around the handle of his carved walking stick. Dave stepped onto the utilitarian wooden floor and began to peer beneath the simple wooden benches. Nothing but dust balls under the first one.

“Can  help you, sir?” The ticket clerk, greying hair escaping from a bun, watched politely from behind her glasses. The couple she had been serving stared inquisitively at him. The young woman’s glossy brown curls contrasted nicely with the golden-beige coat they tumbled over. A pair of expensive-looking shoes peeked from beneath her black trousers. The clutch bag with entwined Chanel C’s was held in a hand beautifully manicured with long red nails. In compliment her lips were painted a matching scarlet and from beneath the black mascara and gold eye shadow a pair of hazel eyes watched him curiously. In contrast, the man was swathed in a black trench coat and trilby. Between the two his face seemed almost unnaturally pale, despite its tan and the warm red scarf. His eyes were grey and his hair a deep brown, almost black. The sombre theme was continued in the black trousers and shiny Oxfords. Like his girlfriend, neither wore the critical gold band, he seemed curious but there was a hint of hostility in the grey depths.

“I’m just looking for a photo. I’ve lost it, and I wondered whether I’d dropped it here.”

“I haven’t seen one, sir. I’ll keep an eye out for it though.”

“Thanks,” he smiled warmly at the ticket clerk, “I’ll just have a quick scout about, just in case.” As the young couple left he continued his search beneath the watchful gaze of the clerk. The next few benches concealed nothing more than dust and a stray 10p. The fifth he looked under was different and he started back in surprise when he found himself eye to eye with a black house spider. After a sheepish grin to the clerk he bent down again. For a vet, his phobia bordered on the shameful. Scraps of tickets and a wrapper or two marked his uneventful progress round the room to the pensioner’s corner. Here he faced the difficulty of trying to work out a polite way to peer at the floor between the sleeping man’s legs. The rough linen trousers framed a view of faded varnish and, as the battered anorak shifted and a gruff voice mumbled to itself, he moved on. The remaining benches were also photo-less so, with a final agreement with the ticket clerk to look for it, he crossed the small corridor and opened the door to the café.

The aroma of roasted coffee hit him like a sack of beans. Despite the weather the room was almost deserted and the baristas were leaning against the counter chatting. They both wore matching aprons and polo shirts, with crimson nametags identifying them as Mel and Paul. The girl’s hair was a bottle blonde, and a rattle of bracelets covered her arms. She wore thick black eyeliner and clear lip-gloss, while a pair of oversize earrings, coloured gold, swung by her cheeks. Paul, who looked about 17, had scruffy haor and a simple black digital watch. He was a complete contrast to his friend’s false glamour.

At the table in the corner a middle-aged woman tried to control a flock of young children. Their identical angelic faces marked them down as siblings; they had their mother’s dusty blonde hair. She was attempting to placate the baby, which was bringing its red plastic drinking cup down on an older brother’s head like the wrath of Thor’s hammer. As Dave shuffled past, peering under tables, she gave him a long-suffering smile of apology.

Having scoured the room and not found the photo Dave stood thoughtfully by the twin doors to the bathrooms. He doubted it would have made its way into either room, and realistically he could only check one. He’d never be satisfied if he left without checking, but the clock told him his train would be in in less than five minutes. With a last regretful glance at the bathrooms he turned and walked slowly back to the platform.

There was no helping it, then. He had lost the photo forever. No matter that he had several more at home, this had been his favourite. Standing dejectedly on the chewing-gum dotted concrete he idly watched the leaves scuttle past his feet in the slight breeze. A comer of white caught his eye and, when a draught gently turned it over, he found he was staring down at the familiar portrait, all blonde and khaki green.

Before he could react a sudden gust, signal of the coming train, picked it up and carried it mercilessly away down the platform. With a cry he followed it, ignoring the stares of his fellow commuters. It danced, just beyond reach, all the way to the iron railings. It fetched up against the cold metal. For a moment it wavered, undecided, and then the wind died. Dave grabbed it before another gust tore it away and joined the press of people trying to filter through the carriage doors.