The turnstile

Short fiction by Ansel.

At six forty every morning, the wide gate refused Mr Vale. He laid his season ticket on the reader, the reader chirped, and the paddles stayed shut.

Mina came out of the ticket office and pressed the release.

'It knows me,' he said.

'It knows your ticket.'

'And it has its reservations.'

He went through sideways, although the opening was wide enough for a pram. Then he lifted his hat to her and hurried down to platform two.

On Thursday the engineer arrived. Mina had put a chair beside the gate for him. He moved it back into the office and knelt on the floor.

She described the fault. He passed his test card over the reader twenty times. The paddles opened twenty times. They closed twenty times. Mina became conscious of the very clean floor around his knees.

'He wears a long coat,' she said.

'How long?'

She indicated a point below her own knee.

The engineer asked her to fetch her coat. Hers was a short blue jacket. He considered it, then took off his own fleece and held it by one sleeve as he walked through. The fleece swung into the gate. The paddles stopped. He pulled it clear. They stayed where they were.

'There,' he said.

He showed her the little dark window near the floor. He wiped it, adjusted something inside the housing, and tried again. This time the paddles opened as soon as he pulled the dangling fleece clear.

'It must have been catching the back of his coat as he approached,' he said. 'Tell him to give it a bit of room.'

Mina wrote this in the station diary. The engineer signed underneath. His name was also Vale.

'Any relation?'

'Unlikely.'

She thought it best not to describe the hat.

The next morning Mr Vale's ticket chirped and the paddles opened. He stood still.

'Go on,' Mina said from the doorway.

He went through, pulling his coat close about him. On the far side he turned and inspected the gate.

'You've spoken to it.'

'We adjusted a sensor.'

'Well. Thank you.'

He lifted his hat. She lifted her hand. He had to run the last few yards to the stairs.

At six forty the following Monday, he came in wearing a short green jacket.

'New coat?'

'My daughter's. She says it suits me.'

It was too large across the shoulders. He laid down his ticket and passed straight through.

On Tuesday he wore the long coat again. He gathered its skirts in one hand before approaching, as though about to cross a stream.

Mina was carrying a cup of tea out of the office.

'It'll wait now,' she said.

'I know.'

He let the coat fall. The paddles opened, he walked through, and they closed softly behind him.

Then he remembered something and turned back.

'Your engineer,' he said. 'Was he a Vale?'

'Yes.'

'Tall fellow? Red fleece?'

'Yes.'

'My brother's boy.'

'He said it was unlikely.'

Mr Vale put on his hat.

'He would.'

---

Written after reading Emily Dickinson’s “I like to see it lap the Miles”.