The Stationmaster’s Daughter

‘Ah, yes. I see. But now we are acquainted, please call me Annie.’ She smiled and touched his arm as she spoke.

Was it possible for his face to burn any more? ‘Y-yes. Thank you. I shall.’

‘I should get to work,’ Annie said, rolling down her blouse sleeve and buttoning the cuff. ‘Too bad about that tear. I have another blouse left in the office I can change into. But my coat! It’s new, and look, it’s ruined.’ Her voice cracked, as though she was fighting back tears.

Ted inspected the rip. It was close to the seam. ‘With careful mending that wouldn’t show too much, I dare say.’

‘I am terrible at sewing. I paid no attention to it in school.’

‘Miss Galbraith – Annie, I mean, I could mend it. I do all my own mending, My sister taught me. Perhaps if you borrow an overcoat from me for today – it won’t fit but will keep you warm – y-you could leave your lovely red coat here, and I could …’

‘But surely you won’t have time to do any sewing? You must be such a busy man.’

‘Th-there are gaps, between the trains. I will make the time. Leave it with me. It would be my pleasure.’

She smiled. ‘Very well, if you insist.’

He took the coat through to his parlour and collected his own overcoat for Annie to wear for the day. The thought of her arms slipped inside the sleeves where his arms had been, her perfume rubbing off onto the coat’s collar – he had to shake his head to stop those thoughts. He took it out and held it out for her to shrug on. It was far too long, the sleeves hanging past her hands, the coat so wide it would fit two of her.

‘How does it look?’ she asked, twirling round, a shy smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

‘Well, it will keep you warm at least,’ he replied, and she burst out laughing, a tinkling, rippling sound that went straight to his heart. If he could hear that laugh every day of his life, he’d be a happy man.

‘Thank you again, Ted. I shall be back here for the 17.21 as usual. And please don’t worry if you find you don’t have time to mend my coat.’ She picked up her bag, wound the scarf that had caused all the trouble around her neck, and went on her way, leaving Ted standing in the waiting room, with the stupidest grin on his still-blushing face.

*

Annie arrived back at the station a good ten minutes before the 17.21. Ted was busy doing some accounts in the ticket office, and looked up as she walked in. She was smiling as she greeted him – a smile that lit the room.

‘I’ve mended your coat,’ Ted said, blushing as he put down his books and came out from behind the counter, bringing her coat. He’d spent hours on it, on and off, all day. He’d had to undo the lining to sew up the tear from the inside, and then re-stitch the sleeve lining into place. He’d taken care to use the smallest possible stitches, working as neatly as he could, silently thanking Norah for teaching him to sew as a child (in return for which, he’d tried to teach her the names of all parts of a steam engine, but she had not been interested in learning them). He’d made a good job of the repair, he knew. His pernickety, perfectionist nature had made sure of that. So what if two or three times he’d lifted the coat to his face and tried to breathe in Annie’s scent from it? So what if he’d lovingly stroked the fabric? He’d done what he’d promised.

She took the coat from him and inspected the repair. ‘Oh, Ted. That’s marvellous! One would hardly realise it had been torn. I could never have managed to do that so neatly. It must have taken you ages. I insist on paying you for your time.’

‘I won’t hear of such a thing,’ Ted objected. ‘Let me help you on with it.’ She took his overcoat off and draped it across the ticket-office counter, while he held her coat ready for her to slip into.

‘Thank you.’ That smile, again.

‘How is your arm?’ he asked.

‘Much better. It’s only a scratch. I shall take the bandage off tonight. You’ve been very kind, Ted. I do appreciate it. Oh, here is the train, already!’

For the first time in his life, Ted felt disappointed to see a train pull into his station on time. Why couldn’t it have been late, just this once? And was that a little sigh of disappointment from Annie too? He went out onto the platform, watched over the two or three people alighting and offered his hand to Annie to help her climb aboard. She took it, and he relished the feel of her small, soft hand in his. ‘Why did you miss the train on Friday evening?’ The words were out of his mouth before he realised he was going to say them.

‘Friday? Oh, yes, Friday.’ She looked suddenly awkward, as though reluctant to answer his question. ‘A … well, a friend picked me up from the bank in his motorcar.’

The train whistled, and Ted had to step away, closing the carriage door. Bill was leaning out of the locomotive’s cab. ‘Second time today I’ve had to hurry you along, Ted! What’s going on?’

‘Just looking after our passengers,’ Ted replied, as he ran along the platform to the signal box. Looking after one passenger, at any rate. He pondered on the way Annie had said the word ‘friend’. An acquaintance or family friend? He felt insanely jealous of the unknown man. Whoever he was, he’d had the pleasure of Annie’s company for an entire evening. He wished he’d never asked her about Friday. If only he hadn’t. It would have been better to have remained in blissful ignorance.

Chapter 7

Tilly

Waking up with a hangover was already becoming a habit. Ken brought Tilly tea in bed again, and put it beside her without a word. But she could feel he disapproved of the amount she was drinking. Hell, she disapproved of it herself, in the mornings, when she was suffering from the fallout of the night before. But it helped her forget, and for now, forgetting was what she felt she needed to do.

She crawled out of bed around eleven o’clock. For the first time she thought it was as well she’d lost her job at the same time as losing Ian. How she’d have been able to carry on going to work in this state she didn’t know.

It had happened three months after her third and last miscarriage. Tilly knew something was up at work – there’d been talk for nearly a year about a restructuring. But the company would always need payroll administrators, so she’d assumed she was safe. It’d be just a reorganisation – combining a couple of departments, a manager leaving and not being replaced, something like that. It always was. She’d worked there for fifteen years and it was the third reorganisation she’d been through in that time.

But then she, along with her team of four admin assistants, were called into a meeting in the management offices. There was a brief presentation about how the poor exchange rate, the uncertainty of Brexit, and the rising cost of imports all meant the company had to become leaner and more efficient or else it would go under. And then had come the news that payroll administration could be covered by outsourcing to a third party, who would bring expertise and economies of scale, and so with great regret the company had decided to put all those in the payroll team into a consultation process. They were invited to apply for a job elsewhere in the company, which would entail relocating, or take voluntary redundancy. The redundancy terms were outlined and they were generous – with Tilly’s length of service she’d be entitled to eighteen months’ pay.

But it was a blow. She’d been good at her job, and the company had been sympathetic to her when she suffered the miscarriages. She’d been coasting since the last one – doing the minimum, trying to get herself back on her feet.

She had no intention of relocating, so had agreed to take the redundancy package. Maybe the time it would give her would allow her to come to terms with her losses and move on. Maybe not having a job would let her focus on her marriage, and try to restore to it some of the joy they’d once had. Eighteen months’ pay meant she could afford to wait a good while before doing any job-hunting. Which was just as well, because the very thought of trying to find something else filled her with terror. It had been a very long time since she’d had a job interview or updated her CV.

*

Today, the weather was completely different to the day before – grey, with low clouds threatening rain at any time, and a cold wind off the sea.

‘Cliff path doesn’t look so enticing today, does it?’ Ken commented, as Tilly gazed out of the kitchen window over her late breakfast. ‘Good job you had your walk yesterday.’

‘Mmm. I think I’ll just veg around the house today,’ Tilly replied. She could read, perhaps, or watch daytime TV. Ken would no doubt want to go to work on the railway, de-rusting more of those track spikes or whatever they were called, up at Lower Berecombe station.

‘Or …’ Ken said, with a shifty look in his eye. ‘You could make a start on this.’ He went out of the kitchen and returned a moment later with a box. ‘Brought it back yesterday. Just in case …’

‘It’s one of the ones from Lynford station, is it?’

‘Yes, pet. No need to look at it today if you don’t want to, but if you get bored … maybe you could make a start. I thought you could use the dining-room table – spread everything out in there as much as you like. We’re all right eating at the kitchen table, aren’t we?’

‘Sure. You might as well put the box in there. Not promising I’ll look at it though.’ Tilly wasn’t sure how she felt about it. Perhaps if her pounding headache eased up, she could start rummaging through. Right now, she needed a shower. And coffee.

‘No problem. When you feel up to it,’ Ken said. He said his farewells and headed out, leaving Tilly with the TV remote control and a large mug of black coffee.

*

Ken came back in the mid-afternoon, still in his blue overalls, and with another box of archive material tucked hopefully under his arm. Tilly was dozing on the sofa when he came in, a colourful knitted blanket that her mother had made draped over her.

‘Hey. Good day?’

‘Yes, pet. Got lots done. Another old signal is ready for use.’ He put the box of archive material down on a coffee table.

‘More papers? I’m sorry, Dad, I didn’t feel up to starting it today.’

He looked disappointed but didn’t push the matter. ‘No problem. I brought you something else as well. I bought a whole chocolate cake for you, from the Old Bank teashop. Two ticks and I’ll bring you a slice along with your cuppa.’ Ken went through to the kitchen and came back a little later with the tea and cake which he set down on a side table beside the sofa.

‘Thanks, Dad.’ Tilly pushed herself upright so she could eat the cake, which was delicious.

Ken was watching her thoughtfully. ‘You know, pet, I think it’d be good for you to give yourself a bit of a challenge. Why not have a go at sorting out these boxes? It’ll take your mind off … things. The other thing you could consider taking on is—’

‘For goodness’ sake, Dad.’ She fell back on the sofa. ‘Stop giving me jobs to do! I’m … not well. I’m not up to all that research and everything. God, I know it helped you after Mum, but I’m not the same. I don’t want – I just can’t – leave me alone, all right?’ She stood up and stormed off to her bedroom. She knew she probably sounded like a petulant teenager, but so what? He was pushing her too hard, too fast. It’d take time to recover from all that had happened. If she was even able to recover, that was.

*

Tilly spent the week doing very little other than lying on the sofa, reading or watching TV, and going for the occasional cliff-top walk. She made no effort to start looking at the archives, and thankfully Ken made no more comments about them. He gently tried to interest her in another visit to the railway, but she declined. The one thing that was keeping her going was the thought that Jo was due to visit at the weekend. She felt more than ready for a top-up of her friend’s support and advice.

On Friday at around three o’clock, her phone rang. Assuming it was Ken asking if she needed anything from the shop on his way home or similar, Tilly answered with ‘Hey, Dad!’ without even glancing at the screen.

‘Tils, mate, it’s Jo.’ Her friend’s broad Yorkshire accent brought a smile to Tilly’s face. She couldn’t wait to see her.

‘Jo! I’ve got your room all ready, and we’ve got crispy spiced salmon tonight for dinner. With new potatoes, or would you rather baked? Can do either. Broccoli or salad? Dad wants baked beans but I told him no.’

‘Tils, listen. I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to call it off for this weekend. It’s Amber. She’s got chicken pox. Caught it at school. Poor little mite’s covered in spots and feeling very sorry for herself. Bryony will no doubt get it in a few days’ time as well.’

Chicken pox. Tilly’s heart sank. She was going to miss seeing her friend because of a bout of stupid chicken pox. She felt a sudden irrational surge of jealousy that Amber would be the one to have Jo near, caring for her this weekend, instead of Tilly. But she pulled herself together. Of course, Jo’s children were more important. She forced herself to sound sympathetic, when all she wanted to do was curl up and cry.

‘Oh, Jo. I’m so sorry. Poor Amber. Of course, you must stay home and nurse her. Give her a hug from me.’

‘I will, mate. Can we rearrange for a few weeks’ time, when they’re both over it? Actually, it’ll have to be after Easter as we’re going away then … God, it’s such bad timing, but poor Amber. I hate seeing her so poorly.’

After Easter! Tilly fought to keep herself sounding positive. ‘Can’t be helped. Email me whatever weekends you’re free and we’ll book in another date.’

‘So sorry, mate. I wish I was able to come and see you but, you know.’

‘Your kids have to come first. No worries. There’ll be another time.’

When she’d hung up, Tilly sat down heavily on the nearest chair. No Jo this weekend. The one thing in her life she’d been looking forward to. More than looking forward – depending on Jo’s company this weekend. It would be ten days since she’d arrived at Ken’s. She wanted to take Jo on the cliff-top walk, go with her to one of Ken’s stations and see what she thought of the railway, get drunk with her and hear her advice on what to do in the long term. She couldn’t stay here forever, she knew, but how long would be all right? Ken would say no problem, stay as long as you like, of course, but Jo would be able to advise her what was best. A month here? Two, Six? Or take it week by week?

Tilly had met Jo at university, in their first term. They were next-door neighbours in a hall of residence, sharing a kitchen. Tilly had loved Jo’s gruff Yorkshire accent and her no-nonsense Northern personality. They’d hit it off immediately and been inseparable for the following three years. They’d been each other’s bridesmaids. Tilly was godmother to Jo’s eldest daughter. They’d met up every week while Jo had lived in London, for a drink and a catch-up.

And now Jo couldn’t come for her visit. That bottle of Prosecco Tilly had put in the fridge to chill was all for nothing. She might as well put it back in the cupboard. Tilly stood up with a sigh, went to the kitchen and took out the bottle.

Or maybe she should open it anyway. Ken didn’t like sparkling wine but there were a few bottles of his favourite real ale that he could drink. Tilly found herself peeling off the foil, untwisting the wire that held the cork in, and easing the cork out with her thumbs without having made a conscious decision to open it.

The cork emerged with a satisfying pop, and Tilly grabbed the nearest thing to hand – a teacup from the draining board – to catch the frothy overflow. She poured herself a large measure into the teacup and drank it, enjoying the way the bubbles tickled her nose.

Her mum would have had a fit, seeing her drink out of a teacup. She fetched a cut-glass champagne flute from the glass cabinet in the dining room. It was from a set that had been a wedding present to her parents, she recalled. As a child she’d never been allowed to touch any of the glasses from the cabinet. Pouring herself another glass, she wondered what would happen to all the wedding presents she and Ian had been given. And all the furniture they’d bought jointly for their house. She supposed he’d want to keep it. Was there anything she wanted? Did she even care? She downed the Prosecco and poured herself more.

*

Tilly had polished off the Prosecco and was halfway through a bottle of red wine, by the time Ken came home at six o’clock.

‘Tilly pet, what time is Jo arriving?’ he called from the hallway, as he hung up his coat.

‘She’s not coming.’ Tilly suppressed a hiccup. The kitchen was a mess. She’d spilt some wine in her hurry to open another bottle. Her lunch dishes were stacked unwashed in the sink.

‘Not coming? Oh no, why?’

‘Her kid’s got chicken spots. Pox. Chicken pox, I mean.’ Tilly waved her hand as she spoke and too late, realised she was holding her wine glass in that hand. A neat arc of red wine sprayed across the kitchen wall.

‘Watch out!’ Ken leapt forward to take the glass from her. ‘Oh, pet. Sorry she’s not able to come. Is that why you’ve started drinking? It’s a bit early. And what’s this?’ He picked up the empty Prosecco bottle and turned to her with a look of concern. ‘Tilly, I don’t like to say this, and I’m not judging you at all, but don’t you think you’re drinking a bit much?’

‘No, not drinking too much. Just drinking ’cos it helps me forget all the shit.’ She put her head down on the kitchen table, face in her arms.

‘You’ve been through a lot. Ian leaving, losing your job, and that miscarriage. I wish I could help, but honestly, I don’t think all this drinking does you any good. I don’t want to lecture, I know you’re a grown-up, but even so. I have to say something. I lost your mum, but I didn’t turn to the bottle.’

Tilly shook her head. He didn’t know the half of it. ‘Three of ’em,’ she muttered.

‘What, love?’

She raised her head and gazed at him. ‘Three. Three bloody miscarriages, Dad! I only told you about the first one. Didn’t want to upset you, what with Mum and everything. First one – the ectopic one – you know about that. Then an early one. Seven weeks. Then the third – God, I was about to tell you I was pregnant. Was waiting until it felt safe, and it just about did, we’d had a scan, and then suddenly, all that pain, then the bleeding, and then … Dad, it was a … a boy.’ And suddenly she was grieving all over again, for those three babies, who would have been Ken’s grandchildren had they lived. She crumpled, head in hands, over the table again, and was only dimly aware of Ken coming to kneel beside her, his arms around her, stroking her hair, as she grieved once more for her lost babies.

‘Shh, pet. Your dad’s here. I’ll do everything I can to help, you know that, pet, don’t you? I’m sorry I had a go at you for drinking. I’m sorry I didn’t know about the other two miscarriages. I see why you didn’t want to tell me at the time. You had Ian still, then. And I suppose you told Jo. Does talking about it help? I’m no counsellor, no good with it all, you know that, but God knows I’ll listen and hold you while you cry and whatever else I can do. You’re still my little girl, Tilly.’

Did she want to talk about it? Yes, suddenly she did. Not the miscarriages. What was there to say? The babies were gone. But Ian. Ken didn’t know the full story of Ian leaving, what he’d said, what his reasons were for wanting to end their fifteen-year marriage. And now – maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the disappointment of not having Jo here to talk things through with, probably it was the combination of the two – but now she wanted nothing more than to talk to Ken. To tell him all about that horrible day when Ian made his announcement. It had been the straw that had broken her.

‘Yeah, Dad. It might help to talk.’

‘Go on, then. Talk away. Want a cup of tea?’

She sat up, grabbed a tissue to mop her eyes and nodded. And then she told him the entire story of how Ian had dropped his bombshell.

*

His timing couldn’t have been worse. It was her last day at work, a month after the redundancies had been announced. There’d been a demoralised attitude in the office ever since the big announcement, and no one had felt up to going to the pub or celebrating in any way. Tilly had switched off her computer, gathered up the few personal items she’d kept on her desk, put on her coat and left, nodding goodbye to her erstwhile colleagues who were all doing the same thing. On the way home she decided she’d at least open a bottle of bubbly with Ian – call it a celebration of being out of the rat race, for a few months at least.

When she reached the three-bed semi she shared with Ian, she realised his car was outside. He normally didn’t come home until an hour or more after she did, and often not till much later. There always seemed to be something keeping him at work, a problem, a late meeting, or some office do he needed to attend.

He was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a cup of tea in his hands. He didn’t smile when she walked in.

‘So, that’s me done, then,’ she said, trying to sound cheery though inside she felt like crying. ‘No more work. I’m going to give it a couple of months then start job-hunting.’ She opened the fridge and took out a bottle of Prosecco that had been chilling there for weeks. ‘Fancy celebrating my freedom?’ Without waiting for an answer, she tore off the foil, untwisted the wire and popped the cork.

He watched her, unsmiling. ‘Tils, there’s something I need to talk to you about.’

She took two glasses out of a cupboard and filled them, passing one to Ian. ‘Sure. Well, cheers, here’s to my freedom.’

He pushed the glass away, untouched. ‘Not for me, thanks.’

Great. So she’d be ‘celebrating’ alone. ‘Sure you won’t have some? Go on, keep me company. No one in the office felt like going out.’

‘No. Listen, Tils, I guess the timing’s not great for what I need to say to you, but then again, there’s never a good time for this kind of thing.’

She felt suddenly cold inside. ‘What kind of thing?’

He sighed. ‘We’ve wanted a baby for so long. I’ve wanted one since the day we married, but I was happy to wait until you felt ready. I can’t wait anymore, though.’

‘I guess we can start trying again,’ she said. It had been several months since the last miscarriage. Long enough, she supposed.

Ian shook his head. ‘I can’t put you through the pain of any more miscarriages. It’s not fair.’

‘What, then?’ Was he suggesting they adopt a child, perhaps?

He picked up a coaster and began flipping it around his fingers as though it were a cheerleader’s baton. It meant he didn’t need to look her in the eye as he spoke, she realised. ‘The thing is, I want children so much. If I can’t have them with you …’

‘What?’ she said again, her voice emerging in a squeak.

‘… I’ll have them with someone else. Well, with Naomi, to be precise.’

‘Naomi?’ Tilly had heard the name, and vaguely remembered meeting a pretty blonde at one of Ian’s Christmas work parties.

‘Yes. Listen, Tils, I’m sorry. It shouldn’t have happened like this, but, well, it has. We’ve been seeing each other for a while now. And … she’s pregnant. Sixteen weeks. All looking good on the scans and everything.’ He smiled. ‘This time it’s going to work. I’m going to be a dad.’ He picked up the glass of Prosecco and took a swig.

‘She’s having a baby?’ Tilly whispered. It wasn’t making sense. What did he want – for them to adopt Naomi’s baby?

‘Yes, she is. Well, she and I are having a baby. I know it’s difficult, what with you losing your job and all, but there’s no great hurry. Move out in a month or so, perhaps? That’d still give us time to get her settled well before the baby comes.’

‘Move out?’

He looked sheepish. ‘Well, yes, you can hardly stay here when Naomi moves in. We can sort out the legal stuff later. It’s OK – you can name me as the guilty party. The house is in my name anyway. I know you’ve paid something towards the mortgage, but I can compensate you for that, I guess.’