Deadlock

Conway came back, wearing a short tweed overcoat. He carried a briefcase and a pair of gloves. He caught the tail end of their conversation.

‘I’m driving Anna down to Southampton,’ he told Garbutt. ‘I’m meeting her there again when the ship docks.’ Anna looked up at him with a loving smile. ‘We’re going shopping on Wednesday,’ Conway added. ‘To buy her some gorgeous clothes for the trip. I’ve fixed it so I’ve got the whole afternoon free. We’re going into Cannonbridge.’ He named a large department store. ‘We’re taking it easy, doing it all under one roof, breaking off for tea in the cafe halfway through, so she won’t be worn out at the end of it. I intend it to be a pleasure, not an ordeal.’

Anna turned her head and smiled at Garbutt. ‘I’m really being spoiled, don’t you think? I shall enjoy choosing the clothes, though I’m not going to be too extravagant.’

Conway put his arm round her shoulders and kissed her tenderly. ‘Don’t stand out here in the cold. I’ll be home around a quarter to seven. And don’t go wearing yourself out, doing too much housework. You’ve got the place looking spotless already.’

‘No, I won’t.’ Her mouth opened suddenly in a deep yawn and she put up a hand to cover it. ‘I’ll make sure I get plenty of rest. There’s a film on TV this afternoon I’m going to watch, it should be good. And I might go out for a stroll if the wind drops.’ Conway smiled approval.

But she didn’t go back inside at once. She kept her gaze fixed on her husband as he got into the passenger seat.

Garbutt switched on the ignition. His watch showed seven-fifteen. Anna stood smiling and waving as the car reversed and drove out into the lane.

The instant it vanished from sight the smile left her face, her hand dropped to her side. She shivered, pulled her dressing-gown closely round her. She sent a long, lingering look round the shadowy garden, the dark trees, the paling sky. Then she reached out and switched off the outside light. She turned and went slowly back into the house, closing the door behind her.

Oldmoor station lay one and a half miles from Ferndale on a stretch of line closed thirty years ago, later rescued from vandalism and dereliction by a preservation society which raised funds, laboured to restore it, acquired and refurbished old rolling-stock, repaired the buildings.

Now, fifteen years after the first rejuvenated steam train rode the rails, the society operated – with the aid of extra income from occasional filming and TV commercials – a successful and established schedule, highly popular with local travellers as well as holidaymakers and steam enthusiasts. The line linked up with the main railway system at Sedgefield Junction where a fast train would carry Conway on to Dunstall.

‘A shame to get Anna out of bed so early,’ Garbutt remarked as he negotiated a bend in the road.

‘She would get up to speak to you,’ Conway said. ‘I told her there was no need, I could pass on her message, but no, she must thank you and Irene herself.’

‘It’s good to see her so much brighter. And ready for her holiday.’ Garbutt slid a glance at Conway. ‘The holiday must be costing you a bob or two, new clothes and all.’

‘If it helps to get her really well again, it’s worth every penny.’ Conway grimaced. ‘When I think how she was, back in the summer – some days she didn’t get up out of bed at all. She wouldn’t even bring the milk in from the back door or the newspaper from the front porch.’ His tone echoed the anxiety of that distressing time. ‘I’d know as soon as I drove up in the evening if it had been one of her worst days. The paper would still be on the bench in the porch.’ He shuddered briefly. ‘But we’re well past that now, thank God. Dr Peake’s been very good to her. And she’s tried very hard herself, I must give her that.’

‘Occupation,’ Garbutt declared with robust conviction. ‘That’s the answer. Look at Irene. Lots of women her age, children grown up and left home, they get to feeling sorry for themselves. They sit around moping, swallowing pills or taking to booze, I don’t know which is worse. Irene hasn’t got time to invent worries for herself. She’s busy from morning till night, she loves every minute of it.’

Conway suddenly raised a hand. ‘I meant to ask you – it’s Anna’s birthday next Monday, the 30th. I’d like a good house plant, or maybe Irene could make me up a bouquet – I don’t know what she’s got in the way of flowers this time of year. I could pick up the plant or the bouquet on Sunday evening, put it somewhere cool overnight where Anna won’t see it.’

‘I’m sure Irene’ll be able to find you something to suit you,’ Garbutt told him. ‘She’s got some first-class house plants coming on. Or she could make up an indoor garden. They’re a bit more unusual and they last a long time. The best thing would be if you had a word with Irene yourself. Drop in one evening on your way home, see what’s on offer.’

‘Right, thanks,’ Conway said. ‘I’ll do that.’

They reached the station in good time. The buildings were beautifully decorated; elegant old bracket lamps shed a golden glow. A striking display of purple and white dahlias graced island beds set in the twin platforms.

Passengers strolled up and down, chatting in friendly fashion, looking about with keen attention as they waited for the train. No stand-offishness here, no grimly silent Monday-morning faces. Everywhere an air of holiday gaiety, even among those clearly on their way to an ordinary day’s work.

Garbutt got out of the car and went into the station with Conway, as he always did. His boyhood love of steam trains was as strong as ever.

‘I wish I could spare the time to put in half a day here now and then,’ he said when Conway came back from buying his ticket.

‘I wouldn’t mind putting in more time myself,’ Conway told him. He came along most weekends, with an occasional extra stint in the lighter evenings.

The signal dropped. The passengers stopped perambulating and lined the platform, craning to catch the first plume of smoke, ears cocked for the distant rumble of wheels.

She came swooping down on them with a heart-stirring rush and roar, the engine splendid in green and black livery, brasswork gleaming, coaches brilliant in scarlet and cream. Along the open windows, men and women leaned out, smiling and waving. Among them, a lad of seventeen or so, scrutinizing the waiting passengers as the train swept in. He caught sight of Conway, his face broke into a cheerful grin. He called out a greeting, lost in the medley of sounds.

Conway raised a hand in reply and hastened along the platform to where the lad’s compartment would stop. The train drew to a halt amid clangs and hisses. Doors swung open. Garbutt stood watching the lively to-and-fro with his eyes alight, savouring the acrid scents of steam and smoke.

‘Pick you up at six-thirty,’ he called out as Conway stepped aboard. Conway turned and waved, gave him a nod. The lad closed the door. The guard waved his flag, blew his whistle.

On the dot of seven thirty-two the engine began to snort and grunt. Along with everyone else remaining on the platform, Garbutt stood motionless as the train pulled out, slow and stately. He stayed gazing after it till its lights had vanished into the shadowy distance and the far-off rattle of its wheels was lost among the rising sounds of morning.

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