Tilly spent the next day in bed. Although talking to Ken had helped, she still felt the absence of Jo like a bereavement. The day was a fine one, and if Jo had been there, they’d have walked the cliffs, talking non-stop. Tilly would have delved deeply into her feelings, and Jo would have listened and advised and helped her make sense of it, come to terms with it a little.
It was tempting to reach for another bottle of wine, but she resisted, ashamed of her behaviour the day before. Ken would hate it if she got drunk again. She had to try to find another way. But somehow today she could not bring herself to get up and dressed, and instead indulged herself in an all-day lie-in, reading books, leaving her bed only to make cups of tea or forage for junk food in the kitchen.
The next morning, Sunday, Ken stood in the doorway of her room with his arms folded.
‘Right, pet, one day in bed is enough. There’s something I want to show you. I’m going to make us a cooked breakfast, and then I need you up and dressed and ready to go out by ten o’clock. In walking gear. All right?’
Tilly nodded mutely. He was sounding like Jo. She wondered if perhaps he’d rung Jo to find out how best to deal with her. But he was right. One day was enough. She hauled herself out of bed and into the shower, wondering what it was that Ken wanted to show her. No doubt something related to the railway. She steeled herself to pretend to be interested in it, for his sake.
*
An hour later, at Lynford station, Ken parked his car and opened the passenger door for Tilly. Such an old-fashioned gent, she thought, smiling her thanks. Instead of going into the station, Ken led her around the back, past the engine sheds and onto the trackbed that led northwards from the station, the opposite way to the rebuilt part of the line.
‘So we’re heading towards Lower Berecombe station here. If only that woman could be persuaded to sell her bit of trackbed, we’d be extending the line to join up the stations in no time,’ Ken said, as they began walking. ‘We already own this part of the trackbed, but there’s no point extending until we can link up to Lower Berecombe. There’s nowhere along here we could even build a temporary halt.’
As they walked, Tilly could see what he meant. This part of the line was in a cutting that became gradually deeper. The steep sides were covered with a dense mix of bramble and gorse, some of last year’s blackberries rotting on the stems. The new season’s gorse flowers were just beginning to emerge, adding occasional vibrant splashes of yellow to the banks and a vanilla scent to the air.
‘People used to lean out of the carriage windows plucking blackberries as the train passed through this section,’ Ken said. ‘Imagine – no health and safety regulations back then!’
‘Where are we heading, Dad? What did you want to show me?’ It was nice enough being out on a pleasant if cold day, but they’d been walking for some time in the cutting, with no view.
‘Just around this next bend, you’ll see,’ Ken said.
Around the bend the cutting grew even deeper, and then ahead of them a tunnel came into view. It looked dark and forbidding.
‘That tunnel? Is it safe?’
‘Yes, perfectly safe. We own it, and we’ve had it inspected by engineers. It was built to last. Just the other side of it is Miss Pullen’s land. Anyway, in you go.’
‘Inside?’
‘Yes. I suppose I should have brought a torch.’
‘I’ll use my phone,’ said Tilly, pulling it out and switching on its torch function.
They walked on, and about a third of the way in on the right Ken stopped. ‘Shine the light on the brickwork here, about head height.’
She did as he asked and watched him as he peered at the tunnel wall. ‘Maybe a bit further on.’ He walked on a little way then stubbed his toe on a rock that lay at the side of the tunnel. ‘Ouch. Oh yes, I remember now. I put that there to mark the spot. Here, shine the phone this way, pet.’
And there, carved into the brickwork of the tunnel wall, were some words. Tilly moved closer to read it, running her fingers over the words. ‘Annie Galbraith. I will love you forever. T.M.’ she read. ‘Wow. A love letter deep in a tunnel. Who were they?’
Although she couldn’t see him, she knew Ken was smiling as he replied. ‘We don’t know. The engineer discovered the carving when he inspected the tunnel. I’m hoping … it might inspire you … to do a bit of investigation?’
‘They could be anyone. Could be kids. Could have been carved any time since the tunnel was built.’
‘We think it’s quite old. The engineer scraped off a lot of dirt to make it clearer to read.’
‘Well, if I ever start looking at those archives I can see if the name or initials crop up anywhere, I guess. Or Google them, see if anything turns up. Not promising, though.’ Tilly flicked her phone into camera mode and took a few photos of the carving with flash. ‘Intriguing.’
‘I was hoping you’d think that,’ said Ken, as they began making their way out of the tunnel.
*
Tilly spent the following week trying not to brood on her problems, trying not to drink too much, and endeavouring to get out for walks as often as she could. It was only when out in the fresh air that she was able to feel there could be some way forward for her. She made a new arrangement for Jo to visit – sadly not for several weeks as Jo’s husband worked shifts and had no free weekends to allow him to look after their children while Jo visited Tilly.
‘But we can talk on the phone every couple of days, mate,’ Jo had said, her no-nonsense tone of voice helping to ground Tilly. ‘And you phone me if ever you feel things are getting on top of you again. Day or night, I’m there for you. God, I’m so sorry about last weekend. I should have stayed on the phone longer with you. Had no idea it’d set you back. I felt awful when your dad rang to tell me.’
‘I had no idea that would happen either,’ Tilly had replied. ‘I guess I’m still a long way off feeling well again.’
‘Takes time, mate, takes time.’
There was to be a gala weekend at Easter, to mark the start of the new opening season for the railway. Ken spent every dinner time discussing plans for it with Tilly, and despite herself she found herself getting caught up in the excitement of it.
‘You’ll come along, then? Maybe help serving teas or something?’ Ken said.
‘OK. It’ll take my mind off things, I suppose.’
He smiled. ‘It will, that. It’ll be so busy you won’t have time to think of anything else.’
*
The gala ran over the three days of the Easter weekend – Saturday to Monday. The Society ran a steam train every half-hour along the track at Lynford. A marquee had been erected in the Lynford station grounds, to allow for more café seating. Visitors could come in to look around for free or could pay for a trip on the train. A popular option was the ‘full MCR experience’ – a trip on the train, a guided tour of the engine shed and the chance to work the signals, plus a complementary hot drink and a cake.
Tilly had agreed to work as a waitress for the three days, and Ken was busy taking the guided tours and supervising people in the signal box. Alan was driving the trains. Despite an unpromising forecast, the rain held off for all three days, and visitor numbers were exceptional.
On Monday, the final day, Ken and Tilly took a break together, eating a late lunch in a corner of the marquee.
‘Glad it’s nearly over, pet?’ asked Ken.
Tilly smiled. ‘It’s been hard work, but I’ve kind of enjoyed it. Makes a change from watching daytime TV. How’s it been for you?’
‘Busy. I’m exhausted. Had a bit of fun today, when a young lad on the full MCR experience couldn’t quite work the signal. It was too heavy for him. He was desperately trying to pull the lever to change the signal, wasn’t squeezing it fully, refusing to let me step in to help. Did you hear the train whistle? That was to hurry things up – Alan’s not supposed to move until the signal’s set at clear.’
‘Yes, I heard the whistle and thought it was just Alan showing off. So what happened in the end?’
‘Eventually he listened to me telling him to squeeze as well as pull, and the lever moved so easily then he ended up falling backwards across the signal box. Thankfully didn’t hurt himself, though. Might need to put a minimum age limit for children handling the signals in future galas.’ Ken chuckled. ‘Ah well. He won’t forget that experience in a hurry. Kids love changing the signals and seeing how it all works.’
‘You love showing the kids round, don’t you?’ said Tilly. He’d have made such a good grandfather. The best, like he’d been the best possible father. And still was. But now that she was 39 and in the process of getting divorced, it didn’t seem likely he’d ever get the chance.
‘I do, indeed.’ He smiled. ‘Listen, a few of us were talking about going to the pub, the Angler’s Tavern down in Coombe Regis, to celebrate the end of the gala. Want to come along? Only for an hour or so, mind.’
He was still keeping an eye on her drinking, she knew, but for the last couple of weeks she’d only had a glass or two of wine with dinner. She’d had no more blow-out sessions, and had not drunk alone, only when Ken was joining her. And she’d not broken down in tears, either. Well maybe once or twice at night, in bed, alone. But Jo had said that was normal, and better to cry a little than bottle it up.
*
There was quite a gang of Society members in the Angler’s Tavern that evening. The gala weekend had been a huge success, and everyone was tired but elated.
‘First round’s on the Society,’ announced Geoff Hill, the society’s chairman, as he took everyone’s orders.
It was the first time Tilly had been in a pub since going into the one along the coast in Beremouth alone in her first week at Ken’s. That night had not gone well. She’d be all right today, she thought. Ken was here, and Alan, and the rest of them. She’d just sip her wine slowly and have no more than two glasses. She and Ken had gone home to change, and then walked down the hill to the pub that was situated right on the quayside.
‘Cheers, then!’ said Ken, clinking his pint glass against Tilly’s and Alan’s. ‘Here’s to a job well done.’
‘Imagine in a few years,’ said Alan, ‘when old misery-guts has sold her bit of land to us, and we’ve linked Lynford through to Lower Berecombe.’
‘She’s not a misery-guts,’ Tilly said. ‘She was kind to me when I called at her house, that day I was lost.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that but she’s certainly miserable when it comes to the railway. If she’d sell up, we could extend the line right the way to Rayne’s Cross. The owner of the Old Station Inn there is desperate for that to happen. Loads of visitors would get on the train at Lynford, up to the Rayne’s Cross for a pub lunch before coming back again. We’d be raking it in, and so would he!’ Ken’s eyes were gleaming.
‘And the line would go through the tunnel and over the viaduct. So much more to offer.’ Alan sighed and shook his head. ‘Don’t suppose it’ll be any time soon, sadly.’
‘Didn’t your uncle have something to do with the railway?’ Tilly asked Alan. ‘Dad was telling me.’
‘Yes, he was employed on it. Not entirely sure what he did – porter or something. I’ve been more involved in the practical side of things, driving engines and such, than looking into the history. I’d love to know, though.’
‘Do you know what happened to him when the railway closed?’
Alan shrugged and shook his head. ‘Died when I was tiny, and Mum never spoke about him much. I’m the youngest of four. Only the three oldest ever met him. My brothers have memories of coming to stay in a station house, where they had to sleep on the sitting-room floor. They loved it.’
The evening passed quickly and enjoyably, and it seemed no time at all before Alan was putting on his jacket and bidding them goodnight. Ken looked at Tilly. ‘Well, pet, it’s gone ten, and I’m in need of my beauty sleep. Shall we go?’
Tilly looked at her glass. It was her third, all had been large ones, and she still had half of it to drink. ‘I’ll stay and finish this. There are some other Society members still here – I’ll go and chat to them. See you later, Dad.’
He looked a little worried. ‘You sure? Don’t be too late back, will you? You’ve got your key?’
She patted her pocket. ‘Yes, got it. Bye then, Dad.’
As Ken left, Tilly got up and went over to join the other Society members, and before long was laughing and bantering with them as though she’d known them for years. She accepted another drink from someone, and then as that party gradually thinned down, she looked around the pub to see if there was anyone else from the railway. She couldn’t remember having enjoyed an evening so much for a very long time.
‘Lost someone?’ asked a man who’d seen her scanning the pub. He had a pleasant, open face and attractive dark-blond curls.
She shook her head. ‘Just wondering if there’s anyone left I can have a drink with,’ she replied.
He smiled. ‘How about me? My mates have just left. I was going to call it a night, but if you’d like to sit and chat … I’m all yours.’
She hesitated for a moment. She should go back to her dad’s, really, but, it was still well before midnight, she’d only had four glasses, and she was having a good time. She deserved a good time, didn’t she, after everything? ‘Yes, why not? I’m Tilly, by the way.’ She held out her hand and he shook it. His palm was warm and dry.
‘Pleased to meet you, Tilly. Rob Coogan. Now then, what can I get you?’
‘A glass of Pinot Grigio would be lovely.’
As he went to the bar, she sat back down at the table recently vacated by the Society members. Rob was tall, she noticed, and well built, with muscular shoulders under his dark-blue shirt. He was what she would have called ‘her type’, back in those pre-Ian days when she would go out on the pull with Jo.
‘Here you are.’ Rob placed her drink in front of her and pulled out a stool to sit on. ‘Well, cheers. You were with the Lynford railway crowd, weren’t you?’
‘Yes. Celebrating the end of a long and hectic gala weekend.’
He smiled, and asked questions about her involvement with the society. Then he told her about his busy weekend working at a nearby sports centre. Before long they were laughing together like old friends. Tilly felt young again, younger than her thirty-nine years, anyway. He was fun, easy to get on with. She bought the next round, staggering slightly and spilling part of his pint as she returned to the table.
‘Oops!’ She giggled. ‘Must be getting a bit tipsy!’
‘Perhaps this is the last one, then,’ he said, taking the drinks from her before she sat down.
‘Aw. But we’re having such fun!’ Even as she said it, the bell for last orders rang. It was half past twelve.
They stayed another fifteen minutes drinking up, then left as the bar staff began clearing up around them. ‘You know you’re no longer welcome when they start stacking chairs on top of the tables, don’t you?’ said Rob. ‘Guess it’s time to go.’
‘Guess so.’ Tilly found she didn’t want the evening to end. For once she had managed to completely forget about everything that had happened. Everything. The miscarriages, the redundancy, Ian … all of it. She stood to put on her jacket and almost overbalanced.
Rob caught her. ‘Steady, now.’
‘I’m all right.’ She regained her balance, and they left the pub.
‘Which way are you going? I’ll walk you home,’ Rob said.
‘Well I’m living with my dad, and he’s – oh God. He’s all the way up the hill. I can’t face it! Can we go to yours? I could do with a coffee before tackling that ascent.’ She remembered he’d said the pub was his local, so he couldn’t live far away.
Rob laughed. ‘Sure, why not? I’m not working tomorrow. I’m just around the corner here.’
Tilly tucked her arm into his, enjoying the feeling of warmth and strength from him. He lived in an old fisherman’s cottage, in one of the jumble of lanes behind the harbour. Its brightly painted blue door opened directly onto the street, and she giggled as he ducked a little to get through it.
The door opened directly into the sitting room, which was low-ceilinged with exposed beams, and starkly furnished with only a large TV, a leather sofa and dark wood bookcase, but a couple of throws and cushions made it feel cosy.
‘Coffee, then,’ he said. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’
He disappeared through a door at the back of the room. Tilly perused his bookcase for a few minutes, but the light was dim and her eyes didn’t want to focus. She’d probably drunk more than was good for her. But the fact she was aware of that, meant that she was sober enough, didn’t it? The room wasn’t spinning, she didn’t feel sick …
On an impulse she followed Rob through to a small, neat kitchen at the back of the cottage. He was spooning ground coffee into a cafetière. She stood behind him and wrapped her arms around him.
‘Hey! I’ll spill this coffee!’ He twisted round and returned the hug. It felt nice, being held by a man. It had been a long time since Ian had hugged her. It had been a long time since she and Ian had … and suddenly, without warning, Tilly was filled with desire. She wanted this man. She wanted him, right here, right now. She turned her face towards him, reached up and kissed him, pressing herself against him, her hands running up and down his back.
He kissed her back, cautiously at first and then with more urgency, and she felt him harden against her.
‘Shall we go upstairs?’ she whispered between kisses, and wordlessly he let go, took her hand and led her up the narrow stairs to a room at the back of the cottage that was dominated by a huge bed, with a deep-red duvet cover and plenty of pillows. They stood beside it, hurriedly pulling off each other’s clothes, before collapsing onto it, kissing urgently, exploring each other’s bodies with their hands. At last Rob rolled her onto her back.
‘You sure about this?’
‘I’m sure. It’s all right,’ she gasped in reply, desperate to feel him inside her, to lose herself in the act.
And then it was happening, and she moved with him and felt herself give in to the intoxication of the moment. There was only now, there was nothing before, nothing after, and none of the bad things had happened. Nothing had ever happened; only this. This moment. This man, and her, and what she could smell and feel and taste right now, and nothing more.