The unfamiliar deep-red duvet cover puzzled Tilly, as she gradually woke up the day after the gala ended, with the mother of all headaches. Gradually it all came back to her: the pub, Ken and Alan leaving, more drinks, that man – what was his name? Rob someone. Not wanting to walk home. Coffee – no, there’d been no coffee in the end. There’d been a kiss, he’d led her upstairs … Oh God. She’d practically jumped on him, hadn’t she?
She opened her eyes, then closed them again quickly against the bright morning light, that had made her head throb even more. She’d seen enough to realise she was alone in the bed. Thank goodness for that, at least. She didn’t have to roll over and see the stranger she’d had sex with a few hours before. What time was it anyway? There was a clock on the bedside table – it was gone nine. Oh God, what would her dad think? Her jeans were on the floor. She reached for them, found her phone in the pocket, noticed it was still on silent mode (she’d set it that way when working in the gala marquee) and that she had several missed calls and texts, all from Ken. She couldn’t bear to listen to the messages or even read the texts, but instead sent him a quick text to say she was all right and would be home soon. I spent the night with a friend. What friend, he was bound to ask when she got back, but she’d face that later. She was not a teenager; she was a grown woman and capable of making her own decisions. And her own mistakes, she thought wryly.
She hauled herself out of bed and pulled on her clothes. The bathroom was across the landing. After using the loo and splashing some water on her face, she took a deep breath and went downstairs, ready for that awful, excruciating moment when she’d have to face Rob. Maybe, with luck, he’d have gone out leaving her a note, and she’d be able to slip away and forget the whole episode ever happened.
But no. He was in the kitchen, showered, dressed, and busy cooking a full English breakfast by the look of it. Coffee was brewing, bacon was sizzling, bread was toasting and a couple of eggs were awaiting their turn in the frying pan.
‘Morning,’ he said, as she entered the kitchen. ‘Sit down. Breakfast in about five minutes. Help yourself to coffee, or there’s tea in the pot.’
‘Thanks.’ She unhooked a mug from a mug tree and poured herself some tea, adding plenty of milk. A few gulps later, she felt her headache subside a little. Time to talk to Rob. Time to tell him … tell him what? That she didn’t make a habit of this sort of thing. In fact, she’d never done it before. There’d been a couple of very short-lived relationships back in her university days, but she’d never before picked up a stranger and gone straight to bed with him. She couldn’t believe even now that she’d done it. It had helped her forget her problems for a while, sure, but hadn’t it also just added a new one?
‘Bacon and egg OK? I just realised, I don’t know if you’re vegetarian or anything?’ Rob turned towards her as he asked the question. He was holding a spatula and wearing an apron with ‘World’s Greatest Dad’ emblazoned across the front. Oh God. It was getting worse. He had a kid. Maybe more. Was he married?
‘No, not veggie, yes, bacon and egg sounds lovely. Look, I’m not in the habit of this. I mean, I’ve never …’
‘Me neither.’ He smiled. ‘It was fun, though, wasn’t it?’
She blushed. ‘What I can remember of it, yes. But you … are you …’ She gestured to his pinny.
He looked down, as though he’d forgotten what he was wearing. ‘Oh! This. A present from my daughter. She’s grown up – 22 now, working in Nottingham. A junior solicitor, specialising in divorce law, of all things.’ He laughed. ‘Wish she’d graduated a couple of years earlier. Might have saved a bit on solicitor’s fees.’
She felt a rush of relief. ‘So you’re divorced?’
He nodded. ‘Did I not mention it last night? To tell the truth, I can’t remember.’
He hadn’t cheated on his wife with her. And there were no little kids running around. He was, it seemed, free to have a relationship with her. But as soon as she thought that, she realised that was not what she wanted. The stresses of having a new man in her life were not, she guessed, what Jo would prescribe for her. She was not ready for it.
‘I can’t remember either. We talked about loads of things, but probably not the things we should have talked about, before …’
‘Before falling into bed together. Well then, now’s our chance. Or maybe after eating.’ He finished dishing out the food and handed her a huge plate. ‘Kill or cure, I always say. It usually cures my hangovers.’
‘Thanks.’ She tucked in and felt better with every mouthful. She’d not eaten much the day before, she realised. There’d been little time. All that wine on an empty stomach. No wonder. Now then. How to tell Rob that last night was a one-off?
Tilly could not think of a way to begin the conversation she knew they needed to have, until breakfast was finished and the dishwasher loaded.
‘Shall I walk you home?’ Rob said. ‘Or I could give you a lift if you like?’
‘It’s all right. I’d rather walk. On my own. To clear my head a little.’ This was the moment. She took a deep breath. ‘Look, Rob. I don’t know how you feel about it, but I’m sorry. I had a lovely evening, and thanks for breakfast and everything, but I don’t think … I mean … I’m not sure if …’
‘You don’t want to see me again?’ He put his head on one side and gave a half-smile.
‘That sounds harsh. You’re a lovely bloke, Rob. But … I suppose I’m not really in the market, just yet.’
‘That’s all right. Neither am I, really. Last night was a bit of a surprise. A lovely one.’
She sighed with relief. ‘Yes, it was. Let’s … swap phone numbers. But for now, at least … just friends.’
‘Perfect.’ He took a notepad out of a drawer and they each scribbled down their phone numbers. Tilly tucked the scrap of paper with his number on into the back pocket of her jeans.
‘I should get going.’ Tilly shrugged on her jacket and went towards the front door. ‘I’m not in the habit of doing this sort of thing, you know. Honestly.’ Was that the third time she’d said it?
‘It’s OK. I get it.’ He opened the door for her and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Look after yourself, Tilly.’
Something about those parting words made a tide of emotion wash over her, and she turned away, too choked up to be able to bid him goodbye.
Tilly sent Ken another text as she walked up the hill, to let him know she was on her way. She half-expected, half-hoped that he’d have gone out to the railway for the day. A few hours to have a shower and change, and just spend some quiet time alone were just what she needed.
But he was at home and opened the door to her as she approached. He’d been watching for her through the kitchen window.
‘Hi, Dad. Look, I’m sorry about—’
He held up a hand to silence her and ushered her through to the kitchen. ‘Sit down. There’s something I need to say to you.’ Ken leaned back against the sink, staring at the floor as though mustering the right words. Tilly had only seen him like this a couple of times before, when as a teenager she’d deeply upset him. That time her headteacher had called him into school to tell him she’d been caught stealing a chocolate bar from the canteen, after she’d lost her dinner money. The time she’d refused to wear a cycle helmet because it spoilt her hairstyle. She knew she needed to wait, hear what he had to say, and apologise.
‘You’re a grown woman, Tilly. With your own life. I respect that.’ His voice sounded shaky. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him this angry. ‘But, while you’re living here, with me – and you’re welcome to stay forever if you want to – you must treat me with respect too. And that means letting me know if you’re not going to be coming home. Just a text. That’s all it would take.’
Tilly felt a wave of guilt wash over her as he continued. ‘Christ, I was worried sick when you weren’t responding to texts and your phone was going straight to voicemail last night. God, I’ve lost Margaret, and last night I thought I’d lost you too …’
He shook his head. ‘I was this close’ – he held up his forefinger and thumb half an inch apart – ‘this close to calling the police and reporting you missing. But you’re an adult and they probably wouldn’t have done anything for a day or two.’
‘I’m sorry, Dad, I was …’
Again, he held up a hand. ‘You don’t need to tell me where you were. You only needed to tell me you weren’t coming back last night. I phoned round everyone whose numbers I had, that were in the pub last night, asking if they’d seen you leave. I heard you were still there when Sid and Martin left, and that you were talking to some chap Sid vaguely knows. I thought the worst, Tilly. Sid talked me out of calling the police, but of course he doesn’t know how low you’ve been.’ He sighed. ‘After everything that’s happened. How could you do it to me? How? One text, pet. That’s all I needed. One simple text.’
Tilly hung her head. ‘Yes. I’m so sorry, Dad. I guess I’d had one too many. I stayed with … a friend.’
‘Stay with whoever you like, but let me know you’re safe. Next time, text me.’
‘There won’t be a next time, Dad. I promise.’ Tilly brushed away a tear. Her gesture seemed to melt Ken’s heart. He pushed himself away from the sink where he’d been leaning and came over to where she was sitting, leaned over and wrapped his arms around her.
His love, his unconditional, unquestioning love after she’d been so stupid and so selfish, hit her hard in the heart. She crumpled against him and gave in to sobbing. Again. So many tears, so much grief.
‘Shh, pet. It’s all right. I’m here.’ He held her tighter still, and in his arms she felt safe and loved, but also something new. Remorseful. He was right. How could she have done this to him? How could she have put him through this? She’d been through a lot lately, but so had he. And now she’d added to it. She didn’t deserve him. She had to do something about it, to make it up to him. And there was only one thing she could do – sort herself out. Stop drinking. Stop thinking only of herself and her woes. Start living again.
*
Later that morning, Ken went off to Lower Berecombe. Tilly guessed he needed to get out of the house and concentrate on something other than her for a while. She took a shower, swallowed a couple of paracetamol tablets, drank a large quantity of coffee, and gradually began to feel more human.
She mooched around the house, put the TV on and watched ten minutes of a programme about finding holiday homes in the sun, then switched it off again. There was a neat stack of Michelhampton and Coombe Regis Railway Society magazines on a bookcase, and she spent a little time leafing through them. They were filled with articles written by society members, photos of the restoration work, and occasional grainy black-and-white photos of the railway in its heyday.
One article from a few years back, told the story of the glorious day when the railway had partly reopened in 2012. Tilly sat back and began reading that one in detail. It mentioned the society’s chairman, Geoff Hill, who’d made a moving speech, and then Tilly smiled to see that Alan Harris had been the engine driver that day, driving a steam locomotive that was on loan from the Ffestiniog line in Wales.
The passion they all clearly had for this project touched her, and she wandered into the dining room, where the boxes of archived papers Ken had brought home still sat untouched on the polished table. Mum would have had a fit, she thought, noting how the slightly mouldy cardboard had already marked the wood. She fetched a dust sheet from the garage, spread that over the table as a tablecloth, and began pulling out the contents of the box, sorting them into piles: newspapers, letters, notebooks, magazines and general rubbish. A fair amount was of no interest – it looked like junk mail that had been delivered to the station over many years. She gathered that up and put it back in the box, ready to throw out.
Deep in the box was a framed cutting from a yellowed, old newspaper. A handwritten note at the bottom told her which newspaper it was – the Dorset Herald – and the date in 1895. She felt a tingle of excitement at the age of the article, as she wiped the glass with a tissue and read it. It was an account of the original opening of the railway. She found herself thinking that displayed alongside the account of the reopening in 2012, the two articles would make a good feature for Lynford station’s museum.
This was something she could do, she realised. Something to make it up to her dad. Something that would take her mind off the past and give her a way forward. This was it. She’d take up the challenge of dealing with this archive and rebuilding the museum. And she’d start right now.
Article in the Dorset Herald, 2 May 1895
The sun shone magnificently and the wind remained light for yesterday’s opening of the long-awaited Michelhampton to Coombe Regis branch line. An estimated five hundred people gathered at Michelhampton station where the mayor made a short speech and cut a ribbon, thus opening the new platform that will serve the branch line. A cheer rang out from those who had gathered to witness the event. A full train, pulled by locomotive Coombe Traveller built by Manning Wardle (one of three purchased for the line; the other two are named Coombe Explorer and Coombe Wanderer), departed the station to make the inaugural journey across the county to the coast. Traveller pulled four coaches, each comprised of a mix of first- and third-class compartments. The first-class accommodation is sumptuously upholstered in deep-red leather; their sides well served by large windows which on such a perfect day as yesterday afford spectacular views across the countryside.
At a maximum speed of twenty miles per hour the train is not fast. One suspects that when the track-side vegetation is a little more overgrown in late summer, the passengers will be able to lean out and pluck blackberries while the train negotiates the numerous bends. There are many bridges over lane-ways, a beautiful viaduct, a blessedly short tunnel and numerous deep cuttings on the route. The track makes many tight turns, and I am given to understand that the twisty nature of the route is the reason a narrow gauge was chosen, for it is possible to manage much tighter turns using a two-foot gauge than could be accomplished with standard gauge.
The train stops at four stations – Blackford, Rayne’s Cross, Lower Berecombe and Lynford – before it reaches its ultimate destination of Coombe Regis, where the station is perched atop a hill on the edge of the town. Views throughout are magnificent, and the vibrant green of springtime, the air thronging with birdsong and scented with hawthorn blossom, are replaced by the salty tang of the sea and the raucous cries of gulls on arrival at Coombe Regis. The town will no doubt receive many thousands of visitors this summer and every summer from here on. The coming of the railway has indeed opened up this picturesque little spot, and in time it will become a major destination for holidaymakers and day-trippers alike.