Sunday, 20 September. The last day of opening. Ted rose at six o’clock, his usual time. He washed and dressed in his stationmaster’s uniform as he had done every day for the last sixteen years. His shirt was clean, and the jacket and trousers newly brushed. He’d polished his buttons and shoes. By seven o’clock he’d had breakfast, donned his stationmaster’s cap and opened the station. There was already a queue of people outside.
‘Thought I’d get an early train today, just to Coombe Regis and back,’ said one man. ‘Expect tickets on the afternoon trains will be sold out.’
Ted didn’t answer, but just hooked open the door and went behind the counter to start selling tickets. Why couldn’t these people have made a point of using the railway before this summer? If they had, then perhaps it wouldn’t be closing. And perhaps Annie would have agreed to marry him. He hated them. All of them – these passengers who wanted to travel today only because it was the last chance, but who’d let the railway decline until the company had had no choice but to close it.
‘You’re in a bad mood,’ said the man who was going to Coombe Regis. ‘Cheer up, mate. It should be a fun day. You’ll have loads of people through here.’
A thought occurred to Ted. He had not seen Annie for over a month, not since she’d stopped work. He’d had two short letters from her, that asked after his health, confirmed that she was well but that there was no real news. They read as though her father was checking her mail. Perhaps he was. Ted had written back once, not quite knowing what to say. It had always been hard to put his feelings into words and it was even harder to do it on paper when he knew someone else was going to read it. It was different writing his diary, when he could ramble on knowing that no one else would ever read it. And what if her father was checking her incoming mail as well as her outgoing letters?
He was hoping that maybe Annie would take the train today, one last time. To commemorate the end of an era. To see him. The more he thought about it the more he convinced himself that that was what she would do. The thought cheered him a little. He had no idea what he’d say to her – he still had no job to go to – but just to see her beautiful face, to catch a glimpse of her stunning smile, to be in her company even if only for a few seconds, would make it all seem more bearable. How was she? The baby she was carrying – his baby – how big was it now? He longed to see her. If she didn’t come today, he’d go to see her. Next week, once the station house was cleared. He needed to go to Michelhampton anyway, to find some cheap lodgings. And to find a job. In desperation, he’d scoured the local papers looking for anything he might do – but there’d been nothing suitable. Nothing he could even apply for; only adverts looking for skilled white-collar workers or tradespeople. He could learn new skills, but only if he could find an opening. And there were no railway jobs going.
The day passed in a haze of activity. There was always something to do – people wanting tickets, trains coming in and disgorging hordes of passengers, people wanting access to the platform to wave at the trains or take photographs. A couple of local businesses had set up stalls outside the station, selling tea made in an urn, slices of cake, paper cups of ale. Another stall was selling postcards printed with images of the railway and handing out balloons to every child. Ted kept a look out for Annie all day, but there was no sign of her. He could have missed her, he realised. With all the hundreds of people arriving and leaving on every train, she could have been on one and he might not have seen her. But surely if she’d come she would have searched him out?
Fred Wilson was busy too, helping with the signals and train dispatch duties. He was as surly as ever.
‘Should have got more staff if you’d known it would be this busy,’ he grumbled, as yet another train left the platform. ‘Soon as the last one’s gone, I’m off home.’
‘No you’re not, lad,’ Ted replied. ‘You’re on duty till eight o’clock this evening. There’ll be a lot of clearing up to do when it’s all over, and I need you to help me do it. You’ll be paid the overtime.’
‘Huh. My last day, and finally I get the chance of some overtime pay.’ Fred shrugged and went into the waiting room, where he sat down and lit up a cigarette. It wasn’t time for his break, but Ted felt too tired and depressed to argue it with him.
‘Stationmaster? Might I have a few words, please?’ A small man wearing a trilby hat and with a camera hung around his neck had approached Ted. ‘Albert Bundy, Dorset Herald. Do you have a few minutes to spare?’
‘Er, yes, I suppose so,’ Ted said. He’d never met anyone from the papers before.
‘Excellent!’ The reporter pulled a notepad and pencil from his pocket. ‘If I could start with your name, and background, how long you’ve been working here, that sort of thing.’
Ted blinked, and for a moment felt lost for words. ‘I’m T … I mean, Edward Morgan. Been here, um, sixteen years now.’
‘And what does it mean to you, the closure of the railway?’
‘It’s the end. Of everything.’ The words came out bitter, and Bundy looked startled by Ted’s passion.
‘The end. All right.’ He made a note in his notebook. ‘And what next, for Edward Morgan, stationmaster?’
Ted shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I’ve no job to go to. Another week closing things down here and then that’s it. I’ll lose my home, too.’
Bundy tilted his head on one side as he made more notes. ‘That’s very sad. Hope you find something.’ He took a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Ted. ‘Well look, maybe when you find a new job get in touch. I could do a “one year on” piece about how railway workers have fared since the closure. Hmm. Could be worth pitching. So, I’ll write something up. Dorset Herald. Should be in tomorrow’s edition. Nice to meet you, Mr Morgan.’ He shook Ted’s hand, then hurried off to interview people waiting for the next train.
Three questions. That was all the reporter had asked. Three questions to sum up the end of an era, the end of his lifelong association with the railway, the only thing he’d ever known.
*
It seemed fitting that the last ever train to depart Lynford station was the 17.21 to Michelhampton. The train that for the last year or more Ted had looked forward to, for it meant a glimpse of Annie. Not today, though. There’d been no sign of her. Today the train arrived from Coombe Regis packed to the rafters. The platform at Lynford was heaving – it seemed the entire village had turned out to see the last train depart. It was all Ted could do to battle his way through, yelling at people to stand back as he checked the doors were closed and that the train’s guard could see him wave the flag.
With a whistle and an enormous cheer from the crowd, and a hearty wave from Bill Perkins, the last train left. Some of the people on the platform were dabbing handkerchiefs at their eyes. People Ted had never seen before, who’d probably hardly ever used the railway. Gradually they left, going back to their homes, many of them travelling in their own motorcars. The stalls outside the station packed up. All the cakes and postcards had sold, and the balloon seller popped the last of his balloons.
Fred was sullenly walking around the station collecting rubbish in a bucket. Burst balloons, discarded waxed paper cups that had held tea or beer, empty cigarette packets. ‘Don’t know why we bother,’ he said. ‘It’s all closing.’
‘We bother because for sixteen years I’ve ensured this station is neat and tidy, and I’m not stopping now. Get on with your work, lad. It’s your last day. Your last couple of hours, then you’re free of me forever.’
‘Thank Christ for that,’ muttered Fred, as he shuffled along the platform, kicking a cigarette butt onto the tracks.
Ted sighed, biting back the earful he longed to throw at that insolent lad. It wasn’t worth it. Anything Fred didn’t do today Ted would easily be able to do over the next few days. He had another week, and no trains to dispatch.
At last everyone had left, except Fred who was finishing up in the goods yard. The light was beginning to fail as Ted closed the station doors and locked up, for the last time. He stood for a moment with his hand on the ticket-office counter, and gazed at the station clock, that he’d religiously wound and kept accurate for so many years. What would happen to the station, and everything in it? He supposed the railway company would sell it all off, in an auction. Who’d buy that clock, or the bench on the platform where Annie had so often sat, or the chairs in the ladies’ waiting room, or the goods sheds, or even the station house itself?
Who’d buy any of it? The whole lot should be bulldozed, Ted thought. He slapped his hand down hard on the counter. All those years working here, keeping everything perfect, and for nothing. It was all over.
He felt as though he was drowning. The uncertainty. No job. No more station. No more home, in a few days. No Annie.
He recognised the feeling, when it was all too much. He needed help. He needed someone with a calm, wise voice, to reassure him there was a way forward. Norah. He needed his sister, Norah.
Immediately he went into the ticket office and lifted the telephone. He’d call her now. At least, he’d call her neighbour, and ask her to fetch Norah. His hands were shaking as he dialled the number. It took so long for the dial to click its way back after each number.
And then it rang and rang and rang and there was no answer. No answer at all. He remembered then that Norah had said in her most recent letter that she would be unable to telephone him on the last day, as her neighbour had been admitted to hospital and so she had no access to a telephone.
If he could not speak to Norah then he had to speak to Annie. No one else could calm him. He dug out the slip of paper she’d given him with her home telephone number on and, barely able to focus, dialled her number. She had to be at home. He could not bear it if she wasn’t. He needed her.
The number rang several times, and Ted felt panic rising with every unanswered ring. He’d never felt like this before – so lost, totally at sea, panicking and unable to cope with life. Even in those dark days of school, when he’d been bullied, when he’d not yet learned any techniques for coping with stress or change – even then he’d never felt this bad.
At last there was a click, and a cultured male voice, with no trace of a Dorset accent, answered. ‘Galbraith residence. Who’s calling, please?’
Not Annie. Why couldn’t Annie have answered? Mustering every last speck of his social skills, Ted forced himself to speak, keeping his voice as steady as he could. ‘This is Edward Morgan, from Lynford station. Is Miss Galbraith available to come to the telephone, please?’
‘Ah, Morgan. I’ve heard a bit about you. No, Anne cannot come to the telephone now. She is out for the evening. With her fiancé.’
‘Fiancé? D-do you mean … B-Bertram …’ Ted struggled to recall Bertram’s last name. His mind was spinning. Had she still not had chance to tell her father the engagement was off? After all this time?
‘Bertram Clarke-Watson. Yes, I do mean him. But listen, Morgan, now that I’ve got the chance to speak with you, I want to tell you something and I want you to listen. If you’ve got designs on my daughter, you need to think again. You’ve turned her head, somehow, and made her think she has a choice in who she marries. But let me tell you this, son. She has no choice. She will marry Clarke-Watson. And you, if you’re any kind of a gentleman, will step aside to allow her to do just that. You hear me?’
‘I-I hear you, sir … but …’ Did her father know about the baby? If she hadn’t told him she’d ended the engagement, Ted could only assume she hadn’t told him about her pregnancy yet either. Surely she would have to, soon. It was clear though, that she had spoken to her father about him in some respect – her father had at least heard of Ted.
‘There are no buts. She tells me you might have a job at a larger station. But I’m telling you, no matter what size the station, no daughter of mine is marrying a stationmaster. Clarke-Watson’s a man of business. He’s a fine head for business on his shoulders. He’s going places. If his company and mine were to merge, we’d be the largest insurance company in the county. He’s building a new house, outside Michelhampton. And he’s arranging to buy an apartment in London. You can’t compete. Besides, I like Clarke-Watson. I don’t know you from Adam.’
‘I-I could come and meet you …’ As the father of Annie’s child, surely he’d have to meet Mr Galbraith, the child’s grandfather, sooner or later? An image flashed through his mind of a christening: Annie holding the child in a long white robe, Ted standing proudly at her side, Annie’s father smiling indulgently on the opposite side of the font.
The image dissipated when Mr Galbraith spoke again. ‘You’ll stay away, Morgan. Stay well away from Anne. And don’t call this number ever again, you hear me?’
With that, the line went dead. Ted slumped into the nearest chair. It was over. Everything was over. Everything was finished. There was no way forward for him now. He leaned back, his head against the wall of the ticket office, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, staring at the ceiling. It needed a coat of paint, he realised, surprising himself with such a mundane thought at such a traumatic time. No one would ever paint it now. No one would care. It was all over.