Marsden Station was merely a freestanding train platform with no buildings—only a ticket machine placed haphazardly against a board with a chart of train times pinned to it. Robin was the only one to get off, and he watched as the train left him there in solitude.
He looked to his surroundings to see that he had been dropped by a small parking lot and a pub called The Train-Car, which stood just over a small stone bridge. Past that, there was a steady hill lined with residential houses looking to lead down into what he would guess was Marsden proper.
He started to make his way over the bridge and looked down to see a body of water. The Huddersfield Narrow. He had seen it on Google Maps, when he had sought out a map of Standedge and the surroundings. The Narrow snaked its way through Marsden until it disappeared into the tunnel. This section ran almost parallel to the train line, segmenting it off from the rest of Marsden.
From the map he’d seen on his phone screen, Standedge lay off to the right. He wanted to go there and see the tunnel for himself, but first he decided he should really find somewhere to stay.
The Train-Car, a very traditional British pub with green lacquered awnings, weathered benches outside and a sign depicting three train-cars on a track and the name in gold lettering, appeared to be open. The door stood ajar, but no noise came from within. Although it did have a sign saying rooms were available, Robin decided against it, opting instead to walk into town.
He started to walk down the hill, seeing a shortcut to the left, between two houses that seemed to lead off to a wooded area. As Robin looked through the gap between buildings, a loud baa cut through the relative silence.
Robin started and looked around. Behind him, standing a few feet away, and looking unimpressed, were two rather fat and woolly sheep. They both had scarves on—one blue and one pink—making Robin think they weren’t likely to be anyone’s meal, but rather pets. They stared at him with their black marble eyes, and Robin stared back, locked in a battle over who seemed more out of place here. Robin was the first to look away.
The sheep with the pink scarf seemed to take this as its cue, and trotted past Robin, followed by the blue-scarved sheep. They disappeared down the cut-through and Robin watched as they ducked into the woods.
He looked around, wondering what to do, and saw a woman who had come out of her door and was emptying some plastic into her recycling bin. She caught Robin’s eye.
“I’m sorry,” Robin said, “but I think someone’s sheep must have gotten free.”
She looked him up and down. “Not from round here, are you?”
“No, but...”
“Those sheep go where they please. They belong to the town.”
Robin took a look toward the woods again. “Right.” Sheep wandering around freely? That was new to him. “I’m looking for somewhere to stay. Is this the way to the town center?”
“Follow the hill down. Pub called The Hamlet has the best rooms,” the woman said, like she’d said it a dozen times before to inexperienced tourists such as himself.
“Thank you,” Robin said, but the woman had already gone back into her house.
Robin did as he was told and got to the bottom of the hill. At first, the town presented itself as a series of pubs. He came to two buildings, either side of the road. The Lucky Duck and The Grey Fox stood watching each other, acting as an unofficial gateway to the commercial part of the small town.
Past them was a main street filled with shops—a bakery, a charity shop, a co-op, three cafés and many other small businesses. They all led up to a crossroads, where a tall clock tower stood, white with red corners. The clock had stopped at three fifteen, and Robin had to check his watch to see the real time.
It was just past 6:00 p.m., but Marsden was already deathly silent. There was no one on the streets and the shops had shut for the day. Robin walked up the street, expecting to see some sign of life somewhere. He passed the clock tower, seeing a crossroads but deciding to keep going straight, and kept going up the road, finally hearing a gentle thrum of noise coming from somewhere.
As he passed a post office and another charity shop, there was a break in the buildings, and he found what he was looking for. Set back slightly, it was the largest pub he had seen yet, although the outer decor matched every other pub he’d found in Marsden. A cream building with black siding and a sign with gold lettering. The Hamlet. The sign jostling gently in the wind had a man in a puffy Shakespearean collar holding a skull. The windows and open door streamed light out of them and the sound of laughing and conversation washed out into the street.
Robin headed inside.