Kitabı oku: «The Stationmaster’s Daughter», sayfa 2

Chapter 2
Ted – 1935

Ted Morgan, the stationmaster at Lynford station, had reached the not-insignificant age of 40 years without believing in love at first sight. Indeed, he wasn’t sure he believed in love at all; that is to say, not the romantic variety. You loved your parents, your siblings, and children (if you had any), of course. And you could be infatuated by a member of the opposite sex. But romantic love was a notion he’d had no experience of, and therefore was disinclined to believe in.

Until, that is, he’d first laid eyes on Annie Galbraith, and love – he could not call it anything else – hit him between the eyes with all the force of a Manning Wardle 2-6-2 tank engine.

Annie was slim, shorter than him by a foot, blonde of hair and blue of eye, her face shaped like a perfect heart. She held her head high as if to make herself taller, giving the impression of someone who was superior, as she was to him, in every way. She arrived each morning on the 08.42 from Michelhampton, strode purposefully through Ted’s little branch-line station with a neat black handbag hooked over her arm. In the evenings she returned three minutes before the 17.21 was due to depart. She sat in first class – where else for such a goddess? – in a seat on the left-hand side, one which afforded the best views across the Dorset countryside, on the forty-minute journey to Michelhampton. She had been travelling on these trains every weekday for the past four months, and in all that time he had only ever said three words to her. The same three words, over and over. In his head they were, ‘I love you’, but they came out of his mouth as ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ when he inspected her ticket each day. The weekly ticket that, he knew, she bought from the ticket office at Michelhampton, from the lucky, lucky clerk there, who had the pleasure of the longer and more involved interaction associated with purchasing a ticket.

Still, gazing at the ticket, holding it when it was still warm from her own fair hands (that were sometimes encased in soft leather gloves, though not now that the season had progressed towards spring), was a thrill in itself. And then, when he’d completed his check, he could raise his eyes to hers, smile, and say those three words, and she’d nod and take the ticket from him, then turn and hurry onto the platform where the train was waiting. Once, she almost smiled back at him. Twice, she’d said thank you. And on another occasion, when she was a minute or so late, he’d held the train and ushered her onto it as she scurried through the station, her heels clip-clopping on the station’s tiled floor. He’d waved her away as she reached for her ticket, and she’d smiled for sure that time before wiping the back of her hand across her brow as she boarded the train as if to say phew! Thank goodness she’d made it, and all thanks to Ted!

He’d discovered her name a month or so after she’d begun commuting regularly. He knew the names of most regulars; certainly those who lived in Lynford or Berecombe, and many of those who lived in Coombe Regis. Michelhampton was larger, further off, and not a place he’d regularly visited himself, so he wasn’t as well acquainted with passengers who came from there. In the summer season, most of his passengers were holidaymakers and day-trippers, changing onto the branch line from the main line at Michelhampton.

He wasn’t proud of the way he discovered her name. It was a quiet Monday morning, and she was the only passenger alighting from the 8.42. He’d watched her from the door of the station as she walked up the lane towards the village. Then, on a whim, his next duties not being for thirty minutes when a goods train was due, he locked up the station and followed her, at a respectable distance, telling himself he needed to buy some bread and a chop for his dinner, and now was a good time to visit the village shops. She was a little way ahead of him, and he turned a corner only just in time to see the hem of her dress disappearing into the National Provincial Bank. Did she work there? Ted had to know. He removed his stationmaster’s peaked cap and followed her inside. Perhaps he could pretend he had some banking business to do, ask about opening a savings account or the like. He usually did his own banking at the Midland Bank, a little further up the High Street.

‘Hey, Annie! How was your weekend?’ Ted heard a girl cashier call out, as the object of his attention disappeared through a door marked Private. A supervisor came up behind the girl. ‘Now then, Muriel, attend to this gentleman. You can catch up on Miss Galbraith’s gossip during your lunch break.’

Ted suppressed a smile. So his angel’s name was Annie Galbraith. He stepped up to the counter and spoke to the cashier for a few moments about the interest rates available on savings accounts. He was furnished with a leaflet, and left, promising to think about it and return at a later date. He had no further glimpses of Annie, but it was enough. He knew her name. This evening when he checked her ticket, he could say to her, ‘Good evening, Miss Galbraith.’ If he could pluck up the courage to do so, that is.

Eventually, he did, but not until about a week later, when an unseasonably warm day had filled him with vigour, emboldening him just a little. He’d felt himself blush to the roots of his hair as he’d greeted her from the morning train, with a cheery, ‘Good morning, Miss Galbraith.’ She’d stared at him for a second, then recovered her manners and nodded an acknowledgement with a smile, before hurrying through the station as usual.

That smile. He treasured it. Every tiny, brief second it had been upon him.

*

Ted had been stationmaster at Lynford for fifteen years. He’d worked on the railway for eleven years before that – starting as a porter up the line at Rayne’s Cross when he left school aged 14, before being promoted to stationmaster aged 25, the youngest and proudest stationmaster in the whole of Southern Railway at that time. Then, he’d moved to Lynford, where a single building functioned as both station and stationmaster’s house. There was a ticket office where his Stationmaster Certificate hung proudly behind the counter, a ladies’ waiting room, ladies’ and gents’ water closets, a small sitting room, kitchen and scullery downstairs. Off the sitting room a narrow staircase rose, twisting back on itself to reach a tiny landing, which led to two small bedrooms. Ted slept in a single bed in the larger of the two, and used the other one for storage, though he cleared it out whenever his sister and her children came to visit. It was a small home, but adequate for his needs.

Behind the station was a goods yard – a siding ran off the main line and stopped inside a large shed. Here, the daily goods trains were shunted and the goods unloaded from wagons directly into trucks, to be delivered locally. Coal came once a week, and the other days brought various different commodities – groceries, goods for the various Lynford shops, occasional livestock bought at markets by local farmers. A larger station would have employed a dedicated goods yard manager, but here, it was Ted’s job to organise the goods yard, marshalling the trucks and carts as they turned up to deliver or collect goods, operating the hoist that was used to lift crates off wagons and onto trucks. He was aided in these activities by Fred Wilson, a skinny, sallow, surly lad of 18, who was officially employed as a porter, but in reality took on any job that needed doing, albeit usually with poor grace. ‘I’m supposed to be a porter,’ he’d grumble, when Ted called on him to help unload a goods wagon. ‘If I gets me uniform mussed up on the wagons, Ma will have me guts for garters. And that’ll be all down to you, Mr Morgan.’

‘Take your jacket off then, lad,’ Ted would reply, every time he heard this grumble. ‘And put on a set of overalls.’

‘They’re as mucky inside as the wagons are on the outside.’ And Ted would roll his eyes at the boy and get started himself on the task at hand. Fred would soon join in, still muttering but eventually getting the job done.

Every day the post came by rail, too, and Ted brought them into the ticket office, where the Lynford postman collected them for onward delivery. A bundle of morning newspapers arrived on the 07.42, and was left in the ticket office until the newsagent’s paperboy collected them on his bicycle with its enormous wicker basket balanced on the back.

There was always something that needed doing, from early morning till mid-evening, in and around the station and goods yard, and of course all of it had to fit around the arrival and departures of the dozen trains a day between Michelhampton and Coombe Regis. Some services were quiet, almost empty, in the winter months, but summer brought an influx of holidaymakers and day-trippers. Most went through to Coombe Regis, but some would stop off at Lynford for a few hours, or maybe overnight, and visit the village’s fourteenth-century church and ancient witch’s dunking stool that overhung a stream, or spend a day walking over the hills between Lynford and Coombe Regis, which rewarded the more energetic visitors with the best views of anywhere, in all of southern England. At least, Ted thought so. He’d lived all his life in this area and could not imagine a more beautiful place. Why would anyone want to leave? He had no interest in going anywhere. Michelhampton was the furthest he’d been, other than a couple of railway training sessions held in Dorchester. That was a big enough city for his taste. Why anyone would want to go somewhere like London he couldn’t understand.

No, Ted was content with his life here in Lynford. Contented and happy for it to continue as it always had – up until the moment he’d fallen in love with Annie Galbraith. Suddenly, making sure the trains ran on time and the railway functioned smoothly seemed no longer enough, and he found himself fantasising about another life, one with Annie by his side, a clutch of children at their feet, a home away from the railway with roses around the door …

Chapter 3
Tilly

Tilly awoke, wondering for a moment where she was. A bright, blue room, with white bed linen. Not her bed with Ian, not Amber’s pink princess bedroom. Not the hospital bed she’d spent a few days in either.

It came back to her slowly. Her father’s bungalow. Of course. He’d driven her down to Dorset, made her shepherd’s pie, and she’d then polished off a bottle of wine. Or was it two? She’d cried a lot, as well. And her dad had loaned her his soft, neatly ironed handkerchiefs and let her cry as much as she needed to.

Her eyes felt sore and her mouth was parched. She needed cold water on her face, a thick coating of moisturiser and about a gallon of tea. As if he had heard her silent cry for help, at that moment Ken tapped on the bedroom door and entered, carrying a large mug.

‘Thought you might be in need of this, pet,’ he said, placing it on a coaster on the bedside table.

‘Cheers, Dad. Did I embarrass myself last night?’

‘Not at all. You cried a lot. I hate to see you like that. But I know what I was like, after your mother …’

He turned away, uncomfortable with the intimate talk. ‘Want me to open your curtains? Or are you going to go back to sleep? You can do whatever you want, you know. No need to get up for ages. I thought – when you do get up – we could go to Lower Berecombe. To the station. I’ll show you what I’ve been spending all my time doing.’ He shuffled towards the door.

‘I’ll be up soon,’ Tilly called after him, as he gently closed the door. Her instinct was just to drink the tea then crawl back under the covers and stay there for the day. But she knew that wouldn’t help.

‘Promise me,’ Jo had said, as she waved Tilly off the day before, ‘that’ll you let your dad help you. Don’t shut him out. Do whatever he suggests, go out with him, look at all his railway stuff. I think it’ll help. You said it helped him, after your mum died. Gave him something to do, something to be interested in.’

She’d nodded at Jo, promising she would, and that meant she’d have to make the effort today to get up and dressed and go out with her dad.

*

It was late morning before Tilly was finally up, showered, dressed, with a fried egg on toast and several cups of coffee inside her, at last feeling ready to face the day. She’d spent a few minutes looking round Ken’s house, seeing everywhere the evidence that he’d not been able to move on at all since her mother’s death. As well as that coat by the front door, her phone still lay on a bedside table, constantly charging although it would never be used again. The smallest of the four bedrooms was still kitted out as her mum’s crafting room – the sewing machine set up and threaded ready for use, scraps of cloth for a patchwork quilt strewn over the bed, a pile of craft magazines with Post-it notes marking interesting pages on the floor.

If he hadn’t managed to move on yet, what hope was there for her?

‘Ready, pet?’ Ken said, from where he was standing by the front door, cap in hand, ready to take her out to his beloved station.

‘Yeah, sure,’ she replied, trying for his sake to summon at least the appearance of enthusiasm.

*

It was just a tumbledown cottage, was Tilly’s first thought, as Ken parked outside Lower Berecombe station house. She climbed out of the car and stood for a moment, looking around. Not much to show for the restoration work, she thought. You could just about see that there’d once been a railway through here – behind the station house was the remains of the trackbed, and a straight, flat footpath led off in one direction, signposted ‘The Old Station Inn – 5 miles’. A couple of sheds stood to the side of the main building. One, looking just big enough for a man to stand up in, looked as though it had once housed signalling equipment.

‘So, this is it,’ Ken said, sounding excited to be showing her around his pride and joy at last. ‘Obviously Lynford’s in better shape but this place is coming along nicely too. Come on in.’

Tilly followed him into the building. Inside the old station was a mess. There was no other way to describe it. Debris everywhere, broken stepladders, ancient pots of paint, mouldering boxes containing who knew what. Ken led her through to a small room that had a hideous orange floral carpet and an old brown velour sofa on which a tabby cat lay curled up, sleeping.

‘Sit down. I’ll put a pot of water on to boil. We can have a cuppa.’ On a rickety-looking table in the corner was a Primus stove, a five-litre container of water, a box of teabags and a couple of chipped mugs. He set to work while Tilly sat down. The cat sniffed at her and then stood, stretched and calmly walked across and onto her lap, where it settled down once again, purring happily. She stroked it, discovering a feeling of calm as she rhythmically smoothed its fur.

‘Ah, you’ve made friends with our resident moggy,’ Ken said, looking over his shoulder at her. ‘We’ve no idea where she came from. She just hangs out here, and any railway volunteer that’s here feeds her.’

He handed her a mug of tea and sat beside her on the old sofa, chattering away about the railway restoration while Tilly drank her tea, stroked the cat and tried to keep herself composed. Ken seemed totally at home there. He’d been an area manager for a railway company before he retired. ‘Glorified stationmaster, essentially,’ he’d always said, with a laugh. Railways must be in his blood, Tilly had realised, for as soon as he’d retired and moved to Dorset he’d involved himself in this railway restoration project.

‘So, bring your tea with you, and I’ll give you a quick tour,’ he said, clearly longing to show off what he’d been up to.

She pushed the cat off her lap and stood up. ‘Is this where you spend all your time, then?’

‘Mostly, yes. This was one of the stations on the line. The Society – the Michelhampton and Coombe Regis Railway Society, that is – bought it a few months ago. It had stood empty for years, after being used as a holiday home back in the Sixties and Seventies. As you can see there’s an awful lot of work to do here. Come on, I’ll show you.’

She followed him out through a set of double doors that led into what had once been a garden. He stopped a couple of feet away from the door. ‘You’re now standing on what was once the “down” platform. It was only ever a low platform – about a foot above the height of the trackbed. See the step down?’ He walked forward and down a muddy step, and Tilly followed. ‘Now we’re on the trackbed. Look that way’ – he gestured to his left – ‘and you can see the footpath that runs along the trackbed from here to Rayne’s Cross and the reservoir. It goes over the old viaduct which has amazing views, so it’s quite a popular walk. And Rayne’s Cross station is now a pub, the Old Station Inn. Lynford is in that direction.’ He pointed to the right where a fence ran across the trackbed and there was no footpath.

Tilly turned and looked back at the station house. There were missing roof tiles, the brickwork looked in need of re-pointing, the paintwork was horribly peeling, and the remains of the platforms and trackbed were muddy and overgrown. It looked the way she felt, she thought, feeling a weird kind of empathy with the building.

‘Why don’t the trains run all the way from Lynford to here?’ she asked.

Ken pulled a face. ‘We’d love to do that, but we’ve had to buy back the trackbed from local farmers, bit by bit. Unfortunately, we’ve been having trouble buying that last piece of the trackbed. Owner won’t sell up.’ He pointed once again to the fence.

‘Why not?’

Ken shrugged. ‘Who knows? She’s got some sort of long-standing grudge against us but no one really knows what it is. Anyway. Come on, come and see my workshed.’ He walked along the old trackbed to just past the station house. Tucked in behind was a large metal shed – it looked like a shipping container. The doors at one end stood open, and inside was what Tilly instantly recognised as paradise for her father. There was a workbench strewn with tools along one side, a couple of rusty railway signals lay on the floor on the other side, and the far end held a large container filled with more rusty metal pieces. Ken picked one up and turned it over, lovingly.

‘This is a track spike. These are used to hold the rail to the wooden sleepers. We’ve acquired thousands of them over the years, and they all need cleaning up before we can use them on a new section of track. And those signals there, those are my next job. Clean them up, get them in working order, repaint them. If we ever manage to buy that bit of land, we’ll be wanting to extend the line to here as soon as possible, and then beyond to Rayne’s Cross. The owner of the pub there can’t wait for us to link up.’

Tilly was only half listening. Her mind was in no state to take in the details of railway restoration. She was gazing instead at the countryside, the gentle rolling hills, copses and hedgerows. ‘Dad? Mind if I go for a walk?’

‘Er, sure. Shall I come with you?’

She shook her head. ‘No thanks. I kind of want to be by myself for a bit.’

‘OK.’ He looked around at the rusty equipment and greasy tools. ‘I suppose this kind of thing isn’t really your cup of tea. Go on then. You could walk the old trackbed towards Rayne’s Cross, then there’s a footpath off to the left through some fields and along a lane that loops back round to here. Takes about an hour. You’ll be all right on your own?’

She heard the unspoken words – you won’t do anything silly, will you? – and nodded. ‘I’ll be fine. See you back here in a bit, then.’

She headed off along the old railway track, half-heartedly trying to imagine what it might have looked like eighty years ago when steam trains ran a regular service on the line. The path was straight and level, its surface a mixture of grass and gravel. It was flanked by overgrown bushes, some overhanging the trackbed. If ever her father and his restoration society managed to extend the track in this direction, they’d have a job to do to keep the foliage under control.

After a while she came across a gap in the hedge on the left, and a stile set into a short piece of fence. Deciding this must be the place her dad had suggested she leave the trackbed, she climbed over, and headed off across the fields, clad in their winter brown and dull green. Here and there a few sheep grazed on the short grass; in the next field two horses in heavy winter rugs stood dejectedly nose to tail under a tree. Tilly’s mind wandered as she walked. She found herself reliving the events that had brought her here to Dorset. It wasn’t healthy to do this, she knew – she should look forward rather than back. But her future was too uncertain to dwell on. It was too depressing to think of it. And so she found herself thinking about Ian, the way he’d left her, her redundancy, and her miscarriages. The way it had all come to a head one day and she’d felt there was no way forward. Her dad didn’t know about all of it, yet. One day maybe she’d tell him the details, perhaps when she felt strong enough to talk about it.

She crossed a couple of fields, following a lightly trodden path. Ken had said it came out on a lane and looped round back to the station. She stopped and looked around, and realised she had no idea where she was, or what direction the station lay. Where was this lane? The weather was deteriorating – grey skies were becoming darker and the threat of rain hung heavy in the air. She’d been walking for over an hour. She pulled out her phone to call Ken for directions but there was no signal.

A little further on there was a farmhouse. That must have an entrance onto a road, she thought. Maybe from there she’d be able to figure out the way back. She headed towards it and realised she was approaching it from the back, through the farmyard. There were a couple of near-derelict barns and a rusty old tractor sat forlornly to one side, its tyres flat and weeds growing up around it. Not a working farm anymore, then. She headed round to the front of the house, to the gravel track that led to a lane, but then she wasn’t sure which direction to walk once she hit the lane.

The farmhouse looked scruffy and uncared for, its front door painted with peeling dark-red paint, but there was a light on inside so it was clear someone lived there. Tilly sighed with relief and knocked on the door to ask for directions.

The door was opened by a stooped woman who looked to be in her eighties. She was wearing an old-fashioned pink nylon housecoat, of a type Tilly had last seen on her own grandmother thirty years before.

‘Er, hello, I am sorry to bother you, but could you tell me the way back to Lower Berecombe?’ Tilly asked. ‘I seem to be a bit l-lost.’ To her horror she found her eyes welling up with tears as she spoke.

‘Of course, dear, it’s not far, but – you look upset? Won’t you come in for a moment until you feel better? A cup of tea, that’s what you need. And I have a pack of chocolate biscuits somewhere.’

‘Oh, but I m-mustn’t disturb you,’ Tilly said, fumbling in her pocket for a tissue.

‘Nonsense. Disturb me from what, daytime television?’ The old woman scoffed and rolled her eyes. ‘Come on in, dear. I’m not turning away a crying stranger.’ She stood back with the door wide open, and Tilly followed her inside. Perhaps a cup of tea was what she needed. Some time away from her thoughts, with someone who knew nothing about her or her troubles.

The old woman had gone into the kitchen – a clean but tatty room that looked as though it had last been refitted in the Seventies. She filled a kettle, switched it on and dropped a couple of teabags into an old brown teapot. ‘Sit down, do,’ she said, gesturing to the group of mismatched chairs arranged around a battered Formica-covered kitchen table. She took a box of tissues from a work surface and put them in front of Tilly.

Somehow this quiet gesture was too much. As if she hadn’t cried enough over recent weeks, Tilly found herself with tears coursing down her face once more. She pulled out a couple of tissues and tried to compose herself while her host finished making tea and laying biscuits on a plate.

A few moments later the old woman put a cup of tea in front of her and sat down. ‘I’m Ena Pullen,’ she said, pushing the biscuits nearer to Tilly.

‘Tilly Thomson,’ Tilly replied, taking a biscuit. ‘Thank you so much for inviting me in.’

‘You look like you are having a tough day,’ Ena said. ‘I’m not going to ask you what’s wrong, but I hope when you leave here you feel a little better than when you arrived. If you do, I’ll have done my job.’ She smiled, and it was all Tilly could do not to begin crying again. Tea and sympathy always set her off.

Ena chatted about inconsequential things – whether her favourite contestant would win the latest TV reality singing competition, the likelihood of the summer being warm or not, the different types of birds who visited her bird-feeder over the winter months. Tilly listened and nodded but said little in return, allowing the trivial topics to fill her mind, pushing everything else out.

When her tea was drunk, Tilly reluctantly got to her feet and shook Ena’s hand. ‘Thank you so much. I feel a lot better now, but I’d better get going. Dad will be wondering where I am. Could you just point me in the direction of the old station at Lower Berecombe?’

‘The station?’ Ena’s expression darkened. ‘Don’t say you are anything to do with that old railway?’

‘Well, no, but my dad is … he’s part of the society trying to restore it.’

‘Is he now …’ Ena pressed her lips together and led Tilly out of the kitchen. ‘Well, Tilly, as you said, it’s time for you to go. Turn left along the lane, keep walking for about ten minutes and you’ll reach the village, then go right by the church until you see the station.’ Her tone was noticeably colder.

‘Is everything OK?’ Tilly asked hesitantly as she stepped through the front door.

Ena’s previously friendly expression was harsh. ‘That railway was the death of my father, and that society’s trying to rebuild it. It’s all wrong. I want it stopped.’ With that she shook her head and closed the door behind Tilly.

*

Tilly found her way back to the station, where Ken had changed into grimy blue overalls and was busy removing rust from one of the old railway signals. He looked up as she approached.

‘I was about to send out a search party. Where did you get to?’ His tone was joking but she could sense his worry behind it. She told him about her meeting with Ena Pullen and he made a face.

‘Oh, her. She’s the one who won’t sell us that length of trackbed. The death of her father? Rubbish. She’s just a miserable old so-and-so who doesn’t like change.’

Tilly frowned. She didn’t agree with her dad’s opinion of the old woman. Ena had seemed kind and caring, right up until the moment when Tilly had mentioned the railway. She wondered idly what could possibly have happened to have elicited such a change.