The Last Dance

by Fiona McIntosh

  Carys responded with a hard kiss to Stella’s cheek and then fell into her big sister’s arms and wept a little more, but not as hard. Practice told Stella that these tears would dry up soon.

  ‘I’ll write as soon as I get back from school because I shall be missing you by then,’ Carys moaned.

  ‘I know, darling,’ she whispered, silently cursing her parents’ cowardice once again. Surely they knew how much their deaths would hurt the very people they loved the most?

  The parting when it came wasn’t as painful as she’d dreaded. It was Carys who saved them.

  ‘Perhaps we should say “See you again” like Mummy always told us. She hated goodbyes didn’t she?’

  Clearly not enough. Stella couldn’t help the uncharitable thought and wished she could drag her mother alongside to witness all this bravery from her children that she had so lacked. ‘Good idea. Á bientôt, ma cherie,’ she whispered, hugging her sister, inhaling the faintly soapy smell still on her skin.

  ‘Á bientôt, Stella. Hurry home.’

  Mrs Walker, the third-form teacher on duty in the playground had already anticipated the tears and had generously agreed to meet them at the gate when Stella had told her of the family’s situation. She nodded with understanding at Stella. ‘Morning, Carys. Gosh, do you know what I just heard?’ Carys looked up with enquiry. ‘Apparently we’re going on an excursion to London Zoo tomorrow.’ Carys gasped. Stella had known about it, and planned for this surprise to be landed on her sister at this tense moment of farewell. ‘I know, it’s so exciting and we’re gathering a list of the children who are able to come. I was hoping you might like to be one of the leaders of the group going – you’ll have a special list of important duties.’

  Stella watched her sister’s eyes shine with pleasure. ‘Really? Me?’

  ‘Oh, golly gosh, yes. You were the first person I thought of to wear the special badge of leader. So come on, I have to get you to agree formally to that important position and I have to give you a badge and your armband. I’m putting you in charge of the green group of your year – along with Nancy Bell.’

  ‘Nancy and I are best friends, Miss Walker.’

  ‘Oh, well, yes, I thought you two would make the perfect pair. Nancy’s already here – shall we go and find her?’

  Carys turned back to Stella, tears dried, new energy beaming from her eyes instead. ‘I have to go, Stella, did you hear?’

  ‘I did. Hurry off, Carys, sounds like you have important things to do.’ Her sister fell into her arms once more but there was no trembling now. Stella kissed her nose, as she always did to make Carys giggle. ‘Let’s both plan to write tonight so our letters kiss on the way to each other.’

  Carys laughed now. ‘Bye, Stella.’

  ‘Back soon, darling.’ She blew her a kiss too but Carys was already gushing in conversation with her teacher and it was Miss Walker who caught the kiss and nodded.

  She breathed deeply, her glance skimming across the school playground where she must now leave her heart and turn away from the lives she loved to the new life beckoning.

  It had been tempting to drift into a doze on the journey south from London’s Charing Cross Station, especially after the early-morning journey into central London. Uncle Bryn had come down with his car and driven Stella and her aunt for their teary goodbye on the concourse of the ornate French Renaissance-style building that fronted The Strand.

  ‘Don’t come in with me,’ Stella quavered, hugging her aunt fiercely and swallowing back tears that had wanted to fall since she’d walked her brother and sister to school an hour earlier. Instead they parted to look at each other, still embracing. ‘It only makes it harder.’

  Her aunt nodded, pulling off her glove to dab at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. ‘I shall miss you, darling, but I promise the children will want for nothing.’

  ‘I know.’ She had to run away. This was feeling even harder than she’d imagined. ‘Kiss Uncle Bryn for me and thank him again for driving me in.’

  ‘Leave,’ her aunt said, ‘or I may not let you go!’ They swapped a teary laugh. ‘You’ve got your purse? We’ll see you in four weeks, then.’

  ‘I promise,’ Stella replied, and after a final swift hug she left her aunt’s arms. Moving away, she looked back once more and mouthed ‘Bye,’ before turning and hurrying into one of the many darkened entrance arches that led her into the station proper. Stella sniffed back any further tears as she queued to buy her ticket, promising herself she would not shed another.

  ‘Monthly return third-class to Tunbridge Wells, please,’ she said to the man behind the counter, retrieving the ten-shilling note that Miss Farnsworth had made sure was enclosed for Stella’s travel expenses with all of her paperwork.

  He appeared weary. ‘That’s London to Hastings via Tunbridge Wells,’ he murmured to himself, looking up the cost in his prices book. ‘That will be six shilling and sixpence,’ he mumbled, nodding as her note was placed in the depression of the brass plate between them. ‘And sixpence back, makes it seven shillings and eight,’ he said, dropping a shilling on top of the sixpence. He reached into his drawer and found another coin, adding a florin to her change. ‘And two more makes ten, Miss.’ Checking first the bottom of his rubber stamp before dabbing it on the inkpad he looked to where neat racks of the small cardboard tickets were stacked and selected the correct one. He carefully pressed it against the back of Stella’s ticket to date the start of the season ticket before he found a small pincer-like tool that was hung from his desk on a piece of string. He used it to clip a tiny triangle shape from the ticket’s top to show it had been properly purchased. She watched all of these processes in fascination as he next selected another stamp – a single large-lettered one – and this he briskly punched against a red inkpad. He blinked, looking up over his glasses. ‘Er, this season ticket is for you, isn’t it, Miss?’

  ‘Yes.’ She wasn’t sure why he had checked that.

  He nodded his thanks, banged the stamp down on the front of the ticket with purpose and she saw a bold red W appear.

  ‘Oh? What does that mean?’

  The man looked up tiredly. ‘We mark all tickets of female travellers, Miss.’

  ‘Good grief, really?’

  ‘I don’t make the rules, Miss. I’m sure it is meant as a courtesy.’ He placed the soft green card ticket beneath the coins. ‘Show this at the ticket barrier.’

  She wanted to say Just in case I need to prove I’m a female traveller? Instead she muttered thanks, adding: ‘May I ask, is the next train at twenty-five to eleven?’

  He consulted a large book by his side. ‘Yes, on Southern Railways, but it would pay you to check on the departure board. There can be delays this time of year.’

  ‘Thank you and which —’

  ‘Platform five.’

  She gave him a bright smile of thanks; it never hurt, and he looked surprised by the gesture.

  ‘Thank you, Miss. Safe travels.’

  Stella left the ticket office and joined the herd of people fixated on the departure board; people were instantly in frantic motion around her as the man on the tannoy announced the Brighton train. It had obviously been delayed. Stella felt caught in a maelstrom and stood still, clutching her hand luggage as a fast-moving river of people flowed around her for several seconds. Then just as suddenly they were all gone, scampering towards the platform and the train that would rush them off to the popular seaside town she remembered spending one of her happiest childhood summers at.

  It was a quarter-past ten so she had some time before she needed to head through the gate. She used the distraction of the newsagency kiosk of WH Smith & Son to kill off a few more minutes and keep her mind occupied. She queued to buy a newspaper she was sure she would not read – although the headline of another sighting of the Loch Ness monster was intriguing – and some sweets. She handed over another sixpence as she overheard talk around her concerning the cricket series that was underway, with England feeling
confident apparently.

  Stella walked with purpose towards the ticket barrier at the gate to platform five without giving herself an opportunity to reconsider. The ticket inspector looked smart in his dark three-piece suit and gold Southern Railways emblem on his lapel. She handed him her ticket.

  ‘Cheer up, Miss. It might never happen,’ he joked.

  She smiled weakly as he punched a second hole through it, a slightly different shape this time.

  ‘There you go, Miss. Enjoy your journey.’

  She watched the guard blow his whistle and wave his flag. Obediently the Hastings-bound train grunted, jerked and then with a soft squeal eased with a gentle shunt out of Charing Cross Station, smoke billowing around them.

  Immediately they crossed the Thames and Stella worked out they were on the Hungerford Bridge. Now with her attention engaged she gazed out of the windows for a distant sighting of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament.

  Goodbye, London, she thought and was surprised to feel no angst. She thought she might experience a wave of regret but in this moment the intense grief of the last month was fading, as familiar sights of London were left behind.

  Stella smiled to herself; suddenly the decision to work away from London felt right. It seemed like a pathway was opening and with it a fresh mindset for a new life.

  The train’s soothing rhythm appeared to be encouraging two people in the carriage to have a snooze already, but Stella had remained alert from nervous sucking on a penny’s worth of rainbow drops she’d thrown into her bag. The carriage wasn’t crowded but she looked away from the lacquered wood and small framed posters in the compartment urging her to take a Nightboat Train to France. It sounded mysterious and the perfect escape from her troubles but travelling the continent seemed well beyond her reach. Right now Kent was her destination and given that she’d spent most of her life in London, this journey could be considered exotic, surely?

  Looking out at the increasingly rural landscape, she ignored her newspaper and eased another sweet into her mouth. Yesterday she’d also bought a block of Cadbury’s Milk for Georgina, some tiny jellies for Grace and a box of Black Magic for their parents. The latter, by Rowntrees of York, had set her back the frightening amount of nearly two shillings, but given the generosity of the Ainsworths, she felt it important not to arrive empty-handed. Her gaze tried to lock onto one image but colours blurred as clarity dimmed and the familiar world she knew began to shimmer and hint at its new shape.

  The land had changed from the grimy, built-up areas of London to more park-like lands beyond Bankside Coal Power Station. The train stopped briefly at London Bridge Station and then it really was farewell to the city as Stella gazed sentimentally at Tower Bridge and the retreating Tower of London. The train began to accelerate, it too beginning to feel free of the big city pull, and it commenced its long and steady climb through suburban London. Stella noticed that regular travellers in her compartment were already lost to books or newspapers, while she was still leaning forward and entranced by the cityscape giving way to less crowded streets.

  She watched trams grinding along, while cars like shiny beetles manoeuvred around them and the old guard of horse-drawn carts continued to move at their slow pace within an ever-increasing mechanised world. She’d heard about the new-fangled electric trains servicing outer London and wondered if she would glimpse one from this higher vantage.

  Her train was gathering more speed and the man reading the newspaper was now only pretending. She could see his jaw relax as he drifted to sleep but she was still alert as they sped through stations without stopping. The names of Hither Green, Grove Park and Elmstead Woods moved by her gaze.

  Stella had to admit her shoulders were beginning to relax and she sensed she was secretly escaping her duty to grieve.

  ‘It will be worth the tears,’ she promised in a whisper to the glass she stared through, watching her breath condense against the cold pane. Sitting back, she was glad that the fellow opposite in his tawny, checked three-piece suit was fast asleep, his newspaper sprawled against his belly. He looked like a squire from the Country Life magazines she’d seen.

  At Orpington the guard on board announced that passengers were required to close their windows to prevent smoke getting in as they were about to enter a long cutting with two tunnels. Stella wondered if she should obey the instructions as she was seated next to the window but one of the men in her compartment nodded to her that he would take care of this and gallantly ensured all the windows were sealed.

  The world outside her carriage suddenly went dark as the train was gobbled up by a tunnel and Stella could see herself reflected in the window as dull black walls imprisoned them and black smoke presumably billowed between her and the scorched bricks. Suddenly all the sounds of the steam-belching snake that carried them from city to city were magnified and the dull light of the train made reading more difficult. Her fellow passengers seemed to rouse from their books or slumber, going by the change of mood, and Stella was struck, as she returned to stare at her reflection, by how changed she appeared in this strange low light. She couldn’t pinpoint why, but she just knew she looked different – sadder, somehow – despite the fresh feeling of being unburdened.

  There was the briefest of respites, a few glorious moments of release as they were belched out of the first part of the cutting before they were plunged into darkness again as the second tunnel – longer this time – swallowed them.

  By the time they emerged a minute later the light drizzle had miraculously stopped and achingly bright sunshine caused Stella to flinch at the sharpness. It was as though they had all just crossed some magical threshold and on this side the world was warm and painted from a sparkling palette. Even her tweedy companion opposite felt the sudden change in temperature as clouds parted and welcomed them into the area known as the garden of England, and he snorted himself awake.

  The scenery had changed to verdant, with London’s tapestry of grey replaced by a brilliant green with flashes of spring flowers and yellow tractors. The guard was announcing that they would now be making stops at stations with charming names like Knockholt and Sevenoaks.

  One more tunnel and they were descending joyfully through countryside so lush that Stella was sure she had forgotten just how green rural England was after so long moving through London’s drab streets. She noticed they were crossing another bridge and presumed this was to move across the River Medway that she had read about.

  She eventually felt the train slow to a gentle pace as its rhythmic puffing sound lengthened and deepened. They were making their approach into Tunbridge Wells. A whistle blew distantly and a long sigh of steam was expelled as the carriage groaned and wheezed to a halt.

  Doors began to open up and down the train that was painted the colour of rich brown-sage with glossy black frames and wheels. Stella nodded a silent smiling farewell at her tweedy friend who had eased down the window to push his arm through and open the door from the outside. He gestured for Stella to go first and as she stepped onto the Royal Tunbridge Wells platform one, she was engulfed by the hiss and billow of steam while the stationmaster and his team of men moved up and down the train helping people off, removing sacks of mail, special parcels and reloading whatever had to go onto Hastings.

  Stella was immediately struck by the freshness of the air, entirely convinced she could smell grass, the scent of freesia . . . even taste the ocean that reminded her of visiting Cornwall once with her family. It felt instantly intoxicating. She was anticipating being met and scanned the entrance to the station. No one looked likely, but she wasn’t worried. Right now it felt so empowering to have left London far behind. Stella took a moment to breathe in that bright air as she regarded the beauty of the station building with its even red-brick façade and cream paintwork around the many small-paned windows. Its dignified appearance attested to the Georgian influences in Tunbridge Wells that she’d heard about from subsequent conversations with Suzanne Farnsworth.

  ‘Miss M
yles?’

  She hadn’t seen the man, probably only a few years younger than her father, step forward from the shadows of the station. He was not wearing a uniform but instead was dressed in a neat suit from what she could see beneath a driving coat. ‘Oh yes, hello?’

  ‘I’m John Potter.’ She recognised the name and smiled. ‘Welcome to Kent, Miss Myles. The Ainsworths have sent me to pick you up and take you to Harp’s End, which is not too far from Tunbridge Wells.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Potter, it’s very kind of you. Do call me Stella.’

  He smiled and Stella couldn’t help but like him immediately for the way his pleasure at her invitation sparkled in his eyes. ‘I’ll do that,’ he said, and then he winked in an avuncular way and she was instantly sold. ‘So you must call me John. Very glad to meet you, Stella.’ He held out a gloved hand and was careful to shake hers gently. ‘Here, let me take all that for you.’

  ‘Oh . . . there’s a box of —’

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ he promised. ‘This way. Just hand your ticket to the man over there.’ He nodded towards him. ‘Morning, George.’

  ‘Hello, Potty. Good morning, Miss. Welcome to Royal Tunbridge Wells.’

  ‘Everyone is so friendly,’ she remarked, showing her ticket that he clipped for her.

  ‘Keep that safe now for your return journey.’

  She smiled thanks. ‘I’m Stella Myles,’ she said, guessing it was appropriate to introduce herself to this friendly stranger.

  George touched his cap.

  ‘Stella’s the new governess for the Ainsworths,’ Potter added.

  ‘Oh well, good for you, Miss Stella. You’ll never want to leave here now, though,’ he warned with warm affection for his town.

  ‘I know I’m going to love it,’ she replied, ‘but I have family in London so you may see me coming and going, George.’

  ‘So long as you always return and bring your beauty back to Kent, I’ll be here to see you safely on and off the train.’

  She chuckled. ‘What a flirt you are!’