by R J Gould
A look of understanding spread across Trevor’s face, and his frown changing to a beaming smile. ‘I remember now, it’s your boy’s engagement today, isn’t it? Not surprising you’re desperate to get going. Tell you what, I’ll lock up the train, put a note up that the service is cancelled, and drive you up to Ryde myself.’
‘You know how much I resist putting people to any trouble, Trev, but on this occasion I think we’ll take up your offer with gratitude, won’t we, Margaret?’
They sat in the small waiting room, though “room” was perhaps an over-generous description since there was no door and no heating, just a bench in a shallow, brick built structure with a roof that was leaking. It was a long wait, Trev was never the quickest to get things done. They watched as he strolled through the carriages to double check that they were empty before going into the driver’s compartment to shut the carriage doors. He then went to the ticket office to pull down the shutter and write his sign.
Finally, almost half an hour after the offer was made, he collected them and they made their way to his car.
Margaret turned to Trevor as they slowly walked across the yard. ‘What a week for weather.’
‘Yep,’ replied Trev. He never had been much of a conversationalist.
‘Still snowing,’ Margaret added a few minutes later as they were driving along.
‘Yep, still snowing.’
There wasn’t much else to say so they sat in silence. Thomas took hold of Margaret’s left hand and gave it a light squeeze through her glove. He wondered whether Trev knew about Margaret and the babies. They were about the same age and like Margaret he had lived in Shanklin all his life.
Their silence was broken by Trev’s announcement. ‘Brilliant, we’re almost there.’
‘Yes, almost there,’ Thomas echoed.
There was a Seacat in the harbour, so Thomas and Margaret thanked Trevor in advance of the car stopping then quickly stepped out as soon as it was stationary. Their speed was severely restricted by the treacherous car park surface. As they neared the ticket office there was a toot. They looked round to see Trev waving frantically.
‘What is he on about?’ asked Margaret. ‘He’s got his window open.’
‘He’s shouting something about news. Maybe not the news, something like that,’ Thomas added.
Trev opened his car door and exited. Holding up a Morrisons plastic bag he proceeded to run towards them.
‘Got our shoes, that’s what he’s saying,’ Margaret deduced.
You could hear the thud all the way to where they were standing when Trev slipped and fell against a parked car before sliding down to the ground.
Gingerly, Thomas made his way back towards him. By the time he arrived Trev was standing unsteadily, looking rather worse for wear. His trousers were torn and blood was seeping through the dark woollen fabric of his right leg. He had obviously taken a considerable blow to his right hand; his knuckles were bruised and bloodied with skin loosely dangling down. He had a cut on his forehead and a thin rivulet of blood was trickling down his cheek.
‘Blimey, you OK, mate?’ Thomas asked with realisation that the question was daft.
‘I’ll be fine, just take your shoes and off you go. Have a good time and give me a call if you need collecting.’
‘Thank you, Trev. I really appreciate this.’ Thomas took the bag and watched Trev hobble back towards his car. When he was confident that he would make it safely he turned and walked towards the ticket office. Margaret had used her initiative and was holding up the tickets.
As he reached her the Seacat sailed out into the Solent.
Fiona and Henry
The taxi journey was rapid through the near deserted suburban roads and they arrived at Surbiton station in plenty of time to catch the 10.35 train – had it been on time. Regular announcements apologised to passengers that due to the weather there was a disrupted service. The digital display board indicated just a fifteen minute delay for the arrival of the Guildford train and the platform guard confirmed that their train was about to depart from Waterloo and would shortly be arriving.
‘So far, so good,’ Henry said as the train pulled in. There were no other passengers on the platform and they boarded a deserted carriage.
As soon as they sat down Henry turned towards Fiona.
‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
A wave of anxiety descended upon Fiona – a hot flush and a shiver juxtaposed, a twitch in her left eye, a nervous, tickly cough. Please, please no more revelations about your youth, no more discoveries about my internet searching, she silently implored. This was Clarissa’s day, she wanted it to be straightforward and pleasant. The rest could wait.
‘It’s about school,’ he continued.
Now her unease was replaced by boredom. She was about to suffer another monologue on either a star pupil or a miscreant.
‘Our new Head has been changing things, well, you know that from our previous conversations. Now she’s decided to terminate my position as Head of English. She’s handed it on to Isobel Daines. A bright enough young lady, lots of good ideas, but she’s half my age, she only joined the school a couple of years ago. I’m to be kept on the same salary for at least two years and I’ve been offered the opportunity to take over the editing of the school magazine from Isobel. I edited that magazine when I first worked at the school as a junior, it is hardly a project that fills me with excitement. I’m not the only one to be moved out – Michael Clapton has lost Head of French. They’ve restructured and created a Director of Modern Foreign Languages and the Head of Spanish has got that job. His interview with the Head was just like mine, a thank you for the wonderful work, a guarantee of the same salary for at least two years, and a minor job as compensation, in his case organising the school trips abroad. He’s bitter, he says they’re making him a travel agent. I can’t say I’m happy about my situation either. It won’t affect what I do in the classroom, but at department meetings, I … well, I’ll feel quite humiliated.’
He paused. Fiona glanced across and saw a single tear drip from his cheek onto his lap. She rested a hand on his.
An automated announcer broke the tension and her show of sympathy. ‘We will shortly be arriving in Woking. Change here for the West of England main line service to Salisbury, Dorset, Exeter, and stations in South West England. Also for the RailAir bus service to Heathrow Airport.’
Henry continued. ‘You can imagine what it was like in the staff room on Thursday, what with several of the loyal, long-standing servants demoted. You had the young brigade buoyant with their promotions and us a mixture of anger and resignation. Not exactly a joyous twenty-four hours for me, bearing in mind Wednesday evening. So I was feeling rather low when Michael sat down next to me at lunch. You know how far back my friendship with Michael goes.’
‘Yes, I certainly know that,’ Fiona butted in, sensitive to hearing the name of the man who had reported her online dating activity to Henry.
Henry either failed to notice or ignored the malice. ‘We got talking and agreed that our stint in teaching had been a long one with a fair degree of success. We wondered whether it might be time to call it a day. Then out of the blue he told me he had a plan and that he would love me to be involved. I’m not going to say any more until tomorrow, he said and I was quite mystified about what he had up his sleeve.’
Here we go again, Fiona mused. Up his bloody sleeve.
‘The next day there was a note in my pigeon hole, Must meet at coffee, M, it read. Just like in a detective novel. Anyway, this is what it’s all about. Michael wants us to open a tea and coffee bar. He’s been to estate agents and has found a perfect place on the High Street in Kew. He’s convinced we can make a go of it.’
‘There are already loads of coffee bars on that street, Henry. You’d never be able to compete with the chains. Neither of you have the foggiest idea how to run a business.’
‘Well, he’s done a bit of market research. Yes, there are other coffe
e bars there, all of them crowded most of the time. So perhaps even if ours wasn’t special there would be room for another one. But this is where his idea comes in. Ours would be different, a place of culture. If you speak to people in the area, and he has done, they’re crying out to get away from the chains, to go somewhere a bit different. We’d have poetry readings, hold political debates, show short films, organise concerts. All served up with the best coffee and continental pastries. Michael’s even chosen the name. A Street Café Named Desire. Brilliant, don’t you think? He’s visited the bank and a loan might be possible though he has substantial savings that he would be prepared to use. He wants me in as a partner and if we can’t get enough to start up via a loan I’d happily use some of my savings too.’
Fiona turned towards Henry. ‘Well, I’ve never seen you so enthusiastic about anything, so that’s one positive thing, but it is a massive risk. I’m finding it difficult visualising you serving teas and coffees all day.’
‘We’d employ staff to do that. Our role would be more strategic, buying in supplies, doing the accounts, and of course organising the cultural programme. And there would be some free time which gives me the opportunity to do something I’ve wanted to do for a long time; write a novel. I have an idea based on a child from a poor background who goes to a public school when his parents win the jackpot on the National Lottery. He suffers terribly from being placed in a completely alien environment, but gradually he adapts and influences the students who at first have rejected him. Fiona, I want to do this, the café and the book. Michael and I are going to stay on until the end of the year to get our exam students through, then that’s it with teaching.’
Fiona could sense Henry’s energy and enthusiasm – a physical force, a nice feeling. She had no idea whether it could work, but it might be the making of the man.
She was about to speak, to offer her support, when the automated announcer began. ‘We will shortly be arriving in Guildford. This train terminates here. Disembark for the First Great Western service to Reading and Gatwick Airport.’
‘Henry?’
‘Yes, Fiona?’
‘Did you hear that?’
‘What?’
‘The announcement?’
‘No, sorry. I was deep in thought.’
‘We are about to arrive at Guildford.’
‘No, it’s Worplesdon first.’
‘The announcement said Guildford,’ Fiona stated as the train slowed, with signs indicating Guildford Station.
They disembarked and marched across the salt covered platform to the ticket office.
‘Why didn’t our train stop at Worplesdon?’ asked an indignant Henry.
‘No London trains stop at Worplesdon on a Sunday, they only stop there Monday to Saturday.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘I don’t set the timetable. There’s a local train going to Worplesdon in about ten minutes. You’ll need to get to the other side of the line, Platform 2.’
They made their way over the bridge. When they reached Platform 2 a disbelieving Henry inspected the timetable before admitting to Fiona that the error had been his.
‘It’s not a major problem though, it’s only set us back a quarter of an hour or so.’
The train arrived when it was meant to and the journey to Worplesdon took just five minutes. The station was deserted, no passengers or staff on the platform, no ticket office, no cars parked outside, no cars driving by, no pedestrians, and most significant of all, no taxis. Just snow, rather deep snow as they stepped out.
‘What now, Henry?’
‘I’m not sure we can do much else other than walk. Perhaps when we reach the main road we’ll find a taxi.’
‘Have you noticed what shoes I’m wearing? Walking is impossible in these. There must be a notice board with a taxi telephone number around here somewhere.’
They went back inside the station. Apart from a timetable and application forms for railcards the walls were bare, not counting a scrawled note written with a thick green marker pen across faded off-white tiles. Hard luck, you’ve arrived in Worplesdon. Fiona stormed out and walked on without waiting for her incompetent husband.
‘Fiona! Fiona!’
‘What is it, Henry?’
‘You’re going in the wrong direction, it’s this way.’
Thomas, Margaret, Carol, Jack, and Lil
Thomas and Margaret had a little over forty minutes for the next Seacat to arrive, so they sat in the pleasantly warm waiting room reading the Sunday Express. Thomas read the main paper and Margaret the supplement. The journey across the Solent was surprisingly comfortable and by the time they arrived at Portsmouth Harbour things were looking up since it had stopped snowing and they were on time to catch the 10.32 to Guildford.
‘This is working out fine, Margaret,’ Thomas stated as they sat together on the attractive purple and green seats. ‘It’s the fast train. We only stop at Southsea, Fratton, Bedhampton, Havant, Petersfield, and Haslemere. We should be at Guildford by 11.31. If we’d caught the earlier one we would have also stopped at Rowlands Castle, Liss, Liphook, Witley, Milford, Godalming, and Farncombe and we wouldn’t have arrived until well gone eleven even though it left Portsmouth Harbour at 9.48.’
‘You and your trains, you know everything. Should be on Mastermind,’ she said, unaware of the fellow passengers whose raised eyebrows to their companions suggested they had identified Thomas as a nerd. She took hold of his hand and they remained entwined until exactly 11.31 when the train pulled into Guildford and they disembarked.
Thomas looked back at the train. ‘We should get rid of them underground has-beens on the island, replace them with proper trains and then there wouldn’t be all the cancellations and delays that we get now.’
‘But then you’d be out of a job, Thomas.’
‘Didn’t think of that. Best to keep what we’ve got then.’
They stood on the platform and watched the train move on.
‘What now?’ Margaret asked. ‘Is there a local train to Worplesdon?’
‘Yes, but that wouldn’t work. Worplesdon station’s miles away from the hotel and there won’t be a taxi rank in a little place like that. We’ll get a taxi from here.’
‘It’ll be a bit expensive, won’t it?’
‘Not really. Anyway, it ain’t often that one of your children is getting engaged, so no expense spared.’ Thomas instantly regretted talking about children and celebration what with Margaret’s predicament, but when he looked across at her she seemed happy enough, a serene expression rather than the familiar tense look of a few days ago.
They stepped into the first taxi in a long line and asked the driver to take them to the Manor Lodge Hotel at Worplesdon. They set off. There were piles of snow on the sides of the roads but the roads themselves had been treated so driving didn’t seem too bad at all. They passed a sign indicating two miles to Worplesdon then stopped abruptly at the back end of a queue of traffic.
‘Funny,’ said the driver, the first words he had spoken. ‘No traffic lights for miles around, no road works going on either. Must be some idiot driving too fast and crashing.’
They edged forward until ahead of them they could see a red Ford Fiesta with the bonnet lifted and a large man banging his fist on the roof.
‘When will people learn to push their car to the side of the road if they’ve broken down,’ the driver complained. ‘No common sense.’
‘A bit difficult if it’s just you,’ Thomas suggested. ‘Maybe we should stop and help him move it.’
‘It’s your money, mate.’
‘Well, let’s do it then,’ said Thomas, always so very keen to assist.
As they pulled up behind the car Thomas caught sight of a surprised Lil looking straight at him out the rear window of the Fiesta. And stepping out the passenger seat to join the irate man, he must be her husband Jack, was Carol.
A rare expletive was uttered by Thomas. ‘Bloody hell!’
‘What is it?
’ asked Margaret, shocked by his language.
‘More a case of who is it. It’s Carol and Lil, and who I suppose is Jack.’
The taxi driver stayed in the car as Thomas and Margaret got out.
‘Thomas,’ exclaimed Carol.
‘Hello, Carol.’ Margaret joined him and Thomas pointed in her direction. ‘This is Margaret.’
Carol nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Hello, Margaret. Nice to meet you.’
Lil had stepped out. ‘Dad!’ she exclaimed as she rushed over, flinging her arms around his shoulders, yanking him towards her, and kissing him.
‘Hello, Lil. You’ve met Margaret,’ Thomas said in a coded message that Lil should give her a kiss too despite her mother being present.
‘Course I ’ave. Hello, Margaret.’ Lil politely kissed her on the cheek.
‘Hello, Lil. Keeping well?’
‘Yes, thanks. I’m all set for the big day.’
The large man edged towards the group.
‘This is Jack,’ Carol indicated with a pointed arm.
‘Hello, Jack,’ said Thomas.
‘Hello, Jack,’ echoed Margaret.
‘Sodding thing died on me, I think it’s the oil. I told Carol to get it serviced weeks ago.’
A prolonged sound of the horn came from the taxi.
‘Wanker,’ Jack continued. ‘What does he expect me to do?’
Jack didn’t have to wait long to find out. The driver opened his window and called out. ‘Look at the mayhem you’re causing stuck in the middle of the road like that. You need to move it off the road.’
‘Let’s push it,’ suggested Thomas, intercepting Jack’s imminent reply and likely abuse. Carol sat in the car and released the handbrake while Thomas and Jack pushed, watched by Lil and Margaret. The car came to rest on the snowy verge.
‘Lock up then come with us in the taxi. You can send for help when we’re at the hotel,’ Thomas suggested.
‘Good idea, Dad, I’m flippin’ freezing,’ said Lil and she was the first to sit in the taxi. Carol locked up the Fiesta then joined Lil, Margaret, and Thomas in the back with Jack sitting in the front due to his size. The rest of them were squeezed together, a wife and an ex-wife each side of Thomas and his daughter on his lap.