by Jack Benton
15
‘Lia,’ the girl said. ‘It’s short for Amelia, and yes, I prefer it.’
‘Slim,’ Slim said. ‘Short for John. A long story, but a dull one.’
‘I’ll save it for the second date.’
‘Then you won’t want a third.’
Lia watched him, her hands cupped under her face, until he became uncomfortable and looked away. Lia was technically still on shift, but the two tourists had gone and no other customers had come in, so they had taken up a pair of comfortable window-placed armchairs which had a view of the fence surrounding the old goods yard. Through the links, a couple of old trains sat rusting away, a tumbledown shed in one corner propped up by sticks. If Slim dipped his head, he could just make out the hills rising on the other side of the station.
Lia wasn’t as young as Slim had first thought, perhaps in her late twenties or early thirties. As they talked, he found himself enjoying something that he hadn’t experienced in a long time: Lia’s willingness to continue the conversation, as though she actually liked his company.
‘So it’s my friend’s great-uncle who I was talking about,’ she told him over their third coffee, the first two having passed during a period of pleasant if inane conversation. ‘He was the station master here in Holdergate for about forty years. He’s a nerd like you. He could probably recite the train times from the sixties if you wanted.’
‘He’s still alive?’
‘In his eighties but in pretty good shape.’
‘Then I’d love to talk to him.’
‘I’ll give my friend a call later. Are you sure you’re just looking to find that old train?’
Experience had taught Slim to suspect everyone. Even though Lia wouldn’t have been born when Jennifer vanished, he still felt unwilling to share too many details with a girl he had just met. And in addition, he didn’t want to sour the tone of their conversation.
‘I have a particular interest,’ he said. ‘But it’s probably not interesting.’
‘If you told me, I wouldn’t want a second date, right?’
Slim smiled. ‘That’s about it.’
Lia had to do an evening shift, but her friend’s great-uncle agreed to meet him based on what she said was a personal recommendation. Robert Downs was waiting in the garden at the front of his house—a twenty-minute walk from Holdergate Station—when Slim arrived at the address Lia had scribbled on the back of a beer mat.
‘Slim?’
‘That’s me.’
Robert extended a hand. His palm felt like a soft leather glove, as though he spent all his time nowadays thumbing through books on long-forgotten trains.
‘I was quite surprised when my great-niece called,’ he said. ‘I haven’t heard a request like yours in a long time. Trainspotting is a dying hobby, you know. People get all their information from websites; no one wants to wander around in the rain.’
‘I have terrible eyesight,’ Slim said. ‘And I prefer to be out and about.’
‘Stretching out old war wounds, are you?’ Robert said with a smirk. Slim, unsure if it was a serious comment or a joke, replied with a non-committal shrug.
Robert’s house was on a hill north of the railway line. A view between houses across the street revealed the tracks meandering among fields and trees as it made its languid way toward Manchester. The air was warm and the evening still bright, so Robert suggested they sit outside on a small terrace.
‘I couldn’t bear to go too far away,’ Robert said, waving at the distant line. ‘I worked at Holdergate Station for forty-seven years. I never felt at home anywhere else.’
A kindly old lady Robert introduced cryptically as Theresa—‘my common law wife, I suppose you’d say’—brought them tea in a fetching cast iron teapot along with a plate of Digestive biscuits.
‘So, it’s the late seventies that you’re reading up on,’ Robert said, settling into a swinging cushion chair, leaving a wicker armchair for Slim. ‘The local commuter trains. Easy one that. There were three run by British Rail along the Hope Valley Line. One, believe it or not, is still in service, although it had a compete refit and runs on a Scottish line now—I forget which one, but I could find out if that’s the one you’re after. The second got scrapped—parts probably shipped overseas. The third is in a goods yard at Manchester Piccadilly, I do believe. The goods yard there is a bit of a train graveyard. There are a few around, ostensibly in case the old locomotives are wanted for parts, but—between you and me—I’ve always felt there was a higher spirit who didn’t like to see those old girls go. I’m sure you know what I mean.’
Slim made a mental note to ask Kim to call Manchester Piccadilly to see if he could take a look at the old train. Then, feeling that now was the moment to channel his best inner trainspotter, he smiled and said, ‘Absolutely.’
‘Now, if you know a specific day or time of service, I could probably track down which train it is you’re after.’
Slim pulled a notebook from his pocket. ‘Specifically, the eight thirty-three from Manchester Piccadilly bound for Sheffield through the winter of 1976 and early 1977.’
Almost immediately Robert’s countenance darkened. He frowned at Slim, then leaned back in the chair and sighed. Its springs creaked as he swung back and forth.
‘Okay, be straight with me, Mr. Hardy. It’s not the train you’re after. It’s that woman, isn’t it?’
‘What woman?’ Slim said, before he could stop himself, sensing even as he said it that Robert Downs had seen right through him. The guise of a trainspotter was perhaps harder to pull off than he had thought.
‘Don’t play me for a fool, Mr. Hardy. I worked on the railways for over fifty years. I know a man with an interest in trains and a man after something else.’
Slim shrugged and nodded. ‘Jennifer Evans,’ he said. ‘I was contacted by her daughter. She asked me to look into the historical case of her mother’s disappearance.’
Robert sighed. ‘I thought it was too good to be true that I’d found someone with a genuine interest in those old trains.’
‘I’m sorry. I was hoping that if I could track down one of the trains and take a look, I might be able to build up a picture of what happened.’
‘You’re a fool like all those police were, trying to find something out of nothing,’ Robert said. ‘The problem was that nothing happened. Nothing that anyone could figure out, at any rate. Damn event cast a cloud over my entire career.’
‘You sound bitter.’
Robert shrugged. ‘I suppose I am. People never looked at Holdergate Station the same after that, and for what? A girl who ran off in the snow? Probably some hippy who eloped with a lover?’ He shifted on the chair, reaching out a liver-spotted hand, and picked up his cup. He finished his tea in one swallow. ‘Look, I’m not really feeling up to talking about this today,’ he said. ‘Can you come back another time?’
Before Slim could answer, Robert stood up and went inside, slowly closing the patio doors with a deep frown on his face as though afraid he might catch Slim’s foot. A lock clicked, and then curtains drew across. Slim was left sitting alone on the terrace, still with half a cup of tea to drink. He took one last sip, then stood up and headed back to his guesthouse.
16
‘Barnard Litchfield,’ Kim said, sounding suitably smug. ‘He’s in a nursing home on the Oldfield Estate area of Wentwood, just off Potter Street. I can email you a map if you like.’
‘That would be great. Any other details?’
‘He’s eighty-eight years old, and has been living there since 2009. Before that he lived in a care-assisted flat outside Wentwood for roughly twenty years. I couldn’t find exact dates. In 2007 he was diagnosed with dementia, so it’s likely you won’t get any sense from him. That’s if the staff will even allow you to talk to him at all.’
‘Thanks, Kim.’
‘You’re welcome. Glad to be of help.’
Slim walked down to the local library, where he accessed his email and printed the
map Kim had sent. Oldfield Estate was on the other side of town. It had begun to rain, so Slim caught a bus.
Webster Home for the Elderly was in better shape than Slim had expected, set in attractive gardens with nice views south over the town spread out across the valley below. The building looked modern and the entrance at least was bright and welcoming. Slim showed a fake BBC identification card, told the receptionist he was researching for a documentary on local history, and asked if he might speak to some of the residents who had lived in Holdergate during the late seventies.
He was told to wait while the receptionist made some enquires. She returned with a beaming smile and said a number of residents had been assembled in the main living room. All looking forward to meeting him and sharing their memories. She told him that they didn’t get much opportunity to talk about their childhood, and for many suffering from the early stages of dementia, it was beneficial to their mental health.
Slim gulped. He had hoped to speak to them one by one, but a couple of minutes later he found himself presented in front of a ring of fifteen or more wheelchairs, with a handful of others sat on regular seats. Three nurses watched from the back as Slim took a plastic chair at the front.
He hadn’t rehearsed what he would ask, but had at least brought a recording device to feign his role a little better. He started by introducing himself as Mike Lewis from the BBC. With every word he felt a rush of shame for lying to these innocent people, and when a nurse, perhaps noticing how dry his throat had become from his voice, handed him a glass of water, he downed it in a single swallow.
Once the questioning began, however, he relaxed a little. The people seemed eager to talk, happily recalling tales from their younger days, many stumbling over each other to speak, with the nurses having to call for order. While Slim frantically scribbled notes to confirm his ruse as a BBC researcher, he tried to guess which of these people, if any, might be Barnard Litchfield.
Having listened to at least one tale from most of the assembled, however, Slim realised there was only one man left to speak, a guy slumped in a chair at the back, his head lolling, barely awake. His face bore scarring that could have come from an old skin condition, and the only time he moved it was to scratch absently at his arm.
Slim prepared his last question, hoping he might get a reaction.
‘…I heard there was once a dog,’ he said, segueing one story into another, ‘that used to be seen around the station in those days. I heard it would greet the passengers. Brown or white it was, some kind of spaniel, maybe. Do any of you recall it?’
The story was utter lies apart from the dog’s description. As ripples of misunderstanding filtered back, Barnard Litchfield’s held lifted.
‘Jedders,’ he said.
One of the nurses wiped away a string of drool. He looked at another, who nodded. The first nurse began to turn Litchfield’s wheelchair away.
‘Jedders,’ Litchfield said again. His eyes snapped open. ‘Weren’t no yappy thing like that, but Jedders. Met his maker under the wheels of the train.’
17
Lia sat across from Slim in the sofa seats by the Old Railway’s window, looking lovelier than anything Slim might have expected to willingly sit opposite him. She cupped her hands under her chin and smiled, and Slim wondered what cruel dream this was from which he might soon awake.
‘I’ll talk to him,’ Lia said. ‘I suppose the hope that you were a genuine trainspotter was too much to bear.’
‘I’m not a good liar,’ Slim said, thinking of the old people he had duped with lies about the BBC. He was certain he had already exhausted his karma reserves even this early in the investigation.
‘I have another lead,’ Slim said. ‘Jedders.’
‘Jedders?’
‘It’s a name I heard from an old man who used to live near Holdergate Station.’
‘Are you sure he was in his right mind?’
‘Absolutely not. He’s been suffering from dementia for ten years.’
Lia laughed, then abruptly put a hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry … I didn’t mean … I wasn’t mocking him, but are you sure you’re a detective? If he’s suffering from memory problems, he might not be a reliable source.’
‘I’m not much of an expert on dementia, to be honest. And as someone who can barely remember last week, I’m always distrustful of memories. They have a tendency to alter over time regardless of your mental state. However, I have so little to go on that I have to follow every lead.’
‘You really think you can find out what happened?’
‘At this point, no, I don’t. But I’m prepared to give it a little more time before I give up.’
‘You’re a dedicated man.’
‘I think the term is “stubborn”. People don’t just disappear. They always go somewhere, no matter how impossible it might seem.’
‘And you think this dog called Jedders might be the clue you need to break the case?’
Slim smiled. ‘Searching for a stray dog from forty-odd years ago, right. You just never know. Doesn’t sound very realistic, does it?’
‘How about I cook you dinner, to take your mind off it all?’
Slim frowned. Lia was still watching him, her head tilted to one side as though he were a museum exhibit.
‘Are you really that interested in me that you want to cook me dinner?’
‘Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘A hundred reasons. But sure, if you really want.’
‘Great. I have some things to do, but if you can come to my place about half past five, that would be great.’ Lia took a little notepad from her pocket and scribbled down her address. It wasn’t far; Slim recalled passing her street on the way to Robert Downs’s house.
Lia excused herself, leaving Slim sitting alone by the window, wondering quite what was happening. She couldn’t possibly be genuine; she was an attractive young lady and he … well, he had once been referred to as an old drunk in a duffel coat, a description that was more accurate than the speaker had realised.
Then there was the fear that some involvement between them might take his focus away from the case. With so few leads Slim was finding it hard to concentrate, but with a woman on his mind he might lose his focus altogether.
With a sigh, he stood up and went outside. A bright sun shone out of a clear blue sky, a cool breeze drifting through the streets. Slim walked up Holdergate’s short high street, looking at the shop displays as he passed. He ought to get Lia some sort of present. Wine was the usual, but there was too much chance she’d expect him to drink it. In the end he went with a box of chocolates. Only as he left the shop did he realise they were labeled low calorie. With a sigh and a shrug he figured she’d have to learn about the flaws in his character sooner or later. With the chocolates in a bag under his arm, he headed back to the guesthouse to change his clothes.
He was just heading up the stairs when a door that accessed a dining room opened. For a brief moment Slim was reminded of another landlady in another guesthouse far across the country, then the woman spoke and he let the memory slide.
‘Mr. Hardy? You got a letter.’
He took it and turned it over. The return address was for a Mrs. Marjorie Clifford. Slim didn’t know whether he ought to be sitting down when he opened it or not. Instead, he just thanked his landlady and took it up to his room.
18
‘You look different,’ Lia said, standing in the doorway as though assessing whether it was really a good idea to let Slim inside. ‘And I don’t just mean you’ve changed your shirt, brushed your hair and even had a shave. There’s something else.’
Slim held up a woolly hat. ‘I didn’t brush my hair,’ he said. Then, unsure of the protocol of first official dates, he thrust the bag of chocolates into her hand. ‘I bought you these. Sorry about the type, but, well, as someone with probably twenty years on you, I know from experience that prevention is better than a cure.’
Lia frowned as she looked inside the box. ‘Oh,’ she s
aid, offering a sympathetic smile. ‘I appreciate you thinking of my waistline so early in our relationship. I trust you like garden salad?’
‘Um, yeah.’
Lia grinned. ‘Because I’m keeping the pizza for myself.’
She led Slim into a neat flat. Cramped but tidy, it had all the signs of a dutiful single daughter. Photographs on a mantle showed various younger versions of Lia with two gradually aging parents and a sister who eventually departed to form family photos of her own: first with a husband and twin daughters, to a final one of the woman by herself, and a separate, chilling photo of the man alone with the two pre-adolescent twins. Slim tried not to look too hard; he suspected the story behind it was hardly first date dinner conversation.
True to her word, Lia had rustled up a salad and a couple of other side dishes to go with a pizza steaming in its box. Slim sat down where she instructed at a table which had a night view of Holdergate through a living room window.
‘Wine?’
Slim stared at the bottle, his throat suddenly dry. The temptation was heart-wrenching, as though a devil’s hands had reached into his stomach and was squeezing it tight, refusing to let go until Slim relented.
‘I don’t … drink,’ he croaked, barely able to muster the words.
‘Oh, really? Don’t worry … that’s fine. Do you want tea instead? Orange juice?’
Lia’s tone trod a fine line between confusion and mockery. Slim understood how awkward he must seem for someone she met in a pub.
‘Coffee, if you’ve got it. I don’t sleep much either.’
He meant it as a joke, but Lia just grimaced and retreated to the kitchen, perhaps happy to be off the front line. Slim wondered if it were worth trying to explain or whether he should spin her some stupid line about being teetotal.
Lia came back with a cup of coffee so thick and black it made Slim’s throat ache just to look at it. Lia grinned again. ‘If you hold it upside down it stays in the cup. I’d prefer it if you trusted me though, instead of testing it over my carpet. The flat’s rented.’