Kathleen McGurl - The Stationmaster’s Daughter

‘Sure. You might as well put the box in there. Not promising I’ll look at it though.’ Tilly wasn’t sure how she felt about it. Perhaps if her pounding headache eased up, she could start rummaging through. Right now, she needed a shower. And coffee.

‘No problem. When you feel up to it,’ Ken said. He said his farewells and headed out, leaving Tilly with the TV remote control and a large mug of black coffee.

*

Ken came back in the mid-afternoon, still in his blue overalls, and with another box of archive material tucked hopefully under his arm. Tilly was dozing on the sofa when he came in, a colourful knitted blanket that her mother had made draped over her.

‘Hey. Good day?’

‘Yes, pet. Got lots done. Another old signal is ready for use.’ He put the box of archive material down on a coffee table.

‘More papers? I’m sorry, Dad, I didn’t feel up to starting it today.’

He looked disappointed but didn’t push the matter. ‘No problem. I brought you something else as well. I bought a whole chocolate cake for you, from the Old Bank teashop. Two ticks and I’ll bring you a slice along with your cuppa.’ Ken went through to the kitchen and came back a little later with the tea and cake which he set down on a side table beside the sofa.

‘Thanks, Dad.’ Tilly pushed herself upright so she could eat the cake, which was delicious.

Ken was watching her thoughtfully. ‘You know, pet, I think it’d be good for you to give yourself a bit of a challenge. Why not have a go at sorting out these boxes? It’ll take your mind off … things. The other thing you could consider taking on is—’

‘For goodness’ sake, Dad.’ She fell back on the sofa. ‘Stop giving me jobs to do! I’m … not well. I’m not up to all that research and everything. God, I know it helped you after Mum, but I’m not the same. I don’t want – I just can’t – leave me alone, all right?’ She stood up and stormed off to her bedroom. She knew she probably sounded like a petulant teenager, but so what? He was pushing her too hard, too fast. It’d take time to recover from all that had happened. If she was even able to recover, that was.

*

Tilly spent the week doing very little other than lying on the sofa, reading or watching TV, and going for the occasional cliff-top walk. She made no effort to start looking at the archives, and thankfully Ken made no more comments about them. He gently tried to interest her in another visit to the railway, but she declined. The one thing that was keeping her going was the thought that Jo was due to visit at the weekend. She felt more than ready for a top-up of her friend’s support and advice.

On Friday at around three o’clock, her phone rang. Assuming it was Ken asking if she needed anything from the shop on his way home or similar, Tilly answered with ‘Hey, Dad!’ without even glancing at the screen.

‘Tils, mate, it’s Jo.’ Her friend’s broad Yorkshire accent brought a smile to Tilly’s face. She couldn’t wait to see her.

‘Jo! I’ve got your room all ready, and we’ve got crispy spiced salmon tonight for dinner. With new potatoes, or would you rather baked? Can do either. Broccoli or salad? Dad wants baked beans but I told him no.’

‘Tils, listen. I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to call it off for this weekend. It’s Amber. She’s got chicken pox. Caught it at school. Poor little mite’s covered in spots and feeling very sorry for herself. Bryony will no doubt get it in a few days’ time as well.’

Chicken pox. Tilly’s heart sank. She was going to miss seeing her friend because of a bout of stupid chicken pox. She felt a sudden irrational surge of jealousy that Amber would be the one to have Jo near, caring for her this weekend, instead of Tilly. But she pulled herself together. Of course, Jo’s children were more important. She forced herself to sound sympathetic, when all she wanted to do was curl up and cry.

‘Oh, Jo. I’m so sorry. Poor Amber. Of course, you must stay home and nurse her. Give her a hug from me.’

‘I will, mate. Can we rearrange for a few weeks’ time, when they’re both over it? Actually, it’ll have to be after Easter as we’re going away then … God, it’s such bad timing, but poor Amber. I hate seeing her so poorly.’

After Easter! Tilly fought to keep herself sounding positive. ‘Can’t be helped. Email me whatever weekends you’re free and we’ll book in another date.’

‘So sorry, mate. I wish I was able to come and see you but, you know.’

‘Your kids have to come first. No worries. There’ll be another time.’

When she’d hung up, Tilly sat down heavily on the nearest chair. No Jo this weekend. The one thing in her life she’d been looking forward to. More than looking forward – depending on Jo’s company this weekend. It would be ten days since she’d arrived at Ken’s. She wanted to take Jo on the cliff-top walk, go with her to one of Ken’s stations and see what she thought of the railway, get drunk with her and hear her advice on what to do in the long term. She couldn’t stay here forever, she knew, but how long would be all right? Ken would say no problem, stay as long as you like, of course, but Jo would be able to advise her what was best. A month here? Two, Six? Or take it week by week?

Tilly had met Jo at university, in their first term. They were next-door neighbours in a hall of residence, sharing a kitchen. Tilly had loved Jo’s gruff Yorkshire accent and her no-nonsense Northern personality. They’d hit it off immediately and been inseparable for the following three years. They’d been each other’s bridesmaids. Tilly was godmother to Jo’s eldest daughter. They’d met up every week while Jo had lived in London, for a drink and a catch-up.

And now Jo couldn’t come for her visit. That bottle of Prosecco Tilly had put in the fridge to chill was all for nothing. She might as well put it back in the cupboard. Tilly stood up with a sigh, went to the kitchen and took out the bottle.

Or maybe she should open it anyway. Ken didn’t like sparkling wine but there were a few bottles of his favourite real ale that he could drink. Tilly found herself peeling off the foil, untwisting the wire that held the cork in, and easing the cork out with her thumbs without having made a conscious decision to open it.

The cork emerged with a satisfying pop, and Tilly grabbed the nearest thing to hand – a teacup from the draining board – to catch the frothy overflow. She poured herself a large measure into the teacup and drank it, enjoying the way the bubbles tickled her nose.

Her mum would have had a fit, seeing her drink out of a teacup. She fetched a cut-glass champagne flute from the glass cabinet in the dining room. It was from a set that had been a wedding present to her parents, she recalled. As a child she’d never been allowed to touch any of the glasses from the cabinet. Pouring herself another glass, she wondered what would happen to all the wedding presents she and Ian had been given. And all the furniture they’d bought jointly for their house. She supposed he’d want to keep it. Was there anything she wanted? Did she even care? She downed the Prosecco and poured herself more.

*

Tilly had polished off the Prosecco and was halfway through a bottle of red wine, by the time Ken came home at six o’clock.

‘Tilly pet, what time is Jo arriving?’ he called from the hallway, as he hung up his coat.

‘She’s not coming.’ Tilly suppressed a hiccup. The kitchen was a mess. She’d spilt some wine in her hurry to open another bottle. Her lunch dishes were stacked unwashed in the sink.

‘Not coming? Oh no, why?’

‘Her kid’s got chicken spots. Pox. Chicken pox, I mean.’ Tilly waved her hand as she spoke and too late, realised she was holding her wine glass in that hand. A neat arc of red wine sprayed across the kitchen wall.