Josephine Cox - The Beachcomber

There were no answers, because in the months that followed, in spite of the police relentlessly pursuing even the minutest clue, the driver of that car was never found, nor was the car itself. Tom had described both as accurately as he could, but it was as though they had vanished off the face of the earth. They had spoken to owners in the area whose cars had been stolen around the time of the accident, but until and unless they found the vehicle itself, that wasn’t of much help.

When eventually Tom was released from hospital, he too made every effort to trace the man who had taken his family and ruined his life. Time and again in the following months, he returned to the scene, speaking with anyone who would listen. All to no avail. The evil that had visited him and his family seemed to have gone as swiftly as it came .

But the consequences of that fateful day would never leave him. Neither would the hatred he felt.

Now, almost a year later, all that was left for Tom was the awful nightmares when, in his deepest sleep, he would re-enact the terrifying scene, hearing his children screaming, and Sheila, at first strangely silent, then frantically reaching out to protect her children … and all of them, helpless.

The dreams were so real and vivid, he would often wake up, arms flailing, yelling for the children to, ‘Get down on the floor, kids! FOR GOD’S SAKE, HOLD ONTO EACH OTHER!’

‘Are you all right?’ a gentle voice enquired. Tom opened his eyes, shocked and ashamed when he realised where he was.

‘You were having a bad dream.’ The elderly woman seated beside him could see the sweat shimmering on his face and the look of pain in his eyes. ‘Can I get you something?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m all right, thank you. I didn’t mean to fall asleep,’ he apologised. ‘It’s just that trains always make me nod off.’ He smiled to ease the tension.

The woman nodded. ‘I was worried, that’s all.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You were moaning … upset.’

He grimaced. ‘It was just a bad dream.’ When she smiled and looked away, he found refuge in his newspaper.

But there was no refuge in his heart.

The woman frowned to herself. A lot of young men had come back from the war in a terrible state. Poor chap; it must be that.

As the train chugged onwards, the billowing steam outside his window blocked his vision. His mind came alive with thoughts of how it used to be. He saw them all in his mind’s eye: the woman he had loved, small and slim with big bright eyes and a smile that could light up a cloudy day. And the children: Ellie, quiet and reflective with a gentle nature, and Peter, the younger one, wild and wilful, with a free, adventurous spirit. So different, yet so alike, in their kindness and generosity.

Reaching into his pocket he took out his wallet, pulling out a small photograph of them all … Bournemouth Sands, June 1951. His heart fell like a stone inside him. It seemed incredible to think that that wonderful holiday was just a year ago, and now, God help him, there would be no more.

‘Is that your family?’ The kindly old soul pointed at the photograph as he returned it to his pocket. ‘I always wanted a daughter, but was never blessed with another child.’

Gesturing to his pocket, she added, ‘Lovely-looking children.’ Giving the cheekiest of winks, she whispered, ‘Mind you, I can see how they might be handsome, with a father as attractive as you.’

Smiling and embarrassed, he wasn’t quite sure how to answer that, so he glanced out the window and pretended to be interested in the shifting landscape.

The woman saw his embarrassment. She thought him too good-looking for words. Discreetly observing the dark blue eyes, and the thick shock of golden-brown hair, she was sent back to her youth, when she could have had the pick of any young man. Sadly those days were gone and now, grey and old, she had too many regrets to contemplate.

‘I don’t mean to embarrass you,’ she apologised, ‘but when I’m anxious, I tend to talk a lot.’ Her face crumpled into a frown. ‘I must admit I hate these trains – noisy, dirty things. And I mean … you’re not in control, are you?’

‘We’re never “in control”,’ he answered thoughtfully. He knew all about that. He knew from experience how one minute everything was perfect, filled with love and joy, and, before you knew it, your whole world was turned upside down.

The steam whistle blasted noisily as they entered a tunnel. ‘Ooh!’ The old woman shivered. ‘I’ll be glad to reach London. I know I shan’t relax till then.’

He nodded. ‘You’re doing fine,’ he answered; then turned away to concentrate his thoughts.

Thinking she was becoming a nuisance, she tutted. ‘I’m sorry … keep chatting away … I hope you don’t mind?’

‘No. You talk away, if it helps,’ he suggested with a smile. ‘I really don’t mind.’

‘Only, you’ve been so quiet since I sat beside you, I thought you might be one of those people who like to be left alone?’ She giggled like a schoolgirl. ‘My son warned me not to be a nuisance. He knows how some folks don’t want to be bothered. You will tell me if I’m being a nuisance, won’t you?’

‘I promise, you’re not being a nuisance.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s just that I never find it easy to strike up a conversation.’

Encouraged, she chatted on about the new Queen, and when a short time later she started to nod off, he began to relax. When he relaxed, however, it was inevitable that he should be overwhelmed by the faces of the woman and children in that photograph. He had loved them with a passion that frightened him. Now, they were gone and all he had left was memories … of when they were walking in the park, he and Sheila laughing at the children’s antics, and afterwards eating in that pretty little café by the riverside, where they would throw leftovers to the ducks.

The memories rolled through his mind like the reel of a film. For one precious minute they made him smile; then they were breaking his heart .

‘Do you think it will be long before we get there?’ The elderly woman woke as suddenly as she had nodded off. ‘I’ve never been to London before. I wouldn’t be going now, if my only son hadn’t taken his family and moved down there.’ She continued wistfully, ‘I’ve got four beautiful grandchildren. I’ve missed them.’

Attempting to reassure her, he replied confidently. ‘Won’t be long now,’ he said. ‘And London’s fine. After a while you get used to it. I work for a big development corporation there,’ he confided.

She gave a wry grin. ‘I would have gone with them,’ she admitted. ‘My son wanted us to, but my husband is a cantankerous old sod. The furthest he’ll go is to the bottom of the garden and back.’

He smiled pensively. ‘I envy him.’

‘Why’s that?’ She was genuinely surprised by his statement.

‘Why, because he sounds contented.’ He would have given anything at that moment to be ‘contented’.

She gave a sorry little smile. ‘Unlike me! I’ve always been discontented ! All the years we’ve been wed, I was the one who loved the dancing and going out – especially during the war, you know – but he was never that way inclined. He was an ARP warden. I expect that was enough excitement for him. If he could he’d be happy to sit by the fireside of a winter’s night, and potter about in the garden in the summer. I always put it down to laziness or lack of enthusiasm, but now I think about it, you could be right.’

His remark made her wonder. ‘Happen he’s just been “contented” all along.’ She gave a long, weary sigh. ‘It’s sad really. We’ve always been so very different in what we want. But he so depends on me, you see.’