The Stationmaster’s Daughter. Kathleen McGurl
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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.
‘Watch out!’ Ken leapt forward to take the glass from her. ‘Oh, pet. Sorry she’s not able to come. Is that why you’ve started drinking? It’s a bit early. And what’s this?’ He picked up the empty Prosecco bottle and turned to her with a look of concern. ‘Tilly, I don’t like to say this, and I’m not judging you at all, but don’t you think you’re drinking a bit much?’
‘No, not drinking too much. Just drinking ’cos it helps me forget all the shit.’ She put her head down on the kitchen table, face in her arms.
‘You’ve been through a lot. Ian leaving, losing your job, and that miscarriage. I wish I could help, but honestly, I don’t think all this drinking does you any good. I don’t want to lecture, I know you’re a grown-up, but even so. I have to say something. I lost your mum, but I didn’t turn to the bottle.’
Tilly shook her head. He didn’t know the half of it. ‘Three of ’em,’ she muttered.
‘What, love?’
She raised her head and gazed at him. ‘Three. Three bloody miscarriages, Dad! I only told you about the first one. Didn’t want to upset you, what with Mum and everything. First one – the ectopic one – you know about that. Then an early one. Seven weeks. Then the third – God, I was about to tell you I was pregnant. Was waiting until it felt safe, and it just about did, we’d had a scan, and then suddenly, all that pain, then the bleeding, and then … Dad, it was a … a boy.’ And suddenly she was grieving all over again, for those three babies, who would have been Ken’s grandchildren had they lived. She crumpled, head in hands, over the table again, and was only dimly aware of Ken coming to kneel beside her, his arms around her, stroking her hair, as she grieved once more for her lost babies.
‘Shh, pet. Your dad’s here. I’ll do everything I can to help, you know that, pet, don’t you? I’m sorry I had a go at you for drinking. I’m sorry I didn’t know about the other two miscarriages. I see why you didn’t want to tell me at the time. You had Ian still, then. And I suppose you told Jo. Does talking about it help? I’m no counsellor, no good with it all, you know that, but God knows I’ll listen and hold you while you cry and whatever else I can do. You’re still my little girl, Tilly.’
Did she want to talk about it? Yes, suddenly she did. Not the miscarriages. What was there to say? The babies were gone. But Ian. Ken didn’t know the full story of Ian leaving, what he’d said, what his reasons were for wanting to end their fifteen-year marriage. And now – maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the disappointment of not having Jo here to talk things through with, probably it was the combination of the two – but now she wanted nothing more than to talk to Ken. To tell him all about that horrible day when Ian made his announcement. It had been the straw that had broken her.
‘Yeah, Dad. It might help to talk.’
‘Go on, then. Talk away. Want a cup of tea?’
She sat up, grabbed a tissue to mop her eyes and nodded. And then she told him the entire story of how Ian had dropped his bombshell.
*
His timing couldn’t have been worse. It was her last day at work, a month after the redundancies had been announced. There’d been a demoralised attitude in the office ever since the big announcement, and no one had felt up to going to the pub or celebrating in any way. Tilly had switched off her computer, gathered up the few personal items she’d kept on her desk, put on her coat and left, nodding goodbye to her erstwhile colleagues who were all doing the same thing. On the way home she decided she’d at least open a bottle of bubbly with Ian – call it a celebration of being out of the rat race, for a few months at least.
When she reached the three-bed semi she shared with Ian, she realised his car was outside. He normally didn’t come home until an hour or more after she did, and often not till much later. There always seemed to be something keeping him at work, a problem, a late meeting, or some office do he needed to attend.
He was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a cup of tea in his hands. He didn’t smile when she walked in.
‘So, that’s me done, then,’ she said, trying to sound cheery though inside she felt like crying. ‘No more work. I’m going to give it a couple of months then start job-hunting.’ She opened the fridge and took out a bottle of Prosecco that had been chilling there for weeks. ‘Fancy celebrating my freedom?’ Without waiting for an answer, she tore off the foil, untwisted the wire and popped the cork.
He watched her, unsmiling. ‘Tils, there’s something I need to talk to you about.’
She took two glasses out of a cupboard and filled them, passing one to Ian. ‘Sure. Well, cheers, here’s to my freedom.’
He pushed the glass away, untouched. ‘Not for me, thanks.’
Great. So she’d be ‘celebrating’ alone. ‘Sure you won’t have some? Go on, keep me company. No one in the office felt like going out.’
‘No. Listen, Tils, I guess the timing’s not great for what I need to say to you, but then again, there’s never a good time for this kind of thing.’
She felt suddenly cold inside. ‘What kind of thing?’
He sighed. ‘We’ve wanted a baby for so long. I’ve wanted one since the day we married, but I was happy to wait until you felt ready. I can’t wait anymore, though.’
‘I guess we can start trying again,’ she said. It had been several months since the last miscarriage. Long enough, she supposed.
Ian shook his head. ‘I can’t put you through the pain of any more miscarriages. It’s not fair.’
‘What, then?’ Was he suggesting