The Stationmaster’s Daughter. Kathleen McGurl
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nodded, numbly, and allowed him to shepherd her out to the car. Jo gave her a hug. ‘Look after yourself, Tils. Listen to your dad. Do whatever he suggests, promise me. I’ll be down to see you in a couple of weeks, I promise. Love you, mate.’
‘Thanks, Jo,’ Tilly managed to say. The words seemed inadequate, but the effort required to find more was too much. She climbed into the car, put on her seat belt and leaned back against the headrest. Outside, Ken was hugging and thanking Jo, and loading his bag and Tilly’s suitcase into the boot. And then he was in the driver’s seat beside her, starting the engine, and they were on their way, leaving Jo standing on her driveway, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Even Ken’s eyes looked suspiciously moist. Far too much crying was going on, Tilly thought, and all of it her fault. But right now, she didn’t feel she could do anything about it.
*
The journey passed uneventfully. Ken found a classical music station on the radio, and Tilly let the music wash over her as she stared out of the window at the passing countryside. It was February, the fields were brown and bare and the sky was a dismal grey. The scenery and weather were a perfect match for her frame of mind. Soon it would be spring, there’d be new growth in the fields and hedgerows, birds would sing and lambs would be born, and everyone would look forward to the warmth of summer. Would she? Was there anything to look forward to? She’d lost her job, her husband, her chances of having a family. But now she was here, with her dad, and somehow she had to find a way forward.
She knew she shouldn’t dwell on these thoughts. All it did was make her more miserable. She fumbled in her jeans pocket for a crumpled tissue, but it wasn’t enough to soak up her never-ending tears. Ken glanced over, then rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a cotton handkerchief. ‘Here, pet. It’s clean, and it’ll be easier on your skin than those tissues.’
She took it gratefully. The cotton was soft from having been washed hundreds of times. It had been folded in four and ironed, just the way her mum always used to iron handkerchiefs. An image of her dad standing over the ironing board, carefully ironing and folding hankies flitted through her mind, and despite her misery she found herself smiling faintly.
‘That’s better, pet. Breaking my heart to see you so upset. When we get home I’ll make up the spare bed for you. Then I’ll make us shepherd’s pie for tea. You always loved your mum’s shepherd’s pie. I’ve learned to cook since she … went.’ He bit his lip. ‘I’ve had to.’
Tilly reached out to pat his shoulder. Dad had never cooked so much as beans on toast the whole time she was growing up. Mum had done everything. When she died, Tilly had wondered how he’d cope on his own, but she’d been so caught up in her own problems at that time that she’d never asked. To her shame, she realised this was her first visit to Dorset since the funeral. And this wasn’t so much a visit – more like a rescue.
‘Thanks, Dad. Looking forward to it.’ Looking forward. Well, it was a start.
The roads became narrower and more twisty as they drove deep into Dorset. Not far from Coombe Regis Ken slowed down as they passed through a village. ‘That’s Lynford station house,’ he said. ‘The first station the restoration society bought. We’ve laid some track here and we’re open at weekends and school holidays, running trains up and down.’ Tilly glanced across at the building he was indicating, and saw a sign: Lynford station: Home of the Michelhampton and Coombe Regis Railway.
‘Is that where you spend your time?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘Well, there and Lower Berecombe, which is the next station on the line. Actually, I’m usually at Lower Berecombe. We’ve not owned it as long, and there’s more to do there. Anyway, I’ll give you a tour of both as soon as you feel up to it.’
She forced herself to smile at him, then stared out of the window in silence for the remainder of the journey. Thankfully they were soon in the outskirts of Coombe Regis. She’d been here before – her parents had bought their cliff-top bungalow after they retired, and she and Ian had visited a few times.
Ken drove down a steep street that she remembered, that led straight down to the tiny harbour in the heart of the little town. There, they turned right, past some shops and a small beach, and then through a residential area, heading uphill once more to the cliffs on the west side of town. This part was familiar from her previous visits, and soon they turned into her dad’s driveway and she saw the stunning view across the cliff top to the sea. Even with the low grey cloud and sporadic rain, it was beautiful.
‘Here at last, then, Tillikins!’ Ken jumped out and began unloading the luggage from the boot.
‘Great,’ she replied, turning away. His use of her old childhood nickname had made her eyes prickle with tears.
She got out of the car and followed Ken inside. It was exactly as she remembered it – exactly as it had been when her mother was alive. A small table stood by the front door, with an overgrown spider plant on it, its offspring dangling down to floor level. Her mother’s deep-red winter coat still hung from a hook in the hallway, and as she passed, Tilly reached out to caress it.
‘I should send that down to the charity shop, I suppose,’ said Ken, noticing her action.
‘Not if you’re not ready to,’ she replied, and the way her dad turned quickly away told her he wasn’t.
‘Go on into the sitting room,’ he said. ‘Give me ten minutes to sort out a bedroom for you.’
She did as he said and sat on a sofa that was angled to make the most of the view of the cliff top and sea. There was something calming about resting your eyes on a distant horizon, she thought. It would help, being here.
A few minutes later Ken came back. ‘So, you’re in this room,’ he said, leading her along the corridor and into the guest bedroom, the same one she’d stayed in before with Ian, but her father had decorated it since she’d last been here. It had a double bed with crisp white bed linen, pale-blue painted walls that on a good day would match the sky outside, a dark oak chest of drawers and a chair upholstered in vibrant blues and greens. The floor was a pale laminate, with a fluffy cream rug beside the bed. The whole effect was restful and calming. Ken had put her suitcase on a low table and laid a blue-and-white striped towel on the end of the bed.
Tilly felt tears come to her eyes again. ‘Thanks, Dad. This is really nice.’
‘I tried to think of what your mother would have done, and did the same,’ he said.
‘She’d be proud of you.’
‘Thanks, pet.’ A gruffness in Ken’s voice betrayed his usual discomfort with emotional scenes, so Tilly said no more, but set to work pulling clothes she had out of the suitcase, putting her wash bag on the chest of drawers and tucking her pyjamas under the pillow.
‘Right then, a cup of tea, and then dinner in about an hour?’
‘Got anything stronger? I feel the need … well, it’s been a long day.’
Ken nodded. ‘There’s some wine, but are you sure, after—’
‘I’m fine. I won’t overdo it.’
A few minutes later, with a glass of buttery Chardonnay in her hand, Tilly was standing by the picture window in the bungalow’s sitting room, gazing at the view. The rain was beginning to clear, and dusk was falling. To the west, over the sea, there was a strip of clear sky, turning ever deeper red and purple as the last of the light faded. There was a path along the cliff behind her father’s garden.
‘Did Jo pack your walking boots or a pair of trainers? It’d be good for you, to get out there and walk along the cliffs. Helps put things in perspective. Well, it helped me, after … you know.’ Ken had come to stand beside her, watching the sunset.
‘Yes, maybe I will. Some day.’ Tilly topped up her wine. Right now, the only thing she wanted was to drink enough to blot out the world and then crawl under a duvet.