The Stationmaster’s Daughter. Kathleen McGurl
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‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think my little brother is in love, at last!’
‘I … no … what do you … I mean … well. She’s very beautiful.’ Ted spluttered as he glanced out to the platform where Annie still sat waiting patiently. She looked up, caught his eye and smiled. He was blushing furiously, he knew it, but it was time for him to be on the platform too. The train was due in one minute. ‘Ahem. We’ll talk about this later, Norah.’ He put down his cup of tea on the ticket-office counter, straightened his jacket and strode out to the platform just as the train pulled in. He dared not look at Annie as she climbed aboard the first-class carriage, and was for once thankful when all were aboard, he’d set the signal to clear, handed over the token and waved his flag.
Norah joined him on the platform as the train puffed away. She laid a hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. It’s just, when that woman walked in – and yes, she is very beautiful – I could see you were smitten. You’re my little brother, Ted. You can’t hide anything from me! Now then, I noticed she didn’t say anything to you. If that was due to my presence, I am sorry.’
Ted shook his head. ‘No, we don’t as a rule hold any conversations when she passes through.’ As a rule? Who was he kidding? He could count on one hand the number of words she’d ever spoken to him.
‘Well, I think you should rectify that,’ said Norah, with a smile and raised eyebrows. ‘Next time you see her, pay her some little compliment. I think she likes you, judging by that lovely smile she gave you. And smile back at her, for goodness’ sake! You stared at her today as though she had two heads!’
Had he really? And would it work, if he overcame his shyness and actually spoke to Annie? He only knew her name and where she worked by following her that day. He couldn’t very well do that again. Norah was right. It was time he struck up a conversation with Annie. He had nothing to lose. In a few days, when Norah and the children had left, he would try it.
The day after their visit to Lower Berecombe, Ken drove Tilly out to Lynford station. It was a cold but fine day, the smattering of frost that had covered everything overnight was beginning to melt. It was the kind of day, Tilly thought, as they drove along the country lanes between fields dotted with sheep, when in years gone by she’d have felt glad to be alive, joyful just to be a part of such a beautiful world. Maybe one day she’d feel like that again, but it seemed a long way off yet.
‘So if you look over there,’ Ken was saying, dragging her morbid thoughts back to the present, ‘there’s a little glimpse of the viaduct. It’s miles away but just there, see it?’
She looked where he was pointing and yes, way off in the distance she could see the arches of the viaduct spanning the valley. They were high up here, the road winding around the side of a hill before it dipped down to Lynford village. ‘Yes, I see it.’
‘I love that view,’ he said. ‘After your mum died, I used to come here, park just up that lane there, and walk up the hill from where there’s an even better view. Something about gazing into the distance helped put everything into perspective. It made me realise life went on, despite all that had happened to me. I always felt more – well, grounded I suppose – after going up there. Ah, pet. I’m probably talking rubbish, aren’t I? Maybe one day I should take you up there, for a walk. If you’d like to. It might help.’
‘Yes. I think I’d like to,’ Tilly said quietly. She’d never heard her father talk in this way before. He’d never opened up about his feelings after her mum died, or how he’d coped. She should do what she could to help him, but how could she do that when she couldn’t even help herself?
‘So, we’re nearly there,’ Ken said, as he drove down the hill, and through the little village. ‘Worth having a stroll around here too, when you get the chance. Some quaint old buildings. That café there’ – he pointed at an imposing building on a corner – ‘used to be a bank. And down there’s a path to the river Lyn, and there’s a little park and an old witch’s ducking stool that supposedly dates back to the sixteenth century. I reckon it’s a Victorian copy, myself. Anyway, it’s worth a look, and the café does a fantastic range of cakes. I miss the cakes your mum used to make.’
‘She was such a good baker,’ Tilly agreed.
Ken turned into a small car park beside the red brick station building. ‘So. Lynford station. Here we are! There are no steam trains running today – we only do school holidays and weekends from Easter to October. But the station’s open to visitors, and we have a little tea shop, selling cakes.’
Tilly climbed out of the car, and let her father show her proudly around. ‘They’d just begun opening to the public when we first moved here, and I got involved. I couldn’t help but join the society. Your mum laughed when I told her. “You’ve just retired from the railways,” she said, “and now you want to work for them again!” Ah, but this is different, I told her. This is fun. Old-fashioned station, steam trains, tinkering with bits of equipment. None of your automated systems we ended up with.’ Tilly smiled at the story. She could so easily imagine her mum teasing him about his railway obsession.
‘So, in here.’ He led her inside. ‘This is the old station. A ticket office that we’ve restored, ladies’ waiting room, and through there – that’s now the tearooms but would have been the stationmaster’s private rooms. He’d have lived here. There are two bedrooms upstairs.’
The station was nicely done up, with a collection of old tables and chairs in the tearooms and a modern kitchen behind. ‘Want to see upstairs?’ Ken asked. ‘It’s just used for storage now, but back when the railway was operational it’s where the stationmaster and his family would have slept.’
Tilly followed him dutifully upstairs. There was a worn-out carpet on the stairs, and peeling gloss paint on the walls. Someone had stuck photos of the restoration work up with Blu-tack. At the top was a tiny landing with two doors leading off. One was filled with boxes, stacked higgledy-piggledy across the floor. The other contained a single bed with a stained mattress, and more boxes, mostly containing papers and magazines. An electric fan heater stood on top of an old wooden crate.
‘Sometimes if a volunteer wants to work here late in the evening they might kip here, in a sleeping bag,’ Ken explained, as Tilly looked around. ‘Not often, though. There’s rumours of a ghost.’
‘A ghost?’
Ken chuckled. ‘Ah, it’s all rubbish. Just an old building creaking a bit at night. Someone died here once, but I don’t know any details. They say the ghost of that person haunts the building. Alan’ll tell you more about it, if you’re interested. He should be around here somewhere. I’ve never spent the night.’
Tilly shuddered. Nothing would entice her to sleep here, ghost or no ghost. Ena’s words – that railway was the death of my father – ran through her mind. Could this be what she was referring to?
She laid a hand on the nearest crate. ‘What’s in all the boxes?’
‘That’s our archive.’ Ken pulled a face. ‘There’s probably loads of great stuff in there. But who knows? It’s all in such a mess, and no one with any time to sort it out.’ He looked thoughtful for a moment, then turned to Tilly with a querying expression. ‘Don’t suppose you’d like to take it on, pet? Go through it, pull out the interesting bits, throw out the rubbish? You’re good at that kind of thing. We’ve got a website too, that needs someone to keep it up to date. Could be something to … get your teeth into. Help take your mind off … everything.’
Tilly glanced again into the bedrooms and the daunting piles of boxes and papers. ‘I don’t know. Not sure I could.’ Not sure? The way she felt now she was absolutely certain she wouldn’t be able to summon up the energy to root through