hour later, the train to Tindledale is just about to depart – the last direct one, luckily, which arrives at 10.39 p.m. After that, you have to go to Market Briar, the nearest big town, and get a taxi or a lift on a tractor apparently, ‘so don’t be planning any big late nights out while you’re there’, is what the man in the ticket office chortled when I told him where we were heading.
Basil settles at my feet after giving up on trying to snuggle on the seat beside me. A guy in a black duffel coat and a grey beanie hat (definitely machine-knitted) is sitting by the window in the bank of seats adjacent to me, reading a newspaper; he looks up and gives me a courteous smile. I smile back and instantly notice his kind-looking emerald eyes behind black-framed glasses which accentuate the stubbly dark beard and curly hair peeping out from under the sides of his hat. This is only a recent thing, noticing men. After being in a relationship for five years with a man that I was certain I’d marry, it still feels weird looking at other guys in a snog/marry/avoid way, as Cher would say. I guess, it just isn’t something I’m used to; I really loved Luke, so it didn’t ever cross my mind to notice other men, and then, after everything that happened … well, let’s just say that it’s taking me time to reprogram my head to an ‘I’m single’ status.
‘Basil!’ I yell as he darts across the carriage and goes to swipe the guy’s Costa cake from a napkin on the table. I dive-bomb Basil just in time. ‘I’m so sorry, anyone would think he was starving, which he certainly isn’t,’ I say, grinning apologetically to the guy. I grab Basil’s collar and swiftly pull him back. Luckily, the guy laughs and shrugs it off, before moving the cake to a safer spot and lifting his newspaper back up.
A few minutes later, an older lady, sixty-something perhaps, arrives through the door of the adjoining carriage and sits opposite me.
‘Ah, he’s a fine-looking lad. What’s his name?’ she asks in a country accent as she glances down at my feet. ‘And what a superb coat he has on.’
‘Thanks, he’s called Basil.’ I smile, straightening Basil’s festive red knitted body warmer before unzipping my parka. Basil lifts his head on hearing his name so I give him a quick stroke. He laps it up before resting his chin back on my right foot.
‘Well I never, that was my late husband’s name, God rest his soul, and I haven’t heard it in a while, I must say! Is it significant to you too?’
‘Um, yes, I’m called Sybs, well, Sybil really. My friend, Cher, she came up with his name on account of—’
‘Oh yes, I know it! From the TV series, Fawlty Towers, it was so funny. Basiiiiiiiiiiil,’ she bellows, taking me by surprise. ‘That’s what his wife, Sybil, used to holler – it was a standing joke with my Basil and I. He always laughed when I did it to him.’ Her eyes close momentarily as she reminisces.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I say gently.
‘Oh, thank you, love, but it was a very long time ago and he certainly had a good innings. I’m on my second husband now, met him a year ago on a coach tour to Portofino. Colin was the driver,’ she chuckles, ‘and fourteen years younger than me. I’m Dolly, by the way.’
‘Nice to meet you, Dolly.’ I smile, loving her zest for life, and Dolly chuckles and winks before loosening her coat and removing her fur hat.
‘You have the right idea, Sybs, it’s mighty warm in this carriage, that heater is churning out the hot air.’ She frowns, pointing at the panel beside us.
‘It sure is,’ I say, slipping off the parka.
‘Cor! That’s a beauty. Knit it yourself?’ She nods at my Christmas jumper.
‘Oh, um, yes I did. Thank you!’ I beam and cast a glance down at the fleece-lined chunky red knit with Ho Ho Ho emblazoned across the front in sparkly yarn, and each Ho a different colour. The heater in the Clio is so temperamental that I wasn’t taking any chances on freezing to death during the long drive to Tindledale and this is the warmest jumper I’ve ever made, but then, when the taxi turned up right away, I didn’t have time to get changed into something more suitable for a steamed-up train journey.
‘You have a real gift. I could never get on with knitting.’ Dolly shakes her head and I smile politely, unable to imagine a life without knitting. Knitting has never let me down: it soothes me, comforts me, excites me, calms me – it’s multifaceted and it means so many things to me. It may sound silly, but all of my knitting projects have memories attached too: I can swing a silver pashmina around my shoulders, knitted on holiday in Ibiza, and it instantly puts me right there on the sandy beach under a parasol with Cher nodding her head along to the tunes on her iPod, us laughing together, sipping sangria and feeling carefree and happy. This was long before I met Luke, or Sasha betrayed me. ‘So where are you off to?’ Dolly asks.
‘I’m going to surprise a friend who’s just moved to a village called Tindledale. Do you know it?’
‘I most certainly do. My Basil was postman there for a while and his father before him. Colin and I live in Stoneley, four stops before yours.’
‘Ooh, you might be able to help me with something then, please?’ I ask, eagerly.
‘Always happy to help if I can, dear. What is it?’ Dolly smiles kindly.
‘I left home in a bit of hurry and haven’t brought a housewarming gift for my friend, I don’t suppose you can recommend a shop where I can buy something nice for her? I was thinking a candle or some Belgian truffles perhaps.’ Cher isn’t really one for knitted garments, otherwise I’d have brought her a cardy, or a tea cosy or two. I managed to grab a bottle of red wine from my fridge, and it’s almost full, but it’s hardly the same as a proper present, especially when Cher already has a pub full of alcohol. Dolly laughs.
‘Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve actually been in Tindledale, but I’m pretty sure there isn’t anywhere that sells candles, certainly not the fancy fragranced ones that you’d be after. You might get some white Price’s household ones in the village store – they always used to keep a few boxes in stock for the power cuts,’ she says knowingly. ‘And as for chocolates, they won’t be Belgian, but I’m sure you’d get a nice bar of Fry’s Peppermint Cream in there too. They have quite a range in their small supermarket section – through the archway next to the post office counter.’
‘Lovely. I’ll head there right away,’ I say, not wanting to be rude, but I can’t exactly turn up with a bar of Fry’s chocolate. Cher will think I’ve really lost the plot.
‘Oh, it won’t be open this time of night, dear. The village store closes at four in the winter. You could try the pub though; just go to the hatch in the snug, they have a little shop that has sweets, crisps, cigarettes, milk, magazines, eggs, bread, firelighters, logs, lighter fuel … that kind of thing. There’s an honesty box so take what you like and leave the money in the bowl.’ I smile again – I can just see Cher’s face if I buy her a bag of crisps as a present from her own shop. And who ever heard of a pub with an honesty box? At the fried chicken place on the corner of my street they have a metal grill that you have to pay through at the time of order, and they don’t take notes over a fiver in case they’re forgeries.
*
The train pulls into Stoneley and I can barely keep my eyes open after chatting to Dolly for most of the journey. I stifle a yawn and will myself to keep awake.
‘Oh dear! You need a good night’s sleep.’ Hmm, this is true – I
