Ken for directions but there was no signal.
A little further on there was a farmhouse. That must have an entrance onto a road, she thought. Maybe from there she’d be able to figure out the way back. She headed towards it and realised she was approaching it from the back, through the farmyard. There were a couple of near-derelict barns and a rusty old tractor sat forlornly to one side, its tyres flat and weeds growing up around it. Not a working farm anymore, then. She headed round to the front of the house, to the gravel track that led to a lane, but then she wasn’t sure which direction to walk once she hit the lane.
The farmhouse looked scruffy and uncared for, its front door painted with peeling dark-red paint, but there was a light on inside so it was clear someone lived there. Tilly sighed with relief and knocked on the door to ask for directions.
The door was opened by a stooped woman who looked to be in her eighties. She was wearing an old-fashioned pink nylon housecoat, of a type Tilly had last seen on her own grandmother thirty years before.
‘Er, hello, I am sorry to bother you, but could you tell me the way back to Lower Berecombe?’ Tilly asked. ‘I seem to be a bit l-lost.’ To her horror she found her eyes welling up with tears as she spoke.
‘Of course, dear, it’s not far, but – you look upset? Won’t you come in for a moment until you feel better? A cup of tea, that’s what you need. And I have a pack of chocolate biscuits somewhere.’
‘Oh, but I m-mustn’t disturb you,’ Tilly said, fumbling in her pocket for a tissue.
‘Nonsense. Disturb me from what, daytime television?’ The old woman scoffed and rolled her eyes. ‘Come on in, dear. I’m not turning away a crying stranger.’ She stood back with the door wide open, and Tilly followed her inside. Perhaps a cup of tea was what she needed. Some time away from her thoughts, with someone who knew nothing about her or her troubles.
The old woman had gone into the kitchen – a clean but tatty room that looked as though it had last been refitted in the Seventies. She filled a kettle, switched it on and dropped a couple of teabags into an old brown teapot. ‘Sit down, do,’ she said, gesturing to the group of mismatched chairs arranged around a battered Formica-covered kitchen table. She took a box of tissues from a work surface and put them in front of Tilly.
Somehow this quiet gesture was too much. As if she hadn’t cried enough over recent weeks, Tilly found herself with tears coursing down her face once more. She pulled out a couple of tissues and tried to compose herself while her host finished making tea and laying biscuits on a plate.
A few moments later the old woman put a cup of tea in front of her and sat down. ‘I’m Ena Pullen,’ she said, pushing the biscuits nearer to Tilly.
‘Tilly Thomson,’ Tilly replied, taking a biscuit. ‘Thank you so much for inviting me in.’
‘You look like you are having a tough day,’ Ena said. ‘I’m not going to ask you what’s wrong, but I hope when you leave here you feel a little better than when you arrived. If you do, I’ll have done my job.’ She smiled, and it was all Tilly could do not to begin crying again. Tea and sympathy always set her off.
Ena chatted about inconsequential things – whether her favourite contestant would win the latest TV reality singing competition, the likelihood of the summer being warm or not, the different types of birds who visited her bird-feeder over the winter months. Tilly listened and nodded but said little in return, allowing the trivial topics to fill her mind, pushing everything else out.
When her tea was drunk, Tilly reluctantly got to her feet and shook Ena’s hand. ‘Thank you so much. I feel a lot better now, but I’d better get going. Dad will be wondering where I am. Could you just point me in the direction of the old station at Lower Berecombe?’
‘The station?’ Ena’s expression darkened. ‘Don’t say you are anything to do with that old railway?’
‘Well, no, but my dad is … he’s part of the society trying to restore it.’
‘Is he now …’ Ena pressed her lips together and led Tilly out of the kitchen. ‘Well, Tilly, as you said, it’s time for you to go. Turn left along the lane, keep walking for about ten minutes and you’ll reach the village, then go right by the church until you see the station.’ Her tone was noticeably colder.
‘Is everything OK?’ Tilly asked hesitantly as she stepped through the front door.
Ena’s previously friendly expression was harsh. ‘That railway was the death of my father, and that society’s trying to rebuild it. It’s all wrong. I want it stopped.’ With that she shook her head and closed the door behind Tilly.
*
Tilly found her way back to the station, where Ken had changed into grimy blue overalls and was busy removing rust from one of the old railway signals. He looked up as she approached.
‘I was about to send out a search party. Where did you get to?’ His tone was joking but she could sense his worry behind it. She told him about her meeting with Ena Pullen and he made a face.
‘Oh, her. She’s the one who won’t sell us that length of trackbed. The death of her father? Rubbish. She’s just a miserable old so-and-so who doesn’t like change.’
Tilly frowned. She didn’t agree with her dad’s opinion of the old woman. Ena had seemed kind and caring, right up until the moment when Tilly had mentioned the railway. She wondered idly what could possibly have happened to have elicited such a change.
It had become an annual event for the last few years: during the school’s October half-term break Ted’s sister Norah would arrive with her three children to stay for a few days. They lived in London and loved coming to the country. Norah’s husband couldn’t spare the time off work, so she’d bring the children by train, herself.
It meant Ted had to clear out the second bedroom so that Norah and her 5-year-old daughter Margot could sleep there, but he didn’t mind. It was always a delight to have company. The two boys, Peter aged 12, and Tom aged 10, would sleep downstairs in the parlour. It was a squash in the small house, especially when they all sat around Ted’s tiny table at mealtimes, but somehow it worked. Norah would take over cooking duties while she was there, and Ted relished the break from having to do it himself. Plus, she was a fabulous cook, and he always ate well when she was there – her pies, pastries, roasts and desserts were delicious.
Norah arrived on the 14.25 from Michelhampton, one sunny but chilly afternoon. As she alighted from the train amid a cloud of steam, Ted doffed his cap to her but otherwise stuck to his duties. It was most important to ensure the other passengers disembarked safely and that the train left on time, having taken on more water from the water tower. He knew that his sister understood that his duties came first, and indeed, he saw that she had herded the children together and sat them on a bench on the platform, with their luggage beside them, while they waited for him to be free.
At last the train was ready to leave; Ted checked all doors were closed, blew his whistle and waved his flag. He stood watching it until the last carriage was beyond the end of the platform, and then turned to Norah with a smile.
‘So
