Sands of Time (32 page)

The train stopped at the next station and several more people boarded. To her relief James Campbell did not look up. He had immediately on sitting down opened his
Financial Times
. She was spared the horror of having to make polite conversation with him as she produced her own reading – a rather shabby copy of Mrs Leyel’s
Herbal Delights
. His refusal to further acknowledge her presence was perhaps intended as a slight. If it was it sadly misfired. She was intensely relieved.

Some raucous laughter from the seats across the gangway caught her attention and she gave a quick glance across at their neighbours. Two young men had boarded the train at the last stop, dressed in combat trousers and tee-shirts with huge black boots, their hair cropped short. Perhaps squaddies from the local barracks? They were very young, teenagers even, fresh-faced, wide-eyed but, once the thick layer of acne had run its natural course, would both be quite good-looking.

She bent her head to Mrs Leyel once more, whilst straining to decipher their accents. Scottish. That much was easy. East coast probably rather than west as she felt her ears throb to the barrage of strangulated glottal stops. Not dangerous young men. Not hostile. Just loud.

The coffee trolley was approaching down the carriage, inching its way between anxious mothers with restless children, Jaeger dressed ladies going to town to lunch with old school friends, business men – not the dawn rising kind, the older more leisurely breed – students and tourists. And people like her. One offs. In her case, visiting a magazine with some newly commissioned illustrations. The trolley was doing good business – tea, coffee, Cokes, orange drinks, Kit-Kats and flapjacks. It stopped alongside them and James Campbell lowered his paper for a fraction of a second to shake his head curtly at the girl. Caroline too declined but with a smile. The two young men sat forward eagerly. The girl obviously instantly tuned to their speech and had no difficulty in interpreting an order for two cans of lager each, but firmly declined the suggestion that a third, to keep in reserve, might be even better. She pocketed their change, handed over the drinks and then to Caroline’s delight wagged – actually wagged – her finger at the boys. ‘Now, no nonsense, you two. Behave yourselves, you hear me?’ she admonished loudly. ‘And put the empties in the bin!’ How did she do it? How did she escape with her life? She must have brothers, Caroline thought, to give her that ease of communication with them. Or was she just a natural leader of men? Far from being angry, they beamed at her and sat back to enjoy themselves as she trundled on her way.

Caroline realised suddenly that James Campbell had folded his paper in half. He was still reading, but the slightest glance enabled him now to see across it to their neighbours. And her. She frowned, trying to concentrate on the words on the page in front of her, but it was hard. The voices of the young men were growing louder and she discovered suddenly that her ear had grown accustomed to the lilt and staccato of their speech in spite of the impression that they were talking through mouthfuls of marbles. They were discussing a night on the town which they had both enjoyed. And they had, she suddenly realised, only a limited vocabulary when it came to description. The more baby-faced of the two tipped back his head and drained his can. He then stood up and obedient to instructions carefully tucked it into the litter bin behind his seat. He reseated himself and produced the second can with a flourish.

‘Och it was a fucking guid night!’ The expression of contented reminiscence reached her clearly. ‘I like watching fuitball; I like clubbing.’ He beamed across at his companion. ‘But not as much as I like fucking and brawling.’ He paused. ‘But, oh fuck, I like brawling best!’

Caroline bit her lip tightly to keep her face straight. She had seen the expression on the face of the woman in the next row of seats. It was scandalised. Her eyebrows had hit her hairline. Beside her, two more travellers were staring hard at their feet. Caroline glanced up at James Campbell. The
Financial Times
was trembling slightly. She could see his knuckles white against the pink paper. She frowned. No doubt he would take it upon himself to throw them off the train at the next stop.

The boys’ conversation had changed tack slightly, but not in any adjectival sense. ‘It’s fucking impossible to get back tae Edinburgh,’ – so that is where they came from – ‘and down tae fucking Colchester in that space of fucking time!’ The second can was neatly disposed of in the bin. They were oblivious to the other passengers, intent now on travel plans. ‘It’s fucking scandalous. If you like fucking brawling, you should do something about it! Go and have a fucking brawl with the fucking train arrangers!’

The
Financial Times
slipped a little and just for a second Caroline caught a glimpse of James Campbell’s face. It was very red. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth held in a tight-lipped grimace. Tears of laughter were streaming down his face. She stared, still trying to hold back her own mirth, and suddenly he looked up and caught her eye. His mouth twitched. He reached for the newspaper supplement which he had discarded on the seat next to him and held it out to her with a shaking hand. ‘You’d better borrow this!’ Already he had disappeared once more behind his own screen.

Caroline opened the paper hastily, aware that one of the boys was staring at her suddenly. But he wasn’t angry. There was no cry of ‘What are you looking at then?’ On the contrary, his huge blue eyes were full of sympathy and understanding. ‘Are you OK, hen?’ he asked gently. ‘Fucking hayfever!’

As the train drew into London Caroline refolded the paper and handed it back to its owner with a smile. ‘Thank you.’

The boys had been first off the train, not a can, not a crisp packet to be seen, the seat where they had been sitting spotless. ‘I don’t think I could have coped with that without your help.’ His face had returned to normal except that his eyes were no longer cold and critical. ‘I hope you’re not going to report them to their f –’ she stuttered. She had almost said it. ‘To their commanding officer!’

He shook his head. ‘I haven’t enjoyed a train journey so much in a long time. Did you see the faces of those women?’

They were making their way out onto the platform now and somehow he was carrying her portfolio as well as his briefcase. He glanced across at her and she realised suddenly that not only were his eyes not cold, they were a startlingly bright blue. ‘You haven’t got time for a coffee, I suppose? To help compose ourselves before we are launched into the metropolis?’

And, gentle reader, do you know, against her better judgement, she agreed!

Barney

Theo Dexter, the house agent, was a young man of about her own age, Kay thought, or a little older. Good-looking in a floppy, self-deprecating, Hugh Grant sort of way. When the key wouldn’t turn he looked at her with an apologetic shrug.

It infuriated her. She stopped herself from grabbing it from him. ‘No one seems to have been here for a long time.’ She shoved back her hair from her face with barely concealed impatience.

‘No one else wants to see the cottage.’ He smiled.

She refused to be charmed. She needed somewhere to live. Now. Somewhere cheap. Very. The fact that this ruin was falling down was a plus. It suited her mood. And no one would come looking for her here.

‘Please try again. Give it a good rattle.’

His cautious shake was followed by a hefty thump then, two hands on the key, a bit of bicep-flexing. She watched, more amused now than cross. The place was beginning to work its magic. Another struggle and she heard a grating noise from the lock. In a moment the door was pushed open. The interior smelled musty and damp, but not unpleasantly so. And it was very silent. They stood in the narrow hall for a moment, orientating themselves. Straight ahead there was a narrow staircase. To the right, a door opened on to a small living room; to the left, a kitchen with an ancient Rayburn, a dresser, and a scrubbed oak table.

‘Perfect!’

Kay’s enthusiasm shocked Theo into a response which was, she felt, for an estate agent, probably candid in the extreme. ‘You’ve got to be kidding. Honestly, the place is a dump!’

She laughed. ‘It’s quiet. It’s pretty. It’s cheap. It’s all I can afford.’

He grimaced. ‘You’d better look upstairs before you commit yourself.’

She led the way, suddenly feeling ridiculously and uncharacteristically happy.

The stairs were steep and creaking, the banister loose. At the top there was a small landing lit by a window almost obscured on the outside by honeysuckle. On either side they found two identical bedrooms.

‘Still perfect?’

Kay caught Theo looking at her and grinned, unaware that her sudden happiness had made her radiant. Her previously rather severe features had become beautiful in a way which fascinated him.

She looked away first. ‘I suppose it’s too much to hope that there is a bathroom?’ Practicalities had a way of bringing one back down to earth.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Believe it or not, there is. At the back. The old boy probably kept coal in the bath.’

‘Then I shall have a supply of fuel.’ Turning, she stepped back on to the landing and stopped in surprise. A small brown dog was sitting at the top of the stairs.

‘Hello.’ She stooped and held out her hand.

‘Who are you talking to?’ Theo appeared in the doorway.

‘The dog.’ She glanced up.

‘What dog?’

‘That one.’ She turned back. The dog had disappeared. ‘He must have run back downstairs. We left the front door open.’ The fresh air had certainly improved the feel of the place. The mustiness had gone and she could smell the roses and mock orange from the front garden.

The bathroom proved an almost pleasant surprise. Not modern certainly, but not too squalid either. If water and electricity could be coaxed back into the property the place was definitely viable.

They stopped off on the way back to have a sandwich in a thatched pub. Sitting at the table in the garden she glanced at her companion. ‘You must think I’m mad to make an offer for a house like that.’

He returned her look with a quizzical smile. ‘Mildly dotty, certainly. But I keep telling myself that the customer is always right.’

‘I’m running away.’

‘I assumed you weren’t trying to hit the high spots.’

‘A relationship on the rocks. There was quite a lot of heartbreak and a bit of publicity.’

He smiled again. She liked the way he did it, mostly with his eyes. ‘That’s tough. Well, I doubt if anyone will find you here.’

‘I don’t really think anyone will try. It’s all over. But I need some space.’

‘You’ll get that. There’s an acre of garden we never even looked at.’

She nodded. ‘An acre of nettles and brambles if we’re honest?’ When they laughed together she knew she was already beginning to heal.

It was ridiculously easy to buy the place. She didn’t bother with a survey and her first, unbelievably low offer was accepted by Alice Cross, the old lady to whom the cottage had been left. Expecting to have to haggle for it, Kay was stunned that the only condition of the sale was that she should love it the way ‘old Harry’ had loved it. And take care of Barney.

Barney, after due enquiry, turned out to be a dog. A small brown dog. She liked dogs so she agreed. The only problem was that since that first sighting there had been no sign of Barney anywhere. No one in the village seemed to know anything about him. Alice merely shrugged when asked and said he would turn up.

Kay moved in two months after she had first seen the cottage, complete with a bag of dog biscuits for Barney should he appear, and with some trepidation invited Theo for a drink to celebrate. He was, after all, the only person she knew in the area. He came and stayed for lunch. By the time he left she knew he was unattached and even nicer than she had remembered. And no longer infuriating.

Two days later he returned with a strimmer and a saw. The next weekend he brought wine, a couple of pasties and a bunch of roses.

On the Saturday after that they saw Barney again. She and Theo were standing just inside the front door. The dog was exactly where she had seen him before at the top of the stairs. By now the cottage was clean, sparsely but attractively furnished with the few things she had retrieved from her disintegrated past. She had gone round the place with a pot of white paint and had covered a multitude of sins with pictures and strategically placed pot-plants. It felt more like home than anywhere else she had ever lived.