The Last Dance (6 page)

Stella walked with purpose towards the ticket barrier at the gate to platform five without giving herself an opportunity to reconsider. The ticket inspector looked smart in his dark three-piece suit and gold Southern Railways emblem on his lapel. She handed him her ticket.

‘Cheer up, Miss. It might never happen,’ he joked.

She smiled weakly as he punched a second hole through it, a slightly different shape this time.

‘There you go, Miss. Enjoy your journey.’

She watched the guard blow his whistle and wave his flag. Obediently the Hastings-bound train grunted, jerked and then with a soft squeal eased with a gentle shunt out of Charing Cross Station, smoke billowing around them.

Immediately they crossed the Thames and Stella worked out they were on the Hungerford Bridge. Now with her attention engaged she gazed out of the windows for a distant sighting of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament.

Goodbye, London
, she thought and was surprised to feel no angst. She thought she might experience a wave of regret but in this moment the intense grief of the last month was fading, as familiar sights of London were left behind.

Stella smiled to herself; suddenly the decision to work away from London felt right. It seemed like a pathway was opening and with it a fresh mindset for a new life.

The train’s soothing rhythm appeared to be encouraging two people in the carriage to have a snooze already, but Stella had remained alert from nervous sucking on a penny’s worth of rainbow drops she’d thrown into her bag. The carriage wasn’t crowded but she looked away from the lacquered wood and small framed posters in the compartment urging her to take a Nightboat Train to France. It sounded mysterious and the perfect escape from her troubles but travelling the continent seemed well beyond her reach. Right now Kent was her destination and given that she’d spent most of her life in London, this journey could be considered exotic, surely?

Looking out at the increasingly rural landscape, she ignored her newspaper and eased another sweet into her mouth. Yesterday she’d also bought a block of Cadbury’s Milk for Georgina, some tiny jellies for Grace and a box of Black Magic for their parents. The latter, by Rowntrees of York, had set her back the frightening amount of nearly two shillings, but given the generosity of the Ainsworths, she felt it important not to arrive empty-handed. Her gaze tried to lock onto one image but colours blurred as clarity dimmed and the familiar world she knew began to shimmer and hint at its new shape.

The land had changed from the grimy, built-up areas of London to more park-like lands beyond Bankside Coal Power Station. The train stopped briefly at London Bridge Station and then it really was farewell to the city as Stella gazed sentimentally at Tower Bridge and the retreating Tower of London. The train began to accelerate, it too beginning to feel free of the big city pull, and it commenced its long and steady climb through suburban London. Stella noticed that regular travellers in her compartment were already lost to books or newspapers, while she was still leaning forward and entranced by the cityscape giving way to less crowded streets.

She watched trams grinding along, while cars like shiny beetles manoeuvred around them and the old guard of horse-drawn carts continued to move at their slow pace within an ever-increasing mechanised world. She’d heard about the new-fangled electric trains servicing outer London and wondered if she would glimpse one from this higher vantage.

Her train was gathering more speed and the man reading the newspaper was now only pretending. She could see his jaw relax as he drifted to sleep but she was still alert as they sped through stations without stopping. The names of Hither Green, Grove Park and Elmstead Woods moved by her gaze.

Stella had to admit her shoulders were beginning to relax and she sensed she was secretly escaping her duty to grieve.

‘It will be worth the tears,’ she promised in a whisper to the glass she stared through, watching her breath condense against the cold pane. Sitting back, she was glad that the fellow opposite in his tawny, checked three-piece suit was fast asleep, his newspaper sprawled against his belly. He looked like a squire from the
Country Life
magazines she’d seen.

At Orpington the guard on board announced that passengers were required to close their windows to prevent smoke getting in as they were about to enter a long cutting with two tunnels. Stella wondered if she should obey the instructions as she was seated next to the window but one of the men in her compartment nodded to her that he would take care of this and gallantly ensured all the windows were sealed.

The world outside her carriage suddenly went dark as the train was gobbled up by a tunnel and Stella could see herself reflected in the window as dull black walls imprisoned them and black smoke presumably billowed between her and the scorched bricks. Suddenly all the sounds of the steam-belching snake that carried them from city to city were magnified and the dull light of the train made reading more difficult. Her fellow passengers seemed to rouse from their books or slumber, going by the change of mood, and Stella was struck, as she returned to stare at her reflection, by how changed she appeared in this strange low light. She couldn’t pinpoint why, but she just knew she looked different – sadder, somehow – despite the fresh feeling of being unburdened.

There was the briefest of respites, a few glorious moments of release as they were belched out of the first part of the cutting before they were plunged into darkness again as the second tunnel – longer this time – swallowed them.

By the time they emerged a minute later the light drizzle had miraculously stopped and achingly bright sunshine caused Stella to flinch at the sharpness. It was as though they had all just crossed some magical threshold and on this side the world was warm and painted from a sparkling palette. Even her tweedy companion opposite felt the sudden change in temperature as clouds parted and welcomed them into the area known as the garden of England, and he snorted himself awake.

The scenery had changed to verdant, with London’s tapestry of grey replaced by a brilliant green with flashes of spring flowers and yellow tractors. The guard was announcing that they would now be making stops at stations with charming names like Knockholt and Sevenoaks.

One more tunnel and they were descending joyfully through countryside so lush that Stella was sure she had forgotten just how green rural England was after so long moving through London’s drab streets. She noticed they were crossing another bridge and presumed this was to move across the River Medway that she had read about.

She eventually felt the train slow to a gentle pace as its rhythmic puffing sound lengthened and deepened. They were making their approach into Tunbridge Wells. A whistle blew distantly and a long sigh of steam was expelled as the carriage groaned and wheezed to a halt.

Doors began to open up and down the train that was painted the colour of rich brown-sage with glossy black frames and wheels. Stella nodded a silent smiling farewell at her tweedy friend who had eased down the window to push his arm through and open the door from the outside. He gestured for Stella to go first and as she stepped onto the Royal Tunbridge Wells platform one, she was engulfed by the hiss and billow of steam while the stationmaster and his team of men moved up and down the train helping people off, removing sacks of mail, special parcels and reloading whatever had to go onto Hastings.

Stella was immediately struck by the freshness of the air, entirely convinced she could smell grass, the scent of freesia . . . even taste the ocean that reminded her of visiting Cornwall once with her family. It felt instantly intoxicating. She was anticipating being met and scanned the entrance to the station. No one looked likely, but she wasn’t worried. Right now it felt so empowering to have left London far behind. Stella took a moment to breathe in that bright air as she regarded the beauty of the station building with its even red-brick façade and cream paintwork around the many small-paned windows. Its dignified appearance attested to the Georgian influences in Tunbridge Wells that she’d heard about from subsequent conversations with Suzanne Farnsworth.

‘Miss Myles?’

She hadn’t seen the man, probably only a few years younger than her father, step forward from the shadows of the station. He was not wearing a uniform but instead was dressed in a neat suit from what she could see beneath a driving coat. ‘Oh yes, hello?’

‘I’m John Potter.’ She recognised the name and smiled. ‘Welcome to Kent, Miss Myles. The Ainsworths have sent me to pick you up and take you to Harp’s End, which is not too far from Tunbridge Wells.’

‘Thank you, Mr Potter, it’s very kind of you. Do call me Stella.’

He smiled and Stella couldn’t help but like him immediately for the way his pleasure at her invitation sparkled in his eyes. ‘I’ll do that,’ he said, and then he winked in an avuncular way and she was instantly sold. ‘So you must call me John. Very glad to meet you, Stella.’ He held out a gloved hand and was careful to shake hers gently. ‘Here, let me take all that for you.’

‘Oh . . . there’s a box of —’

‘I’ll be careful,’ he promised. ‘This way. Just hand your ticket to the man over there.’ He nodded towards him. ‘Morning, George.’

‘Hello, Potty. Good morning, Miss. Welcome to Royal Tunbridge Wells.’

‘Everyone is so friendly,’ she remarked, showing her ticket that he clipped for her.

‘Keep that safe now for your return journey.’

She smiled thanks. ‘I’m Stella Myles,’ she said, guessing it was appropriate to introduce herself to this friendly stranger.

George touched his cap.

‘Stella’s the new governess for the Ainsworths,’ Potter added.

‘Oh well, good for you, Miss Stella. You’ll never want to leave here now, though,’ he warned with warm affection for his town.

‘I know I’m going to love it,’ she replied, ‘but I have family in London so you may see me coming and going, George.’

‘So long as you always return and bring your beauty back to Kent, I’ll be here to see you safely on and off the train.’

She chuckled. ‘What a flirt you are!’

Both men laughed, lifted hands in farewell and John motioned for her to follow him. ‘We have to go up these stairs. Here, let me take that extra bag. Do you know much about Tunbridge Wells, Stella?’

‘Too little, I’m afraid.’

They emerged onto the main street and she looked left, up the steep hill, enchanted by the elegant little shops that lined it and turned into housing, she presumed.

‘This is Mount Pleasant Road,’ Potter explained.

‘It certainly suits its name,’ she said, revolving to take in the clock tower and the pretty façade of the railway station.

He could tell she was keen to get her bearings. ‘Well, now, behind us is the Lonsdale Mansions – that’s a private hotel. In the distance that’s Holy Trinity Church. Here we are,’ he said, gesturing to a magnificent silver-grey car. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d like the hood down. Women do not like their hairstyles being blown too hard, although it’s a perfect day for going topless,’ he said with a wink. ‘But I took the precaution of keeping the hood on.’

She stared with disbelief that this was all laid on for her. Potter reached for the back door.

‘Here, let’s get you settled and then I can load —’

‘Do you mind very much if I ride in front with you, John? I’m not used to all this special treatment.’

He smiled broadly again. ‘Of course. It would be a pleasure.’ He opened the front passenger door and soon enough joined her in the cab, pulling on his driving gloves.

‘What a splendid car,’ Stella said, running a hand across the soft crimson leather.

‘She’s a beauty, this Daimler. It’s been in the family since before the Great War.’ He gave a honk to someone passing by, who lifted a hand in salutation, and then he gently eased the car down the hill. ‘The Pantiles are over there,’ he said, pointing. ‘They’re tiled colonnades that lead from the chalybeate spring that’s situated on this end closest to us. People have been visiting here to dip in the waters since the 1600s, including several royals, and it’s why the town boasts that title.’

She could hear the pride in his voice. ‘Chalybeate?’

‘They’re mineral springs with salts of iron and people have long believed they have properties to promote good health.’

She recalled her conversation with Rafe and sharing her secret of the tearooms near a spa. Life was strange. ‘Have you tried it?’

He cut her a grin. ‘No, even though I’ve lived in Kent all my life but then I have to tell you that the whole Weald is a healthy region. Not like Londoners – all pasty and grey. Not you, of course, Miss Myles.’

‘I must say the air feels clean. I swear I can taste the beach.’

‘You can. Brighton is about twenty-seven miles as the crow flies but on certain days that breeze will bring the salty English Channel right to our front door. I know you’d probably like to have a nose around but I think I’d better get you to the house first, so you can settle in.’

The township was already behind them, she noticed, but she had an impression of it spreading over the length of a hill that they were descending down to the colonnades that he spoke of. ‘Of course, there’s plenty of time to get to know these streets. Is there a good bookshop?’

‘Oh, my word, yes, several. And Hall’s Bookshop, a wonderful spot for antiquarian books. I’ll give you directions. Mr Ainsworth when he’s home always finds excuses for me to drop him off in town and have a couple of hours’ rummaging at Hall’s and he almost always returns with a couple of second-hand books, some quite rare.’

‘How long have you worked for the Ainsworths, John?’

He signalled he was turning left out of the High Street by sticking his arm out of the open window and turning his hand in the air. ‘Ooh now, that’s a question. Let me see, has to be nearly seventeen years now. We’re just leaving the main town now and heading out on the London Road.’

‘So you’ve known the two girls since they were born.’

‘Indeed. I used to drive Mrs Ainsworth around when she was pregnant with Miss Georgina.’