Sands of Time

  She peered down, expecting to hear the echo of footsteps running up the metal steps. There was nothing. Far away, on the main road she heard a car engine rev away into the distance.

  Straining her eyes into the darkness ahead of her she gripped the handrail and put her foot on the first step.

  Mary, for pity’s sake, my darling, listen.

  The words were caught by the wind and whisked away over the tracks and into the darkness.

  She gripped the handrail more tightly and moved down another step.

  The door to the Station Hotel banged in the wind and the sound of music escaped into the night. Mary had stood there for only a second, staring into the smoky bar, looking round, but she had seen him at once, his arm around the red-haired girl. For a moment she stared. Very few bothered to turn to look, fewer had noticed the expressions which crossed her face in quick succession. Shock. Disbelief. Anger. Misery. And then that final despair as her husband raised his hand to a titian ringlet and, laughing, wound it around his finger. Mary made no sound. In that split second when her world spun and came apart she was silent. And he heard the silence. His hand fell from the girl’s cheek and he turned slowly towards the door.

  For a long seemingly endless second husband and wife stared at one another and he read in her eyes what he had done.

  Mary! Sweetheart! Wait!

  He slid from his bar stool and began to move towards the door. But his limbs wouldn’t move fast enough. He felt as though he were swimming through the smoky air, the noise, the laughter.

  Mary, wait!

  The girl with the red hair tossed her curls and turned back to the bar. The married ones were the most fun. Their reluctance before, their guilt afterwards, made them more exciting. But what matter. There were plenty more fish in the sea …

  Mary!

  He had seen it in her eyes. Her love for him had been total. Complete. With a careless, meaningless flirtation, he had destroyed everything.

  Mary!

  He stood outside in the wind, staring round as the swinging door closed and cut off the smoky lamplight leaving him in the dark. And then he saw her running towards the bridge and in a flash he knew what she was going to do.

  Mary, no! His voice broke as he started to run. Mary, my darling, please, you must wait!

  He saw the swirling white of her petticoats below her coat as she ran towards the bridge, even as he heard faintly the hollow rumble of the train as it started across the viaduct in the distance, puffing purposefully towards the station.

  Chloë stopped halfway down the steps, clutching the rail with both hands. Her briefcase fell, teetered beside her for a moment on the step, began to rock and slowly slid out of sight. She did not notice it had gone. She too now, could hear the train wheels rattling hollowly in the distance.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No.’

  Suddenly the footsteps were behind her, running. Clenching her teeth against a rising scream Chloë forced herself to take another step down. She could hear the train getting closer, the clackety-clack of the wheels on solid ground now, the sound of the steam coming in powerful rapid gusts.

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs she stood for a moment staring round into the dark. The platform was lit by one faint lamp near the small entrance, beyond which lay the car park. She felt the ground beneath her feet shake as the train drew in with screaming brakes.

  Clapping her hands over her ears she stared at it in horror. The windows were welcoming, warm behind her. The train seemed empty. She heard a single door bang. Then silently it began to draw away from the platform. Under the tall fluorescent lights she could see it clearly now. An ordinary four-carriage train. There was no engine. Certainly no steam engine.

  Behind her she could hear the footsteps again. ‘I’m going mad!’ She groped at her feet for her briefcase, swung it up and turned towards the entrance.

  ‘Hello there!’ The cheerful voice from the top of the flight stopped her dead. ‘I didn’t see you on the train. How was your day in London?’ He was running down towards her now. Miles Rowton, his own briefcase grasped firmly in his left hand, his right lightly skimming the handrail. At the bottom he stopped and she saw his cheerful smile turn to a look of concern.

  ‘I say, are you all right? You didn’t fall?’ His hand was on her arm. ‘What’s wrong? Can I do anything?’

  Numbly Chloë shook her head. ‘It’s so silly,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what happened …’

  She stared at him, her eyes on his for several seconds as though trying to convince herself that he was real, then reluctantly she looked back up at the bridge. ‘She was running. I was sure she was going to throw herself in front of the train … I could hear her – hear him – following. I heard the train braking.’

  His arm was round her shoulders now, supporting and consoling, his own briefcase beside hers on the wet ground. ‘Mrs Denver – Chloë – what are you talking about? There’s no one there. Look for yourself. The platform is empty. The train has gone. No one is hurt.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Confused, she was clinging to him.

  ‘I’m sure.’ He rather liked her helplessness. Always when he had seen her before, in the distance, she had seemed so calmly confident, so much in total control of herself he had felt a little in awe of her.

  A similar thought had obviously occurred to her. He could feel her self-consciousness returning as she realised she was standing on the platform more or less in the arms of a man she hardly knew. She stiffened and then slowly she pushed him away.

  ‘I’m … I’m sorry. I must have imagined it. I don’t quite know what happened.’

  He smiled down at her. ‘One’s eyes and ears sometimes play tricks when one is tired, especially in the dark like this. Let me walk with you to your car.’ He had let go of her arm when she pushed him away, so now he stooped and picked up both their cases. Sensing that she was just about enough recovered to object he moved ahead of her under the small 1970s ugly brick entrance arch and out into the car park where his car was parked next to hers.

  When they reached the cars she stopped and stared at the dark silhouette of the deserted hotel. ‘When did this place close down, do you know?’

  He followed her gaze and shrugged. ‘A long time ago, judging by the shape it’s in.’

  She did not tell him she had seen it with lights pouring out of the open door, that she had heard music from one of the bars as the wind carried the noise of talk and laughter up to her on the bridge.

  With a smile at him and a few polite words of thanks she climbed into her car and let him close the door on her as with a hand which she found was shaking slightly she inserted the key in the ignition and switched it on. As the headlights came on, illuminating the ruined building behind its wire fence, the sleeping pigeons on the roof moved restlessly, complaining quietly to themselves before settling once more to their roost.

  She gripped the wheel and closed her eyes. When she opened them again his car was drawing backwards away from her. With a small polite toot on his horn he swung the car away and in a moment he had gone, his red tail lights vanishing into the lane.

  ‘Mary.’ She murmured the name as she peered at the dark, gaping windows. ‘What happened?’

  There was no answer. As she engaged the reverse gear, her eyes were still on the broken windows and sagging door and it was slowly and almost reluctantly that she pulled away and turned out into the lane herself.

  The cats were surprisingly forgiving. Perhaps sensing something of her melancholy they settled down, after wolfing down their supper, one on either side of her, as she sat curled up on the sofa in front of the open fire.

  She sipped at her mug of coffee staring at the glowing logs.

  Mary.

  The man’s anguished voice echoed in her ears and she shivered as she stared down at the heap of papers and sketches on the floor beside her. She had two reports to read and a whole heap of notes which should be written up before tomorrow. When, by ri
ghts, she should go up to town again. She sighed, one hand playing gently with a pair of silky pointed ears.

  The sound of the phone made her jump. She reached for it over the arm of the sofa carefully, anxious not to upset feline equilibrium.

  ‘Mrs Denver? Chloë? It’s Miles Rowton. Forgive me. I just wanted to make sure you had got home safely. I felt very guilty after I left you that I hadn’t offered to drive you – ’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Her voice was sharper than she intended. ‘I’m perfectly all right.’ The cat beside her stood up, stretched, and curled round more comfortably. It knew about telephones. People sat satisfactorily still for hours once they had a receiver in their hand. Chloë smiled to herself, understanding its body language. How wrong it was on this occasion. ‘I’m sorry. That sounds so ungrateful.’ Her voice had softened. ‘I’m not sure what happened to me. As you said, probably tiredness and too late at work. I started hearing voices, of all things!’

  Mary, wait!

  ‘I thought for a moment I must be going mad, and then I suppose I slipped on those stairs – ’

  ‘They are slippery.’ He paused, not knowing quite how to continue the conversation. ‘Well, if you are sure you’re all right – ’

  ‘I am.’ She hesitated. ‘Thank you, Miles. I appreciate you phoning. It is a bit bleak coming back here on my own sometimes.’ She needn’t have said that. ‘Particularly if one has reason to doubt one’s sanity.’ The lightness of her laugh reassured him.

  ‘I’m sure you’re perfectly sane,’ he said gallantly. ‘But look, if you are worried at all, or you need anything, don’t hesitate to give me a ring. I didn’t realise that you were on your own.’ Liar. The whole village gossiped about Chloë Denver whose husband had run off with another woman. They all liked her well enough, and were sorry for her in their way. They had seemed such a devoted couple. But she sort of half commuted to London, which made her an outsider, and she kept her grief or her relief – for who knew how she really felt about her husband’s departure – to herself.

  ‘Are you going up to town again tomorrow?’ he asked suddenly.

  She shrugged and then realised he couldn’t see the gesture. ‘I’m not sure. I should be in theory, but – ’

  Mary, please, my darling.

  She grimaced, her knuckles whitening on the phone. He misunderstood her hesitation. ‘I know. In this weather it’s grim, isn’t it? You are lucky not having to go regularly.’

  ‘How do you know I don’t go regularly?’ She was intrigued by the comment and a touch of amusement showed in her voice.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t. I suppose I assumed I would have seen you at the station before if you did.’

  ‘That’s probably true.’ The cat stretched luxuriously, secure that the conversation was well under way.

  ‘So you will ring me if you need anything?’

  ‘Yes, I will. Thank you.’

  ‘Chloë –’ He was anxious not to end the conversation. His own life was unbearably lonely. Moving to a new area had seemed sensible after his wife died. Now he knew it had been madness. ‘The voices. What did they say?’

  She laughed. ‘Aren’t the voices in people’s heads confidential?’

  ‘It depends. If they are internal voices, voices from God, then yes, perhaps they are. But if they are external, real voices, then perhaps not.’

  ‘What do you mean, real voices?’ She couldn’t tell him she was still hearing them. The voice did not sound like God to her. It sounded like a desperate young man with a local accent.

  ‘Ghosts?’

  The icy shudder which swept over her body was totally involuntary. For a moment she couldn’t say a word.

  ‘Chloë, are you there? I was only joking.’

  ‘The trouble is –’ She found there were tears in her eyes, ‘I think that you might be right.’ This was mad. She was letting him wind her up. ‘Look, Miles. Thank you for ringing, but I’ve actually got quite a lot of work to do tonight. Perhaps we can talk about this some other time?’

  She didn’t work though. After she had hung up, all too aware of the disappointment behind his apologies for having taken up her time, she sat for a long while gazing into the fire. She was wondering what his name was, Mary’s young man, and what he had done to make her threaten to throw herself under a train. She thought she could probably guess.

  She had felt like killing herself when she first found out about Edmund’s affair. Only it wasn’t just an affair. It turned out that it was the great love of his life and it was she who had been the mistake. She stroked a silken purring tummy gently and was rewarded by an ecstatic stretch. Was that why she had heard the voices? Because she understood?

  It was very late when she at last went to bed and, exhausted, she slept dreamlessly, aware of two small solid bodies curled up on her duvet. It was only at dawn that they awoke and crept out into the garden to create mayhem amongst the birds, leaving her to turn restlessly over and bury her face in the pillow.

  She did not go to London. Partly because her reports were not written, her sketches not finished, partly because, she had to admit, she did not want to go near the station. It was the perfect autumn day, warm, glowing, the air sweet with berries and nuts and damp leaf mould beneath the trees. She took her lap top and her phone out to the small summer house in the back garden with all her books and papers and she spent the morning there engrossed in her work.

  Miles had been standing there for several minutes before she looked up and saw him. Instead of his city suit he was wearing an open-necked shirt and a heavy knitted sweater. He smiled apologetically. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  She stretched her arms above her head and switched off the lap top. ‘You haven’t. You have rescued me from all my good resolutions.’

  ‘I too work at home sometimes.’ His eyes were silvery grey, startlingly alert in his tanned face. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed how good-looking he was. ‘In fact in about three weeks’ time I shall be giving up the day job altogether, so I thought today was too good to spend on the eight-fifteen. I did go to the station though.’

  ‘Oh?’ In the orchard a light breeze had got up and she felt a small shiver tiptoe across her shoulders.

  ‘I wanted to get a good look at that old hotel in daylight. Normally in the morning when I go for the train I’m comatose.’ He grinned. ‘It was a beautiful building once. I asked Peter at the ticket office what he knew about it. He said if I wanted to know I should go and see the old father of one of his colleagues whose own father was on the railway before him apparently and he can recall all sorts of stories about the station in the early days.’

  The wind had grown stronger and she was shivering. ‘And did you go?’

  ‘I thought you might like to come with me.’

  Mary wait for me.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to know.’

  She led the way into the kitchen and brought a bottle of wine out of the fridge. ‘Her name was Mary. She threw herself under a train. He was running after her. Trying to save her.’ She shook her hair back out of her eyes and he saw the glint of tears.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I don’t really. It sort of fits.’ Behind her one of the cats had come in from its hunting. It was sitting on the dresser carefully washing its face with its left paw. He accepted a glass of wine and stared round. The kitchen was pretty, attractive, cosy. All the things his own was not. ‘If you don’t want to come I’ll go and see him on my own. I’m just curious about what happened. I won’t tell you if you would rather not.’

  She smiled. ‘I don’t think I would be able to contain my curiosity. I’ll come. If I don’t I won’t be able to stop thinking about her.’

  Or get his voice out of my head.

  Jim Maxell was ninety-four. His memory was as clear as crystal. But he shook his head at their request. ‘People have jumped, of course. But not a young woman. Not as far as I recall. The Station Hotel closed in nineteen fifty-four.
It sort of went down hill, became less and less popular because the line was used less and less then when they closed the maltings up the lane that was the end of it. It used to be packed before the last war. Village people used to take the train in to market and then come back with money in their pockets. I can remember it just as you described it, love, noisy, smoky, the lamp-light spilling out across the pavement. There were quarrels a plenty.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘I can remember many a woman fetching her man a slap across the face for one reason or another – and vice versa!’

  And with that they had to be content.

  Over a ploughman’s in the pub in the village Chloë and Miles discovered they had more than an interest in a possible rail tragedy in common. Both alone, both in their own way bereaved, they felt their way cautiously forward: music, painting, books, gardening, cats. Exchanging a shy glance of complicity as they decided to consult the old newspapers in the library they even found they shared a taste for the death by chocolate pudding which was the pub’s speciality. And they were both, did they but realise it, now the centre of the village’s latest and hottest gossip.

  The town’s modern library had the local paper on microfiche. Without names or dates it was not going to be easy to find out the truth – if there was a truth – behind the story. And secretly neither wanted to, not too soon. Further visits to the library would, after all, inevitably require further visits to small local restaurants to fuel the energy needed for research.

  But before they could do that Chloë had to visit London again.

  She promised him that she would tell him when she went, but something stopped her. The phone call from her largest client had come quite late. They needed the sketches the next day and the sketches were ready; there was no need to spend more time on them. All she needed to do was deliver them herself. Promising to be there by ten she sat on the sofa staring at the fire. Outside it was raining again. The wind had risen and she could hear the branches of the trees thrashing in the wind. The two cats were coiled together, yin and yang, in the old armchair that Edmund used to consider his own. She stared at them, remembering how they would vie for the favoured place on his knee and every night compromise in a love knot just like the one which they had made tonight. And like tonight excluding her.