Home for Christmas (46 page)

He shook his head. ‘Mind you, it ain’t far to walk.’

‘I remember it not being too far, but it’s my little girl you see. Her legs are getting tired. Isn’t that right, my little sugar plum?’

Olivia stopped dancing. ‘If I walk slowly I’ll be all right. It’s just that my feet keep dancing even when my legs don’t want them to.’

Robert had made the decision not to hire a chauffeur unless he really needed one, though Agnes insisted she could do the job far better than any man could. He’d had to remind her that she was now a married woman and her husband might not wish her to drive. Besides that, she was expecting their first child, and anyway, he quite liked driving himself.

The journey from Heathlands was short and the snow had melted thanks to the watery rays of a midday sun. The train from London had just pulled in. This same train would be turned around, the locomotive unfastening from its carriages, puffing its way down to the turntable, a vast circular plate on which it would stand whilst being turned to face the opposite direction.

Robert had always been fascinated by locomotives, big brutish things made of iron and steel, snorting steam like some latter-day dragon. The locomotive was in the process of being reconnected, enveloped in clouds of steam as it eased itself into position.

Wonderful stuff, he thought to himself, and grinned; that was before the iron beast gave a creaking roar before seeming to settle into itself, hissing like a snake.

Lydia came out of the lavatories clutching her daughter’s hand, and made her way outside. At last Olivia’s dancing feet had agreed with her dancing legs. She was flagging badly, asking to be picked up when in all honesty she was too big to be picked up.

‘Darling, you’re a big girl now. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to walk, unless we can get a lift … Oh my!’

She said it softly, but Olivia heard.

‘Is it Santa Claus?’ Olivia piped up.

Lydia couldn’t speak. Her mouth was dry.

Or it could be that her father had managed to get through on the telephone. She had told him she didn’t want anyone upset, but ultimately he would do what he thought was best for her whether she wanted it or not. What am I doing here, she said to herself. Her father had thought it a good idea. She’d thought it too, but now she was here, now she was looking at the car she knew the chauffeur used to drive, her courage melted. The car was here to collect someone or had dropped somebody off. The chauffeur was probably back there on the platform waiting for somebody to arrive. Yes, it had to be somebody arriving, perhaps not on this train. Perhaps on the one from Oxford. That had to be it. If he’d been dropping Robert or somebody else off, the car would already have left, the chauffeur driving off by himself. But it wasn’t. It was parked here.

Her courage failed her. ‘Let’s go back on the train,’ she said to Olivia.

Olivia began to cry. ‘What about Santa Claus? You said he lived in a big house and we were going to see the big house.’

‘Not today, Olivia. I don’t think he’s home.’ Her voice faltered. Her courage was failing her. Her father had assured her that Robert still cared for her, but it had been so long … four long years …

Lydia marched quickly back on to the platform, almost dragging Olivia behind her, she was protesting that much.

Finally exasperated that her daughter was making so much noise, Lydia bent down, turned the little girl to face her and attempted to make her understand.

‘Olivia, darling. We have had a lovely train ride, and now it’s time to go home.’

‘No!’ The little girl had the same adamant jut to her chin as Lydia had once had. Her mother recognised it as such and knew immediately that she wasn’t going to win this argument, not without a great deal of fuss and tears.

She glanced through the arched entrance to the platform.

‘All right,’ she said softly, stroking her daughter’s face and wondering at her wilfulness. ‘We’ll walk and I’ll show you the lake. Would you like that?’

Yes, of course her daughter would like that. And all you’ve got to do is find your way there, she reminded herself. You got lost there once before. Remember?

The fireman on the 2.15 back to Paddington shook his head as he wiped his dirty hands with a cloth that was almost as dirty.

‘No chance. The firebox is busted. Somebody let the fire go out, stupid sod! Then heaped in the coal and got it red hot quick as you like instead of taking it slow. There’s a crack a mile wide in the firebox. That’s it and all about it.’

The driver swiped at his greasy black brow, muttered a curse and tilted his hat further back on his head. Swinging himself down from the cab, he stood at the side of his engine waiting for the stationmaster.

The stationmaster was far from pleased. ‘Good job there’s not too many passengers, but everyone is going to ’ave to be informed. Who’s the bloody idiot who broke the bloody firebox?’

‘Bad language won’t get you anywhere fast,’ said the driver, whose own bad language could be pretty colourful at times. Turning his back on the stationmaster, he swung himself back up into his cab.

The stationmaster had been contemplating making a cup of tea then sitting down with his newspaper and a packet of Rich Tea biscuits. Seemed that part of his afternoon was to be put on hold. The only passenger waiting to board had been hanging around at the end of the platform, studying with interest the mighty steam engine and the turntable at the far end of the rails.

He heaved a big sigh. The tea, biscuits and newspaper would have to wait. First things first, inform the solitary passenger, the only one he could see hanging about on the platform, that the train wasn’t going anywhere. He’d have to wait for the next one. He looked for the young woman with the little girl, but couldn’t see them. They’d obviously walked to where they wanted to go.

‘Excuse me, Sir.’

The tall man whom he’d noticed had walked with a limp when he’d bought his ticket, turned round. If this man hadn’t been an officer during the war, then I’ll eat my hat he thought to himself. His face looked vaguely familiar, but then he’d seen so many faces passing through these latter years.

‘Sorry, Sir, but the service to London is delayed. A technical problem you might say.’

Robert nodded. He’d been totally absorbed in watching the locomotive going through its paces, slowing and then finally stopping before it had properly linked up with its carriages. It was also then, just towards the end of that manoeuvre, that he’d felt something – something of a premonition as though somebody had tapped him on the shoulder, urging him to turn round.

The feeling was fleeting and when he actually did turn round, he wasn’t surprised to find himself alone. He was getting used to being alone, but also of hoping and dreaming that the past had never happened and Lydia was still alive.

‘That’s it for today, then?’ he asked, pulling the brim of his hat forward.

‘Until 3.15, Sir. That’s if we can get this locomotive out of the way.’

Robert grunted. ‘Is it likely to take long?’

The stationmaster shook his head. ‘I couldn’t say, Sir. But if you would like to wait … I could supply you with a cup of tea and a biscuit.’

His eyebrows rose questioningly, his eyes wide and glassy. It wasn’t often he invited anyone in to take tea in his comfy little office, but now and again he felt a need for good company. This gentleman looked a likely contender.

The atmosphere in the stationmaster’s officer was congenial and warm by virtue of a glowing coal fire. A copper kettle of indeterminate age and myriad dents sounded as though it were chortling with mirth as the water boiled.

‘I’ll let it mash,’ said the stationmaster as he poured on water then stirred the contents of a big brown pot.

They talked generally whilst waiting for the tea, the subject always coming back to the war and what each of them had done in it.

‘I was reserved occupation of course,’ said the stationmaster. ‘Had to keep the trains running, didn’t we?’

‘Of course you did.’

‘In the trenches were you?’

‘No. Flying through the air.’

The stationmaster adopted the look of utter amazement that Robert had become used to. Some people could still not quite believe that a man could fly through the sky like a bird – or an angel.

‘It’s wonderful times we live in,’ remarked the stationmaster, shaking his head in amazement. ‘Can’t say I fancy the idea meself. A bit too dangerous for me. Hats off to you though. Can’t ’ave been easy.’

‘It wasn’t. I was shot down a couple of times. I won’t ever be able to run a race, but I can still walk. I’m grateful for that.’

The sun suddenly came out, filling the room with light and extra warmth. Robert eyed the view from the window. The station was small and surrounded by rolling fields and bare trees. Although not looking their best at this time of year, he thought how beautiful their bare branches seemed. Here and there the snow had buried into crevices in the trees’ trunks.

‘It is nice around here,’ he said softly to himself.

‘It is that, Sir. Never found a better place,’ echoed the stationmaster.

Robert fell to silence. The steam engine was silent. There was no sound from the driver and his fireman, the latter whose job it was to feed the fire with shovelfuls of Welsh steam coal.

‘You can almost hear a pin drop,’ said the old stationmaster.

He wasn’t to know it, but his comment was in tune with what Robert had been thinking. It was so peaceful here and what exactly was there in London? Nothing. All he would do in London was visit old haunts and those friends that were still alive. He would also have visited Doctor Miller and together they would have discussed Lydia – but that, he realised, was like opening up an old wound. He could now understand why Lydia’s father never mentioned her mother, had no memento of her in the house, and had avoided celebrating his daughter’s birthday, which was also the day his dear wife had died. It was best to forget, to live with the memory but not wear it on one’s shoulder.

‘I think I’ll forgo that trip to London.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I think there’s snow in the air.’

After thanking the stationmaster for the tea, he went outside and looked around him, taking big lungsful of air as he did so.

The truth hit him that he belonged here in this tranquil place where the grass was still green and muddy fields were only that way when they were under the plough, not churned up by shell fire or the tracks of that other new weapon of war, the tank.

The muffled bell of a telephone in the stationmaster’s office suddenly disturbed the calm.

He heard somebody call out.

‘Sir! There’s a telephone call for you.’

He turned to see the stationmaster waving at him.

He didn’t bother to ask who it was for. He could guess. There were few telephones in the area. The stationmaster had one, so did the local doctor. Heathlands had the other. He wondered who it was and what they might want. He should have been on the train by now, so how did they know they could reach him?

He took the telephone from the stationmaster.

‘Sir!’ Quartermaster always sounded out of breath even though his duties were far lighter than in the past. He’d specifically left his sister’s and retirement because he was bored. However, it hadn’t occurred to him that he wasn’t so fit as he was. Quartermaster was an old dog who wouldn’t lie down.

‘What is it?’ Robert asked.

‘Miss Lydia, Sir. Doctor Miller rang to say she caught the train and should be there with you now. Doctor Miller’s telephone has been out of order for a while. He’s been trying all day to get in touch with you.’

Robert felt as though a clapper from a monstrous bell was banging around in his head. Had he really heard what he thought he’d heard? Was he going mad? Surely Quartermaster was wrong. He couldn’t really mean Lydia – could he?

‘Sir? Are you still there?’

The telephone with its speaking device was fixed to the wall. The earpiece hung limply in Robert’s hand.

A voice in his head told him to pull himself together. He asked Quartermaster to repeat what he had said.

‘You say she’s here? She’s alive? Is she alone?’

It wouldn’t have surprised him if she wasn’t alone, perhaps with a new man in her life. It had been so long.

‘With a child, Sir. A little girl. I believe her name is Olivia and she is just coming up to four years old.’

Robert let the speaking device fall, clutching it to his chest as he attempted to collect himself.

He addressed the stationmaster. ‘Did you see a young woman with a small child alighting from the London train?’

The stationmaster reached under his cap and scratched his head. ‘Yes, I did. She asked about a taxi and I told her there weren’t none. Don’t know where she went though. Set off in that direction she did. Walking I should think.’

Robert dashed to his car. Perhaps he might meet her on the road, or perhaps she might make it to Heathlands by the time he got back.

His thoughts reeling, he turned the nose of the car towards home. ‘Please don’t let this be a dream,’ he said to himself. ‘Let it be real. Let Lydia be alive.’

And the child? Olivia, Quartermaster had said. Her name was Olivia.

The sun was shining bravely through the trees and although most of the snow had melted, it still clung in dirty heaps to the edge of the drive.

Lydia had planned to walk up the long drive to the front door, knock lustily and beam broadly at the sight of a host of surprised faces. It was the only plan she could think of, in fact not really a plan at all. She was too apprehensive for a proper plan; too much emotion was involved.

As it turned out, the feeble plan came to nothing thanks to Olivia who had skipped in and out of the trees bordering the drive. A squirrel, out to top up his winter food, descended from his home high up in a beech tree and ran towards the lake.

Olivia ran after it, calling loudly to it.

‘Olivia! Come back!’

Lydia ran after her. At one point she slipped and stumbled on the icy grass. By the time she’d righted herself, Olivia was out of sight.

Through a sudden gap in the trees, she saw a flash of sunlight on water. Water was a magnet for all children. Lydia only hoped her strong-minded daughter wouldn’t come across a patch of frozen water and presume she could walk on it.