Laura tilted back her head and closed her eyes. Until now she had not felt it was truly over. They had parted without saying goodbye. How could they have, with Dolly and her confounded congregation of parcels plumping down between them at the last minute? But now, in the quiet of the tearoom it felt finally over. With the closing of its door the memory would be sealed inside forever.
Across the room, Beryl set the scuttle down with a bang.
Laura's eyes snapped open, wide and brown. She pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose in an annoyed fashion. Gathering the parcel and book, she opened the waiting room door and propped it with her foot. The bright empty room with its familiar window table now seemed like any other. In the distance the whistle of the five forty-three sounded, and Laura let the door swing shut.
Once Dolly's parcels were safely loaded on to the luggage rack, Laura smoothed the seat of her coat and took a window seat. Spread across the centre of the carriage, Dolly prattled. Tony had been ill, Derry and Toms were having a sale, she still hadn't found a replacement for Phyllis. Laura nodded amiably and sympathised without hearing a word.
With a push of steam and a lurch the train moved forward and began to pick up speed. Laura cleared a patch of glass. Beyond the window, green enamel signs rolled past, posters and benches flashing by. Milford Junction sped away.
'Of course I was sorry to see her go, she was a treasure and heaven knows it's hard enough finding a replacement these days…'
They were pulling level with the underpass entrance at the end of the platform as someone – a lanky figure running awkwardly, fawn Dunn & Co raincoat flapping, trilby pulled down tight, missed the train. For a second, really just a second, the loping gait seemed so familiar, the bony hand raised to hold the hat, the long legs striding up the slope, something forlorn and lost – but the image was gone, replaced by the bare wet branches of the elms that lined the cutting.
Laura slumped back in her seat and closed her eyes. Dolly had ceased her chatter and was now pulling at a magazine wedged in her handbag.
The beat of wheels on metal, over wood, lulled Laura to sleep. There had been no-one running for the train. Beneath her body, the points switched. The train swayed, bearing her back to Ketchworth and home.
The door of the refreshment room flew open, spraying rain with it, as the figure strode across to the counter. 'I'm sorry, could you tell me, was that the Ketchworth train?'
Myrtle peered over the top of her glasses and set aside her fountain pen. Instead of setting down his trilby with a pinch of his hand, the enquirer pulled his hat tighter on to his head and refused to catch her eye.
'Indeed it was. You've only just missed it.'
The man tugged open his raincoat and pulled at a pocket. He moved oddly, as though he had been wounded. The war had done terrible things to the country's men.
'I'll have a tea please.'
'Cake or pastry?'
'Just a tea.' He still refused to catch her eye. Perhaps there was something wrong with his face. Myrtle slipped two cubes of sugar into the saucer. In the distance, thunder rumbled. Alec fumbled for money and placed two pennies on the counter. He felt the weight of the book dragging at him. After a brief moment of hesitation he withdrew it and took his tea to the window table, sitting in the opposite chair to where she had sat.
Myrtle glanced over once or twice and could tell he was writing something. There was a strange smell in the room, drawn from the damp wood in the fire.
When she next looked up, he was standing before her.
'I say, you didn't happen to see a lady in here earlier, small, brown hair, a coat with a fox-trim collar?'
'Why, yes. She just left. In here every Thursday, like as not. Catches the Ketchworth train.'
'The thing is, I have something of hers, and I wanted to give it to her. I can't – be here – again. I wonder if I could ask you a favour, seeing as she comes in each week…'
Myrtle studied the book on the counter and narrowed her eyes. 'I must say it's most irregular,' she began. 'This is not a lending library.'
'Could you give it to her? I really would be most grateful.'
'Well, all right. I'll keep it back here with my accounts. Just this once, mind.' She'd do him the favour. He didn't look well.
'It's awfully kind of you.'
He finished his tea back at the table, sipping slowly, like an invalid taking soup. When Myrtle next looked up, he had gone, splashing off through the underpass no doubt, and Beryl was clearing the crockery.
The book was a volume of Victorian poetry, awful sickly stuff, the pages bordered with faded roses. The letter was folded inside the flyleaf and addressed to Laura Jesson in scratchy, broken script, as though someone very ill had written it. Myrtle turned it over in her hands. A Billy Doo, and she was in charge of it! The urn steamed and bubbled. She looked over at Beryl.
'Get the broom, Beryl, and run it under table two. There's rice everywhere. Sweep it up.'
'Yes, Mrs Bagot.'
All very well for newlyweds, thought Myrtle, they don't have to worry about the mess, as she allowed the envelope to stray in front of the steam. It wasn't her fault that the flap popped open. Barely glued down, it had been. The letter virtually slid out by itself.
'And mind you don't miss any,' she said loudly, scanning the page.
Left Madeline behind – desperate to see you one more time – life meant nothing without you – wanted to die -
'Mrs Bagot-'
Knowing we could never be together – no other choice – wrong of me, I know – a dreadful sin to take one's own life – wanted to die thinking of you – prayed that would be the end of it – who could have known that love would prove stronger than death – now this awful pain will never end – only once we are reunited -
'Mrs Bagot-'
– love stronger than death
Beryl sounded frantic. 'Mrs Bagot, it's not rice.' She slammed her broom at the floor. 'It's maggots!'
Each swing of the train bore Laura further away from Milford Junction. Dolly Messiter tapped her on the shoulder and offered her a handkerchief. 'Are you all right?' she enquired. 'You looked as if you were having a bad dream.'
'No,' said Laura firmly. 'I just had a piece of grit in my eye, that's all.'
THE CAGES
'Look,' said Albert, 'they're beating up Mrs Tremayne.'
'She's not done anything wrong, has she?' asked Dr Figgis.
'No. Perhaps that's why they're beating her up.'
'Doesn't follow, does it? God, she's making a lot of noise.' He shouted through the bars. 'Hey, keep it down!'
'This thing's hard on my arse.' Albert fidgeted on the rungs. After a few hours they cut into your buttocks and forced you to change position. At least, that was the effect they had on Albert. He noticed that many of the others never seemed to move at all.
'There's a technique to sitting.' The doctor demonstrated, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. 'It's all a question of balance. It took me a couple of months to really get the hang of it. You've only been up here – how long?'
Albert counted on his fingers. 'Let me see, I was still in the bright yellow cages last Thursday.'
'Ah,' the doctor nodded, adding redundantly, 'Sunflower Section. This is Waterlily.'
'They must have come for me on the Friday morning, which would make it about a week.'
'There you are, then,' confirmed the doctor. 'You haven't found your sea-legs yet.'