Chapter Thirty-Six
All Aboard the Cross-Country Polar Express
Much as she could have stayed in his arms forever, Matt put Gemma away from him and she summoned a wobbly smile.
‘You’ve been a good friend to me, Gem, when I desperately needed one.’ Matt’s fingers entwined with hers, and his gaze searched her face. ‘Time for you to have some fun.’
‘Can’t wait,’ she lied.
‘But take care. I mean, be careful even in amongst your adventures.’
Gemma sniffed. ‘Obviously. I’m only going for the food.’
Matt didn’t laugh, but the edges of his mouth twitched, and Gemma held her breath as he leaned forward to press a firm kiss on her cheek. It felt as though it lasted a while, though was probably a matter of seconds, and involuntarily she raised a hand to where his lips had been.
‘WhatsApp me now and again, Gem. Let me know where your travels take you. If you decide not to come back, maybe our paths will cross somewhere out there one day.’
Emotion had such a tight grip on Gemma’s throat now, she couldn’t speak, so she merely nodded, retrieving her hands and stepping away.
Once she was in the boat, Matt untied the rope and passed it over, but he didn’t say anything further, and Gemma reversed from the jetty, eyes fastened on him.
Would fame take over his life again, just when he’d found some direction, found himself ? Would it sweep him away from those who loved him? Poor Anna, if she lost the brother she’d so recently discovered to the renewal of his career.
Would she and Matt ever meet again, or would it only ever be the odd exchange of a message about their song? Would even those dwindle over time, until she became a distant memory to him?
Memories fade like melting snow…
Gemma eased the little boat out through the gap, but as she turned it towards the cove she glanced back once more.
Matt remained on the jetty, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, and Gemma drew in a shuddering breath as she turned Last Chance for Polkerran, fighting against the searing pain in her chest.
‘It’s over,’ she hiccupped as the bridge came into sight.
She felt the pull of the kill cord and, glancing down through water-filled eyes, wished that by tugging hard on it she could sever her attachment to Matt as swiftly as it would cut the engine.
When Gemma handed over the key to Last Chance (with a silent ‘Goodbye, Elsie. Be happy, float on…’), her skin felt taut across her cheekbones, but she couldn’t tell if it was from the bitter cold or dried tears.
Shivering, she walked along the harbour, her gaze drawn to the chimneys of Westerleigh, devoid of smoke. It felt strange to know Anna wasn’t there. She’d been such a constant these last few months, had become a true friend.
The unlit lights suspended between the lamp posts swung dismally to and fro, and the Christmas tree bowed stiffly in the wind, as though taking its final hurrah. It was time to draw a line under Gemma’s time in Polkerran; and, to emphasise the point, Jean’s car pulled up beside her.
Her aunt insisted on waiting on the platform until the train came in.
‘I promised your mum I’d see you safely on board.’
Gemma gave her a big hug. ‘Thank you so much, Auntie Jay. For everything.’ Emotion rose in her breast again as she strove to suppress the sadness she felt at leaving Cornwall – and Matt – behind.
‘Now, now, my love. You’re ready to fly away. Enjoy the freedom from work. Have fun and don’t forget to post lots of photos so I can show them to Mum and Cleggie.’
Gemma waved from her seat until her aunt’s figure could no longer be seen, tears now freely coursing down her cheeks. Thankfully, the carriage was fairly empty, and she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, trying to swallow past a painful lump that had arisen in her throat days ago and seemed to be growing in size by the minute.
Burrowing into the side pocket of her rucksack, she pulled out her phone, and sent her mum a message. She replied almost instantly.
I’m worried, love. Keep your eye on the storm, it’s tracking lower
than expected.
It’s okay. I’m on my way now, all on time. See you in about six
hours. xx
A notification pinged and her foolish heart leapt, only to see it was from Nicki, wishing her safe travels and begging her to return to the cove whenever she was back in England.
Gemma popped on her earphones and leaned back in her seat, trying to get comfortable.
‘Anything from the trolley, my lovely?’
Gemma summoned a tired smile. ‘Coffee, please, milk no sugar.’
Once served, she extracted the packet her aunt had pressed on her: a blueberry muffin and a chocolate bar; and, though she had no appetite, she tore off a morsel of muffin and sipped her drink.
There was a loud businessman on his phone at the far end of the carriage, and people were exchanging eye-rolls as he bemoaned the weather and the failings of public transport. All it did was remind Gemma of the first time she’d seen Matt and how little she’d understood him.
She counted down the stations as they sped through the Cornish countryside: Lostwithiel, Bodmin Parkway, Liskeard; and then they were out of Cornwall and into Devon, and Gemma’s heart drifted even lower.
After the early start her lids were dropping, and, as the rain started in earnest, she dozed, only dimly aware of the announcements as they pulled into stations. When her phone pinged, she was suddenly wide awake and snatching it up.
Her mum again.
Where are you now, love? It’s snowing hard here.
Gemma peered out through the torrential rain streaming down the window, then she consulted the ribbon of names spinning along on the overhead monitor.
Bristol Temple Meads is the next stop, about half an hour away.
They were due to arrive in Derby around three p.m., where she’d change trains. When would she encounter snow? The last thing she felt like doing, with her bags, was having to transfer to a bus service if the track had become impassable. Surely the roads would be even more chaotic and treacherous than any rail line?
Gemma tried to lose herself in a new book, but when she realised one character was called Matthew she gave up and picked up her phone.
She skimmed a couple of emails, including one from the airline reminding her to check in online twenty-four hours before her flight at the weekend and another from the friend renting her flat to say the boiler was playing up.
Gemma messaged the plumber she’d used before, then dug into her bag for the music journal. It wasn’t there, so she rummaged in the other pockets, then checked her holdall. There was no sign of it, and she sank back in the seat, dread sweeping through her at the thought of Matt coming across it. She must have left it in her room. She’d been keeping it under the cushion on the window seat. He’d hardly be likely to go in there.
After hurriedly messaging Peggy, asking her to post it on, Gemma peered out of the window as the train slowed on its approach to Bristol Temple Meads. Was the rain turning to sleet?
Her mood wasn’t improved by the carriage coming to a halt opposite an advert for BorderLine Beat’s tour, listing the venues and dates, a moody, indigo-infused image of an unsmiling band to the right of the poster. It must have been put up when the tour was originally announced.
Unable to help herself, she took a quick photo and sent it to Matt, with a ‘never heard of ’em’ comment and a grinning emoji. As people came into the carriage – damp, windswept and red-faced from the cold – and flopped into vacant seats, Gemma adjusted her position so she was facing the opposite window.
The estate agent’s advert wasn’t much of a distraction.
‘What are you up to, Matt,’ she whispered to the unnaturally white-toothed, grinning face on the ad.
The woman who’d taken the adjacent seat sent Gemma a questioning look, and she summoned a smile.
‘Cold out, isn’t it?’ she said brightly, then, as the train began to move, looked out of the window again, her mind a myriad of unanswered questions.
Had it ever been any different, where Matt Locksley was concerned?
The following morning, Gemma rubbed at the condensation on her bedroom window. Snow continued to fall, but it was negligible compared to the thick blanket the storm had deposited the previous day, when she’d finally made it home to Baslow. The Peak District was cut off from the world, but there was a chance – if there was a thaw in the wintry conditions – she might make her flight on Saturday. Why was it she hoped there’d be another dump of snow instead?
Because Singapore was a long way from him .
There had been no word from or of Matt. Gemma picked up her phone and, for what felt like the thousandth time, opened WhatsApp. Still no indication he had read the silly message either. Maybe it was for the best. This gave them a sort of closure, didn’t it? It was a sign, a sure hint that life had swept them in different directions.
Yet Gemma longed to hear his voice… but what could her excuse be for calling? She sank onto the bed. He’d said she was a friend. Surely she could just call to say hi?
‘You’ve reached the voicemail—’
Checking the time, Gemma ended the call. Might he still be asleep? Matt had never been one for lying in, unless he’d overdone the wine… but he’d pledged himself dry for Jonny’s sake, hadn’t he? And weren’t the band due to arrive last night?
Gemma headed downstairs, her midriff in knots and her mood sinking.
‘There you are, love,’ her mum greeted her as she entered the kitchen. ‘I’ve put the kettle on. Fancy a cuppa before we start taking things down?’
It was Twelfth Night, and never in her life had Gemma wished the season over. She didn’t want to see the tree or a single decoration. She was so done with Christmas this year.
‘Where’s Dad?’
Mrs Merriott waved a hand towards the front of the house. ‘Outside, trying to clear the garden paths. Gemma, love?’
She met her mum’s concerned gaze across the kitchen.
‘We’re worried about you. We thought the time in Cornwall would help you feel better, but you’re not yourself. Is there anything we can—’
‘No. Sorry, Mum.’ Gemma stepped forward to hug her fiercely, the traitorous lump swelling in her throat. Kindness only made it worse. ‘I’m fine. Honestly. Right, let’s make a start, shall we?’
It was lunch time before the house and tree were bare, and Gemma was sent out to fetch her dad to help carry the drooping fir outside. Once they’d eaten, Mr Merriott returned to his snow clearing, and she and her mum set to, packing away all the decorations into boxes and stacking them on the landing, ready to be stored in the loft for another year.
Restless, Gemma peered out of the window, desperately seeking relief from her endless speculation over Matt – what he was doing, how it was all going.
‘I’ll go help Dad finish off and then head down to the village for a coffee.’
Gemma let herself out of the house, inhaling sharply as the icy air assailed her. She and her dad worked in tandem, soon clearing the rest of the pathways, after which she was pink-faced and out of breath.
She swept her snowflake-speckled hair over her shoulder, wishing the exertion had done its trick and calmed her whirling mind, but nothing could blot out the memories of life at Rivermills.
Life in Cornwall, hidden away from the world.
Life with Matt.
Mr Merriott sent his daughter a resigned look. ‘So much for spending some of my holiday on the golf course. Come on, let’s have another cuppa. We can start on the drive before dusk falls.’
‘I’m heading down to pick up a coffee, Dad. I’ll be back—’ She caught herself from saying ‘dreckly’. ‘Soon.’
The snow was deep on the way down the hill into the village centre, but Gemma negotiated it with ease in her wellies, pausing by the tall fir tree on the green, whose lights were not yet lit.
‘It’s Twelfth Night,’ she addressed it quietly. ‘Enjoy your last night to shine.’
Crossing over to the cafe, she was disappointed to find it shut, a notice pinned to the door: closed due to the conditions. Then, Gemma gasped as something skimmed past her shoulder to thud against the glass.
She scooped up the snowball as it slid towards the ground, but before she could turn round a familiar, deep voice spoke.