Chapter 2
Jane Wutheridge was glad she’d had the foresight to wear her old snow boots to travel in, not that there was a hint of snow when she left their Derbyshire house but because they were snug and warm and gripped the ground like a limpet.
She still called it their house, even though it had been solely hers for just under a year, but it wouldn’t be theirs – or rather hers – any longer in less than four weeks, because contracts would soon be exchanged and then completion on the sale of it would follow.
They were reliable and safe boots, comfortable, solid as a rock…
her boots had all the qualities her life was presently lacking.
She hadn’t wanted to make this train journey.
She wanted Christmas alone, a last one in the rectory before the new owners came in.
She was cross she’d been pressured into spending it elsewhere.
And the disruption just put the tin hat on things.
She wasn’t frightened of snow like some old people; she loved it.
She and Clifford had taken many winter holidays; in fact, they’d been hundreds of kilometres past the Arctic Circle and then down to Antarctica, where they wanted to go again, but life got in the way of their plans. Or rather death did.
The conductor entered the carriage and stood by the sliding door.
‘Can I have everyone’s attention, please?
Sorry, the tannoy isn’t working. We’ve been informed that we have to divert to Selton.
For services west, you need to get off at the next stop, Derringbury, for the connecting train to Eskford.
I repeat, we are now no longer calling at Eskford on this train. ’
‘Chuffing hell,’ said the loud man behind Jane, whose voice hadn’t dropped below a hundred decibels since he got on. ‘One leaf or a snowflake and the trains go to absolute cock in this country.’
The conductor ignored him and announced that they’d be at Derringbury in a few minutes.
Jane reached into her bag for her brown bucket hat.
Clifford had bought it for her, one of his last presents.
‘I thought it was about time we started buying each other practical things,’ he’d said with a twinkle in his eye, though it wasn’t as bright a twinkle as the one in the diamond ring he’d tied to the label inside the hat.
It was on her finger now. An eternity ring, even though they knew their time was running out – at least here on earth.
But Clifford was that rare being, a scientist who believed in an afterlife and he knew they’d share that eternity.
The irony was that she, a creative, a romantic, believed that life, consciousness, everything, ended with the last breath.
Jane put on her gloves and made her way to the storage rack for her suitcase, declining the help of the conductor because she wasn’t ready to start playing the old-lady card just yet.
She’d packed fairly lightly and luckily had sent the presents on ahead.
She hadn’t gone over the top with them either, this year, because, for as long as she could remember, she’d spent far too much time trying to match the gift to the person only to get the lazy options in return: chocolates with a suspiciously close sell-by date, a market-tat brooch in a cheap box, a manicure set.
She’d had at least ten manicure sets in various forms over the years.
Clifford would have said that this interference in plans constituted an adventure. But Clifford wasn’t here to share her fears and take the reins; she was all alone and there was no excitement to be had.
Further down the same train, Frank O’Carroll and his wife, Grace, were preparing to disembark.
They should have been getting off at Eskford but as it was having to divert, they’d have to get yet another connecting train – their fourth on this journey.
He was beginning to think this trip was cursed from the get-go.
Firstly he’d buggered up his ankle and couldn’t drive – and Grace didn’t have the confidence to drive this far – so the only way they could reach their country cottage getaway was by public transport.
Plus the place he really wanted had been double-booked and they’d had to take the option of another which wasn’t the cosy, olde-worlde with log-fire one he’d put his deposit on.
Mistletoe Nook might have sounded idyllic but the photos showed a modern bungalow full of the brown and orange décor that was a signature of the seventies.
At this late stage, it was accept that or nothing, so his hands were tied and not even the part-refund made it sweet.
His mum always said bad luck came in threes: more like a hundred and threes, thought Frank as they headed for the storage bay where their two suitcases were situated.
Grace hadn’t said a word and by not saying anything, she said everything.
Frank could feel annoyance pumping out of her pores like toxic fumes from a faulty air vent.
She hadn’t even wanted to come away for Christmas, he’d been the one to suggest it, push for it, because he knew if they stayed at home, by the new year one of them would have moved out.
A romantic cottage with a log-fire was his last desperate attempt to save their thirty-three-year relationship.
The modern substitute cottage wasn’t going to have any restorative magic, he just knew it.
The train edged out of the tunnel into a world that seemed much whiter than it had been when they’d entered it. Frank looked through the window at the snow falling hard. The hills in the distance were totally covered and had smudged into the sky.
He turned to Grace.
‘It’ll be fine, just another blip to test us. We’ll be in Eskford in no time and then it’s just a short walk to the cottage. I’m not worried. It’ll be all the cosier for this messing about.’ His smile was bright, covering up the worry he said he didn’t have.
Grace didn’t look worried at all though, she just looked… resigned was the best way of putting it. Whether they reached the cottage and it was warm and inviting or they ended up stuck all Christmas in a train station in the middle of nowhere, he believed she’d wear the same expression.
The train slowed and they passed signs announcing the name of Derringbury station. He spotted a waiting room, thank goodness, because he didn’t fancy standing on a freezing, uncovered platform until their connection arrived.
‘Can you manage?’ he asked his wife who was wrestling with her suitcase handle.
‘Of course I can,’ she answered him, that ever-present snap in her voice.
He wasn’t even sure she knew it was there, it had just become her default way of talking to him.
The Grace of old would have waved away the booking debacle and be searing his ears with giddy questions: What do you think is the first thing we should do when we get to the cottage?
Shall we go to the local pub for tea? Should we get up early to go to the farm shop and buy too much food?
Little Miss Chatterbox, he used to call her.
These days she only seemed to speak when she needed to and though her incessant talk used to drive him bonkers, he missed it.
He missed the old Grace; she was like a shell emptied.
It appeared there were just them and another passenger who were alighting: a small, aged lady had just stepped onto the platform and Frank thought she looked as if she’d climbed out of a Miss Marple book with her slight frame, stompy boots, hat and tweed coat.
Frank helped Grace to ‘mind the gap’ and then he called over to ‘Miss Marple’, pointing at her suitcase.
‘Can I help you with that?’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind, but it’s on wheels and easy to steer.’
He could at least get the door into the waiting room for her. He held it open and she thanked him as she walked through. Grace followed, a heavy dusting of snow on her shoulders and on her long tied-back auburn hair, which melted instantly in the warmth that met them inside.
The first thought that came to Frank was that he’d wandered onto the film set of Brief Encounter because, apart from the bulk of a large modern machine for the distribution of hot drinks in the corner, the place couldn’t have had a refurb for decades.
It smelt fusty, but in a comforting way, like the smell of old books.
There was a long bench opposite a couple of rusty storage heaters mounted on the wall that were pumping out hot air, effectively too considering how ancient they looked. Grace took a seat near one of them, leaving a gap between her and Jane.
‘Shocking weather, isn’t it?’ Frank said to her.
‘Awful,’ Jane replied. ‘At least it’s nice and warm in here.
Are you changing at Eskford as well?’ She really wasn’t sure that she’d done the right thing, getting off here in this tiny station.
She should have stayed on until the major junction at Selton and decided what to do from there on.
Returning home would have been the most sensible option of all, of course.
‘No, Eskford is our final destination. We’ve booked a cottage.
For Christmas.’ Then Frank looked around and spoke to himself, but aloud.
‘There must be some timetable around somewhere.’ Did they still have those in stations?
It showed how long it was since he’d been in one that he didn’t know.
Maybe paper ones were a thing of the past and everything was on computers and phone apps now, which was all very well until you had a situation like this.
His phone was saying there was no internet, no Wi-Fi available.
There was a lot to be said for hard copy data. Nothing for it but to wait then.
Frank stood up and went over to the coffee machine. He couldn’t see a coin slot, or prices. He tried his luck, pressed a button that said ‘Hot Chocolate’ and to his surprise, the machine dropped a cup below and obliged him.
‘Blimey. It’s not often you get something for nothing these days.
Anyone else want one? Hot chocolate, chicken soup, tea, coffee with or without milk?
’ No fancy lattes or flat whites as an offering.
There was a small table adjacent with spoons and sugar sachets and paper serviettes.
Jane mouthed a silent no-thank-you. ‘Grace?’
‘I don’t want anything if there’s a train due,’ she answered.
‘Well, maybe if you get a drink that’ll hurry the train along. Sod’s law and all that,’ said Frank with a smile that was wasted because she had turned away from him, her eyes instead roving over the flaking vintage green paint of the walls and the intricate, but heavily chipped, ceiling cornice.
He carried the plastic cup back to his seat.
He offered his wife the first sip from it but she shook her head.
The old Grace would have tried it and claimed it and he’d have laughed and had to get himself another.
She could never resist a hot chocolate. He’d bought her a fancy machine to make them a couple of Christmases ago and it was still in the box.
He hadn’t encountered the old Grace for years and maybe it was a mistake to think she was still in there somewhere; maybe she had gone forever, leaving only this husk he lived with.
They sat in silence, waiting. Then Grace got up without saying anything and headed towards the door with a toilet sign above it.
‘So where are you travelling to?’ Frank asked, striking up conversation with Miss Marple. He would later be amused when he found out her name was Jane.
‘Lancaster,’ she answered him, with an accompanying sigh.
‘Lancaster?’ Frank puffed out his cheeks. ‘How long is that going to take you?’ He guessed over three hours from here, without hitches and there was a very big hitch outside in the form of all that snow.
‘I don’t even want to think about it,’ said Jane.
She really should have gone on to Selton, she felt it more with every minute that passed.
There was a large hotel attached to the station that would surely have a vacancy – even at this time of year; a room reserved for emergencies.
That was one advantage of being old; people tended to go the extra mile for pensioners.
‘Aren’t there any staff here?’ asked Frank, with a sudden burst of frustration. ‘There should be a stationmaster around. Should we be worried?’ He dropped a small laugh, but it was only half a laugh and it wasn’t a very convincing one at that.