The Stationmaster’s Daughter. Kathleen McGurl

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      She crawled out of bed around eleven o’clock. For the first time she thought it was as well she’d lost her job at the same time as losing Ian. How she’d have been able to carry on going to work in this state she didn’t know.

      It had happened three months after her third and last miscarriage. Tilly knew something was up at work – there’d been talk for nearly a year about a restructuring. But the company would always need payroll administrators, so she’d assumed she was safe. It’d be just a reorganisation – combining a couple of departments, a manager leaving and not being replaced, something like that. It always was. She’d worked there for fifteen years and it was the third reorganisation she’d been through in that time.

      But then she, along with her team of four admin assistants, were called into a meeting in the management offices. There was a brief presentation about how the poor exchange rate, the uncertainty of Brexit, and the rising cost of imports all meant the company had to become leaner and more efficient or else it would go under. And then had come the news that payroll administration could be covered by outsourcing to a third party, who would bring expertise and economies of scale, and so with great regret the company had decided to put all those in the payroll team into a consultation process. They were invited to apply for a job elsewhere in the company, which would entail relocating, or take voluntary redundancy. The redundancy terms were outlined and they were generous – with Tilly’s length of service she’d be entitled to eighteen months’ pay.

      But it was a blow. She’d been good at her job, and the company had been sympathetic to her when she suffered the miscarriages. She’d been coasting since the last one – doing the minimum, trying to get herself back on her feet.

      She had no intention of relocating, so had agreed to take the redundancy package. Maybe the time it would give her would allow her to come to terms with her losses and move on. Maybe not having a job would let her focus on her marriage, and try to restore to it some of the joy they’d once had. Eighteen months’ pay meant she could afford to wait a good while before doing any job-hunting. Which was just as well, because the very thought of trying to find something else filled her with terror. It had been a very long time since she’d had a job interview or updated her CV.

      *

      Today, the weather was completely different to the day before – grey, with low clouds threatening rain at any time, and a cold wind off the sea.

      ‘Cliff path doesn’t look so enticing today, does it?’ Ken commented, as Tilly gazed out of the kitchen window over her late breakfast. ‘Good job you had your walk yesterday.’

      ‘Mmm. I think I’ll just veg around the house today,’ Tilly replied. She could read, perhaps, or watch daytime TV. Ken would no doubt want to go to work on the railway, de-rusting more of those track spikes or whatever they were called, up at Lower Berecombe station.

      ‘Or …’ Ken said, with a shifty look in his eye. ‘You could make a start on this.’ He went out of the kitchen and returned a moment later with a box. ‘Brought it back yesterday. Just in case …’

      ‘It’s one of the ones from Lynford station, is it?’

      ‘Yes, pet. No need to look at it today if you don’t want to, but if you get bored … maybe you could make a start. I thought you could use the dining-room table – spread everything out in there as much as you like. We’re all right eating at the kitchen table, aren’t we?’

      ‘Sure. You might as well put the box in there. Not promising I’ll look at it though.’ Tilly wasn’t sure how she felt about it. Perhaps if her pounding headache eased up, she could start rummaging through. Right now, she needed a shower. And coffee.

      ‘No problem. When you feel up to it,’ Ken said. He said his farewells and headed out, leaving Tilly with the TV remote control and a large mug of black coffee.

      *

      Ken came back in the mid-afternoon, still in his blue overalls, and with another box of archive material tucked hopefully under his arm. Tilly was dozing on the sofa when he came in, a colourful knitted blanket that her mother had made draped over her.

      ‘Hey. Good day?’

      ‘Yes, pet. Got lots done. Another old signal is ready for use.’ He put the box of archive material down on a coffee table.

      ‘More papers? I’m sorry, Dad, I didn’t feel up to starting it today.’

      He looked disappointed but didn’t push the matter. ‘No problem. I brought you something else as well. I bought a whole chocolate cake for you, from the Old Bank teashop. Two ticks and I’ll bring you a slice along with your cuppa.’ Ken went through to the kitchen and came back a little later with the tea and cake which he set down on a side table beside the sofa.

      ‘Thanks, Dad.’ Tilly pushed herself upright so she could eat the cake, which was delicious.

      Ken was watching her thoughtfully. ‘You know, pet, I think it’d be good for you to give yourself a bit of a challenge. Why not have a go at sorting out these boxes? It’ll take your mind off … things. The other thing you could consider taking on is—’

      ‘For goodness’ sake, Dad.’ She fell back on the sofa. ‘Stop giving me jobs to do! I’m … not well. I’m not up to all that research and everything. God, I know it helped you after Mum, but I’m not the same. I don’t want – I just can’t – leave me alone, all right?’ She stood up and stormed off to her bedroom. She knew she probably sounded like a petulant teenager, but so what? He was pushing her too hard, too fast. It’d take time to recover from all that had happened. If she was even able to recover, that was.

      *

      Tilly spent the week doing very little other than lying on the sofa, reading or watching TV, and going for the occasional cliff-top walk. She made no effort to start looking at the archives, and thankfully Ken made no more comments about them. He gently tried to interest her in another visit to the railway, but she declined. The one thing that was keeping her going was the thought that Jo was due to visit at the weekend. She felt more than ready for a top-up of her friend’s support and advice.

      On Friday at around three o’clock, her phone rang. Assuming it was Ken asking if she needed anything from the shop on his way home or similar, Tilly answered with ‘Hey, Dad!’ without even glancing at the screen.

      ‘Tils, mate, it’s Jo.’ Her friend’s broad Yorkshire accent brought a smile to Tilly’s face. She couldn’t wait to see her.

      ‘Jo! I’ve got your room all ready, and we’ve got crispy spiced salmon tonight for dinner. With new potatoes, or would you rather baked? Can do either. Broccoli or salad? Dad wants baked beans but I told him no.’

      ‘Tils, listen. I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to call it off for this weekend. It’s Amber. She’s got chicken pox. Caught it at school. Poor little mite’s covered in spots and feeling very sorry for herself. Bryony will no doubt get it in a few days’ time as well.’

      Chicken pox. Tilly’s heart sank. She was going to miss seeing her friend because of a bout of stupid chicken pox. She felt a sudden irrational surge of jealousy that Amber would be the one to have Jo near, caring for her this weekend, instead of Tilly. But she pulled herself together. Of course, Jo’s children were more important. She forced herself to sound sympathetic, when all she wanted to do was curl up and cry.

      ‘Oh, СКАЧАТЬ