The Stationmaster’s Daughter. Kathleen McGurl

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СКАЧАТЬ they’re both over it? Actually, it’ll have to be after Easter as we’re going away then … God, it’s such bad timing, but poor Amber. I hate seeing her so poorly.’

      After Easter! Tilly fought to keep herself sounding positive. ‘Can’t be helped. Email me whatever weekends you’re free and we’ll book in another date.’

      ‘So sorry, mate. I wish I was able to come and see you but, you know.’

      ‘Your kids have to come first. No worries. There’ll be another time.’

      When she’d hung up, Tilly sat down heavily on the nearest chair. No Jo this weekend. The one thing in her life she’d been looking forward to. More than looking forward – depending on Jo’s company this weekend. It would be ten days since she’d arrived at Ken’s. She wanted to take Jo on the cliff-top walk, go with her to one of Ken’s stations and see what she thought of the railway, get drunk with her and hear her advice on what to do in the long term. She couldn’t stay here forever, she knew, but how long would be all right? Ken would say no problem, stay as long as you like, of course, but Jo would be able to advise her what was best. A month here? Two, Six? Or take it week by week?

      Tilly had met Jo at university, in their first term. They were next-door neighbours in a hall of residence, sharing a kitchen. Tilly had loved Jo’s gruff Yorkshire accent and her no-nonsense Northern personality. They’d hit it off immediately and been inseparable for the following three years. They’d been each other’s bridesmaids. Tilly was godmother to Jo’s eldest daughter. They’d met up every week while Jo had lived in London, for a drink and a catch-up.

      And now Jo couldn’t come for her visit. That bottle of Prosecco Tilly had put in the fridge to chill was all for nothing. She might as well put it back in the cupboard. Tilly stood up with a sigh, went to the kitchen and took out the bottle.

      Or maybe she should open it anyway. Ken didn’t like sparkling wine but there were a few bottles of his favourite real ale that he could drink. Tilly found herself peeling off the foil, untwisting the wire that held the cork in, and easing the cork out with her thumbs without having made a conscious decision to open it.

      The cork emerged with a satisfying pop, and Tilly grabbed the nearest thing to hand – a teacup from the draining board – to catch the frothy overflow. She poured herself a large measure into the teacup and drank it, enjoying the way the bubbles tickled her nose.

      Her mum would have had a fit, seeing her drink out of a teacup. She fetched a cut-glass champagne flute from the glass cabinet in the dining room. It was from a set that had been a wedding present to her parents, she recalled. As a child she’d never been allowed to touch any of the glasses from the cabinet. Pouring herself another glass, she wondered what would happen to all the wedding presents she and Ian had been given. And all the furniture they’d bought jointly for their house. She supposed he’d want to keep it. Was there anything she wanted? Did she even care? She downed the Prosecco and poured herself more.

      *

      Tilly had polished off the Prosecco and was halfway through a bottle of red wine, by the time Ken came home at six o’clock.

      ‘Tilly pet, what time is Jo arriving?’ he called from the hallway, as he hung up his coat.

      ‘She’s not coming.’ Tilly suppressed a hiccup. The kitchen was a mess. She’d spilt some wine in her hurry to open another bottle. Her lunch dishes were stacked unwashed in the sink.

      ‘Not coming? Oh no, why?’

      ‘Her kid’s got chicken spots. Pox. Chicken pox, I mean.’ Tilly waved her hand as she spoke and too late, realised she was holding her wine glass in that hand. A neat arc of red wine sprayed across the kitchen wall.

      ‘Watch out!’ Ken leapt forward to take the glass from her. ‘Oh, pet. Sorry she’s not able to come. Is that why you’ve started drinking? It’s a bit early. And what’s this?’ He picked up the empty Prosecco bottle and turned to her with a look of concern. ‘Tilly, I don’t like to say this, and I’m not judging you at all, but don’t you think you’re drinking a bit much?’

      ‘No, not drinking too much. Just drinking ’cos it helps me forget all the shit.’ She put her head down on the kitchen table, face in her arms.

      ‘You’ve been through a lot. Ian leaving, losing your job, and that miscarriage. I wish I could help, but honestly, I don’t think all this drinking does you any good. I don’t want to lecture, I know you’re a grown-up, but even so. I have to say something. I lost your mum, but I didn’t turn to the bottle.’

      Tilly shook her head. He didn’t know the half of it. ‘Three of ’em,’ she muttered.

      ‘What, love?’

      She raised her head and gazed at him. ‘Three. Three bloody miscarriages, Dad! I only told you about the first one. Didn’t want to upset you, what with Mum and everything. First one – the ectopic one – you know about that. Then an early one. Seven weeks. Then the third – God, I was about to tell you I was pregnant. Was waiting until it felt safe, and it just about did, we’d had a scan, and then suddenly, all that pain, then the bleeding, and then … Dad, it was a … a boy.’ And suddenly she was grieving all over again, for those three babies, who would have been Ken’s grandchildren had they lived. She crumpled, head in hands, over the table again, and was only dimly aware of Ken coming to kneel beside her, his arms around her, stroking her hair, as she grieved once more for her lost babies.

      ‘Shh, pet. Your dad’s here. I’ll do everything I can to help, you know that, pet, don’t you? I’m sorry I had a go at you for drinking. I’m sorry I didn’t know about the other two miscarriages. I see why you didn’t want to tell me at the time. You had Ian still, then. And I suppose you told Jo. Does talking about it help? I’m no counsellor, no good with it all, you know that, but God knows I’ll listen and hold you while you cry and whatever else I can do. You’re still my little girl, Tilly.’

      Did she want to talk about it? Yes, suddenly she did. Not the miscarriages. What was there to say? The babies were gone. But Ian. Ken didn’t know the full story of Ian leaving, what he’d said, what his reasons were for wanting to end their fifteen-year marriage. And now – maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the disappointment of not having Jo here to talk things through with, probably it was the combination of the two – but now she wanted nothing more than to talk to Ken. To tell him all about that horrible day when Ian made his announcement. It had been the straw that had broken her.

      ‘Yeah, Dad. It might help to talk.’

      ‘Go on, then. Talk away. Want a cup of tea?’

      She sat up, grabbed a tissue to mop her eyes and nodded. And then she told him the entire story of how Ian had dropped his bombshell.

      *

      His timing couldn’t have been worse. It was her last day at work, a month after the redundancies had been announced. There’d been a demoralised attitude in the office ever since the big announcement, and no one had felt up to going to the pub or celebrating in any way. Tilly had switched off her computer, gathered up the few personal items she’d kept on her desk, put on her coat and left, nodding goodbye to her erstwhile colleagues who were all doing the same thing. On the way home she decided she’d at least open a bottle of bubbly with Ian – call it a celebration of being out of the rat race, for a few months at least.

      When she reached the three-bed semi she shared with Ian, she realised his car was outside. He normally didn’t come home СКАЧАТЬ