Everyone else in the carriage is suddenly silent. Even Bryony has picked up the vibe and paused in her slapping. Then, abruptly, the man gets to his feet and retrieves his backpack from the luggage rack.
“Excuse me,” he says over-politely to Bryony, and hefts the surfboard under his arm. Bryony instantly wails in protest and tears come to her eyes. But rather than soften, the man flinches, as though with massive repulsion.
“Over to you,” he says to the mother, and strides out of the carriage.
For a moment no one seems sure how to react—then the mother huffs, her cheeks pink.
“Well!” she exclaims. “Well, I never! Bryony, come here, love, and have a biscuit. What a rude man!”
She holds her arms out to the wailing toddler, who points miserably at the space where the surfboard was, then utters the single mournful syllable, “Don!”
“I know it’s gone,” says the mother. “Good riddance. You don’t need that toy! Come and play with Ted-Ted, sweetheart.”
As Bryony is consoled with a biscuit, I see Keith drawing breath, as though to express his opinion on this little episode. I’m sure whatever he has to say will last for about half an hour, what with the thirty-five accompanying anecdotes.
Hastily, I press PLAY, pointing to my ears in a pantomime of I can’t hear you anymore, so sorry. I lean back and close my eyes tight, letting spa-type music wash over me. Distantly I can hear Keith’s voice, muted and muffled, but I don’t even open my eyes.
After a few moments I realize I’m clenching my fists, and I release them, breathing out slowly, trying to relax. Oh my God. What was that? My brain feels totally jangled.
And to be honest, it’s a good heads-up. I can’t cope with random people right now. Especially not talkative people, and even more especially not obnoxious men with surfboards. I’m relieved the hotel will be empty.
In fact, I sincerely hope that in my entire stay at the Rilston, I don’t meet anyone at all.
Five
Thankfully, I avoid Keith’s chatter for the rest of the journey by keeping my earphones in. He doesn’t seem offended and leaps into action when it’s time to change trains at Exeter St. Davids. By the time he’s helped me manhandle my case, bags, foam roller, and Hula-Hoop onto the shuttle train at Campion Sands, I feel almost friendly toward him.
“I’ll look you up!” he says cheerily as he steps off the shuttle train onto the platform. “I’m always in and out of Rilston. Maybe we can have a drink sometime. I’ll tell you some more stories about the place, since you’re interested.”
“Great!” I try to sound enthusiastic as I stand there in the train doorway. “Although I will be quite busy with my …” I pat the foam roller. “So I’m not sure I’ll have time.”
“Right you are.” He nods, apparently unoffended. “Now, what are you going to do with your stuff at the other end? Are they sending the car?”
“I don’t need a car.” I laugh. “I’ll walk. It’s only down the hill.”
“Walk!” he exclaims. “With that lot?” He runs his eyes over my clobber and I realize he has a point. “I’ll call Herbert,” he adds, dialing on his phone before I can respond. “Porter at the Rilston. He’ll sort you out. I know them at the Rilston. Herbert! Keith here. Got a young lady here, coming to stay with you. Needs help with her stuff … Yes, that’ll be her. Into podcasts. Yoga.” He listens for a few moments, then looks up. “Herbert says, ‘Are you the one who wants the kale?’ ”
Oh God.
“Yes,” I say, flushing, “although it really doesn’t matter—”
“That’s her!” Keith cuts me off triumphantly. “So you’ll come and meet her, will you? … Good man. See you soon, Herbert; we’ll have a pint.” He rings off and beams at me. “Lucky I rang! The hotel’s car is out of action, but Herbert’s going to meet you personally, help you with your stuff.”
“You’re so kind,” I say, feeling a slight wash of shame that I’ve been avoiding him for the past five hours. “Thank you very much.”
“Well, you enjoy yourself—wait! I didn’t catch your name!” He laughs incredulously, as though this is just happenstance rather than because I’ve deliberately kept it from him. But it seems churlish to keep it secret now.
“I’m Sasha.”
“You enjoy yourself, Sasha.”
He walks away down the platform, and after a few moments the doors shut. As the train begins to move, I take a seat, realizing I’m the only passenger in the carriage. The weather has taken a turn, and a fine misty rain is coating the glass, but I still press my forehead against the window, gazing ahead for a glimpse of the bay. It was always a competition between Kirsten and me—who would see the beach first? It was a moment we waited for impatiently, all year round. After all these hours—all these years—I can’t believe I’m only minutes away from Rilston Bay. My insides are churning with anticipation and anxiety. What if it lets me down?
It can’t let me down. It won’t.
“Now approaching Rilston Bay,” says a recorded voice, and I hold my breath, peering through the glass as we round the bend …
And there it is. I catch my breath, transfixed, gazing at the happiest view of my childhood. The wide sweep of sand, the rocks, the waves crashing as endlessly as they ever did, it’s all the same. The sea might be iron-gray and the sky dull, but I feel the same impatient craving to be down there, at once, now, with sand beneath my feet. The holiday never really began until we were on the beach.
There’s a new lightness in my body as we pull into the tiny station and I lug my stuff out. I text Mum and Kirsten—Arrived!!! xxx—then put my phone away and look around for the porter. There doesn’t seem to be anyone, so I somehow get everything out to the forecourt, then look around again. The car park is empty. The ticket kiosk is empty. Above me, seagulls whirl and shriek, and the chilly breeze buffets my face.
There’s a single lane that runs down the sweep of hill to the Rilston, and as I peer down I see a figure coming up toward me. It’s a thin man with white hair, in a navy overcoat, and he’s walking slowly. Really, really slowly. At intervals he stops to have a rest, leaning against a lamppost or a wall or whatever’s handy, then pushes on. His eyes seem to be focused on me, I realize, and as he gets nearer, he lifts a hand as though in greeting.
Wait. Is this the porter?
In slight alarm, I hurry to meet him. He looks about 103. His face is deeply lined, he’s puffing hard, and he’s so decrepit he can barely even walk—it’s more of a totter. My gaze takes in a badge on his coat, which reads: Rilston Hotel. Herbert. Oh God.
“Are you OK?” I say anxiously.
“Ms. Worth?” he greets me in a hoarse, wispy voice, barely audible over the gulls. “Welcome to the Rilston. My name is Herbert.” There’s a pause—during which he seems almost to go to sleep on his feet—then he comes to. “I’m here to help you with your bags.”
He’s planning to help me?
“Would you like a rest?” I say in concern. “Can I get you … a chair? Some brandy?”