**A Seaside Town**
Evening settled over the small coastal town. Autumn hadn’t quite made itself felt yet, though the tourists had thinned out. William had never been one for beach crowds or scorching heat, which was why he’d chosen October for his seaside trip. Still warm enough to swim, with nights now crisp and fresh. Yet there was another reason he’d come.
He walked slowly, scanning the street names on the houses. He’d expected to recognise the place at once, but nothing looked familiar. At the house he sought, he paused, pulled a crumpled note from his pocket, and checked the address. This was the right spot—yet instead of the single-storey cottage he remembered, a two-storey house with a pointed roof now stood in its place. Through the wrought-iron gate, he glimpsed a tidy garden dotted with fruit trees—limes, persimmons, apples.
William slung his gym bag onto the ground, tugged a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, and wiped his sweaty face. At the far end of the garden, a woman was taking laundry off the line. He saw only her back. *Could her mother still be alive?* he wondered. The woman lifted a basket of clothes, ready to leave. William drew a breath and called out:
“Excuse me—do you rent rooms?”
She turned, studied him a moment, then walked to the gate. Up close, he realised his mistake. She was his own age.
“Looking for a room?” she asked, squinting slightly as if trying to place him.
“Yes. Friends stayed here last summer—said I ought to ask for you.” The lie came easily.
“Bit late in the season, isn’t it?”
“Suits me just fine. Can’t bear the heat.” He smiled. “So, any rooms free?”
“Plenty. Dead quiet now.” She set the basket down and unlatched the gate. “Come straight through—door’s open.”
William scooped up his bag and stepped past her.
“Go on in,” she urged when he hesitated at the threshold.
Inside, a spacious hall doubled as a sitting room—clean, bright, properly furnished. Nothing like the cramped little place he remembered.
“Your room’s upstairs. I’ll show you.”
The steps creaked faintly under his weight. There *hadn’t* been an upstairs before. Was this even the right house?
“First door on the right,” she directed. “How long are you staying? Doesn’t matter, really. Bathroom’s next door—shared between three rooms, but you’ll have it to yourself.”
He entered a snug little bedroom. Through the window, the sea glittered under a crimson sunset.
“Like something out of a storybook,” William murmured before he could stop himself.
“Your friends mentioned the rates, didn’t they? Off-season now, so it’s cheaper. Meals are extra.”
“All fine by me.” He turned with a smile. “What should I call you?”
“Margaret. And you?”
“W—William,” he faltered slightly.
*Margaret. Could it really be her? But she’s changed so much. What did I expect—that forty years wouldn’t touch her? Time alters everything. Doesn’t seem she remembers me.*
“Ever stayed here before?” Margaret asked, as if reading his thoughts. “The way you looked just now—”
“Never. First time in this house.” His gaze flicked over the room again.
“Fancy supper?”
“If it’s no trouble,” he said, searching her face for traces of the girl he’d known.
“None at all. Be down in twenty minutes.” With that, she left.
William sank onto the bed—soft but not sagging, noiseless under his weight. Forty years ago, he’d slept downstairs in a poky little room. No upper floor back then.
*She doesn’t know me. Hardly surprising—forty years is a long time. Probably forgot I existed. Put on weight, aged… Wouldn’t recognise her in the street myself. Oh, Margaret, so much water under the bridge…*
***
He’d arrived with two mates that summer, bound for a quiet seaside town. His girlfriend, Emily, was meant to come too—until he’d caught her with an older man, staged a jealous scene, and she’d refused to go. Heartbroken, William nearly backed out. What sort of holiday could it be with his world in pieces?
But his friend persuaded him: leaving town might help heal the wound. They all crammed into one room—William, his mate, and the mate’s girlfriend, Sophie. In peak season, spare beds were scarce. Feeling like a third wheel, William wandered the promenade late each night to give the couple privacy, and by day kept to himself on the beach.
That’s how he’d met Margaret. She swam well, always away from the crowds. When he asked where she was staying, she’d laughed.
“Local—just home from uni, helping Mum with the garden.” She’d pulled a sundress over her damp swimsuit.
“Let me walk you. Wait for me!” He’d scrambled for his things.
On the way, he asked if her mother rented rooms.
“Course. Most do here—winters are tight. Why, you need somewhere?”
“I’ve got a place. Just awkward—sharing with my mate and his girl.”
“Move in with us, then. I’ll ask Mum.”
He’d agreed without even seeing the room. Tiny, overpriced—but when his friends protested, he’d shrugged: “Got my reasons.”
Two weeks flew by. He barely thought of Emily—not with pretty, smitten Margaret beside him. He’d even believed he loved her then…
One evening, he’d overheard her mother scolding her for staying out late with a lodger. But each night, they’d met by the sea, lain on the sand under the stars, kissed till dawn tinged the hills pink.
They’d exchanged numbers before he left, vowed to meet again—London wasn’t *so* far from Bristol. Margaret had run alongside the train, waving, and he’d nearly leaped out to stay forever.
All the way home, he’d curled on his bunk, aching for the warm sea, for her, making plans. It had all felt so certain. But promises made in passion rarely hold.
Back home, Emily came begging forgiveness—claimed she’d only meant to provoke him. Then he spotted the delicate new ring on her finger.
“Don’t bother. I’m done,” he’d said.
“I’ll throw it away!” She’d twisted it off.
Term began. He and Margaret wrote at first, even planned meetings—but William kept postponing. Then he married someone else.
That summer became a sun-faded memory, blurred by years of holidays in Spain, Portugal, or his in-laws’ country cottage. Then divorce… So many *then*s, he’d lost count.
Now retired, alone—no wife, no children—he’d thought returning might revive the past, turn back time for just a moment. But the seaside town had changed, and so had he. And Margaret.
***
Twenty minutes later, William sat eating a fine supper. Margaret poured homemade wine that left him drowsy. The seaside stroll could wait till morning. Upstairs, he showered and sank into the lavender-scented bed.
By breakfast, Margaret had gone out, leaving a spread on the table. He wandered the promenade, even paddled barefoot—too chilly for a proper swim.
At lunch, he asked why she lived alone.
“I don’t. Daughter’s family’s in York. Grandkids were here all summer—coming back for Christmas. Son-in-law fixed up the house, added this floor.”
“Your husband?”
She didn’t answer, turned the question back to him. Afterward, he offered to help in the garden, but she refused outright. Back in his room, sleep wouldn’t come.
Staring at the ceiling, he thought: *Why did I come? Should’ve stayed elsewhere, seen her from afar. Who turns up after forty years to barge into someone’s settled life? Could that daughter be mine? Might’ve been. Even if so, I never raised her, never bought her toys. She’s grown. What use am I now? God, what rubbish I’m thinking…*
Sometimes Margaret’s gaze lingered—as if she *did* know him. Flustered, he’d escape to the sea.
*Coward. Always were. Why not ask, confess? What’s there to lose?* But the words never came.
Soon it was time to leave. Stormy weather had set in, autumn truly taking hold.
Margaret packed him preserves, fruit, a cake for the journey. Shame gnawed at him—forty years ago, he’d turned her head and vanished. Now he’d returned, silent all this time. A proper mess.
She invited him back next year—just call ahead. He promised earnestly, knowing full well he’d never return.
A photo on the wall showed Margaret’s daughter with her husband and two boys. William searched for his own likeness. *Old fool.He never did call, but sometimes, on quiet evenings when the sea air drifted in through his window, he’d lift the jar of her homemade jam and let the sweetness carry him back.
