Hope went through her flat one last time, making sure everything was turned off and in its proper place. She always loved coming back to a tidy home. Why was she even leaving her little paradise? What was the point? Her life was already like a holiday—she did as she pleased. But if she didn’t go, her daughter would be upset. The trip to the seaside was a birthday gift from her, after all.
She sighed, wheeled her suitcase out, and locked the door with two turns of the key. She tugged the handle, just to be sure, then knocked on the neighbour’s door.
“Off already, then?” asked Sonia, her neighbour.
“Yes, just dropping off the keys.” Hope reluctantly handed them over.
“Don’t fret, I’ll water your plants and keep an eye on things. Enjoy yourself—you’ve a lovely daughter, buying you a holiday like this. My Billy only ever thinks of the pub. Had a family, a home—lost it all to the drink…”
Hope pitied the woman, but it only then struck her how risky it was to leave her keys with Sonia. What if her son let himself in? She didn’t own anything valuable, but even small things cost money. And the thought of someone rifling through her belongings made her uneasy. She wished she’d asked someone else to watch the flat. Too late now. And she didn’t want to offend Sonia, who’d always been kind.
The neighbour noticed her hesitation.
“Don’t worry, I’ll hide the keys. Billy won’t know a thing. Off you go—all will be fine,” she promised.
Hope nodded and headed for the stairs.
“Safe travels,” Sonia called after her before shutting the door.
She walked to the station—no sense taking a taxi for two stops, and dragging a suitcase onto the bus would only inconvenience others. Through the underpass, she reached the platforms just as a train pulled in. She walked along the carriages until she found hers, then waited. Best to stay put now, rather than rush later.
“What if the numbering starts from the other end?” she fretted. Then calmed herself: “The guard will announce it—I’ll have time.”
A week ago, her daughter had shown up unannounced, saying she’d bought the trip as an early birthday gift so Hope could prepare.
“Are you pregnant?” Hope had blurted out.
A second child would be nice, but the first was barely a year old. Too soon for another.
“No, nothing like that. I’ve booked you a seaside getaway. Train leaves on the eleventh, first-class. Here.” She’d handed over the envelope. “A week’s plenty of time to get ready.”
“What? Alone? Without you? On my actual birthday! What about guests? The dinner? No, I’m not going. Return the ticket.”
“Mum, I planned it so you wouldn’t spend the day slaving in the kitchen. Thought you’d like a proper celebration—the sea. When was the last time you went south? Can’t even remember, can you? It’s a gift from me and Paul. Do what you like with it.” Her daughter had sounded hurt. “Don’t want the sea? Fine, stay home. But I’m not returning the ticket. If I get pregnant, you won’t see the coast for years. I picked a nice guesthouse, right by the water.”
What could she do? Grumbled, of course, about decisions made without her, then started packing.
And now here she was at the station. These trips, especially alone, brought more worry than joy. Would she miss the train? Who’d share her compartment? How would she settle in? At her age, stress wasn’t wise.
When the guard announced the train’s arrival—carriages numbered from the rear—she relaxed. Her calculations were right. Soon, the whistle sounded, and the train rushed in. Hope tightened her grip on the suitcase, documents ready in her other hand. Others waited nearby with their luggage.
The train slowed, then jerked to a stop. The attendant opened the door right in front of her, wiped the handrail, and checked tickets. Hope was first aboard, settling into her compartment with a sigh. Half the battle was over—she was on the train.
It lurched forward, gaining speed. The door slid open noisily as three girls bustled in, filling the space with chatter. Hope stepped into the corridor to give them room.
Fields and woods flashed by outside, rivers gleaming in the fading light. July nights were short—darkness barely settled before dawn. The girls, still laughing, passed her on their way to another carriage. Hope changed into nightclothes and lay down, lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the rails.
She woke at a station stop, the announcer’s voice echoing. The sky had lightened. Her watch read half two. A blond curl dangled from the upper bunk—the girls must’ve returned quietly. Praising their consideration, she slept again.
Next time she woke, sunlight flooded the compartment, stiflingly hot. The girls still slept. Hope slipped out, finding the lavatory occupied.
“Off to the seaside?” asked a man with a towel slung over his shoulder.
“Everyone here is,” she replied dryly.
She turned away, hoping to end the conversation. He prattled on. She barely listened, relieved when the lavatory freed up.
Back in the compartment, thirst gnawed at her. The attendant’s door was shut—probably fast asleep.
“No water. I’ve checked,” came the man’s voice again. “There’s a buffet car two carriages down. Proper tea there, not this swill.”
“Are you bothering me?” she snapped, wheeling around.
“Why so sharp? Just making conversation. What else is there to do on a train? And if I were bothering you, what’s the harm? Who’s hurt you, that you shy from men?”
“No one’s hurt me.” She pushed past him.
She woke to commotion outside. The train had stopped. At first, she feared trouble, then realised passengers were disembarking for a break. She joined them.
“Fancy an ice cream? That kiosk sells them,” said the now-familiar voice.
Hope glared.
“What if I do?”
“Wait here.” He darted off, returning with a wafer cone. “Quick, before it melts.”
“Mmm… Chocolate. My favourite.” She closed her eyes as the cool sweetness touched her tongue.
“My late wife loved chocolate too. Passed two years back. Visiting my son in London. Always begs me to stay longer, but the city chokes me. Got my cottage, my garden…”
“Ah, looking to replace her,” Hope thought but held her tongue—he had bought her ice cream, after all.
“…they’ll visit later, on holiday. You’re alone?”
“Listen, my life suits me. I’ve a daughter, a grandchild, another on the way. Don’t get ideas about me.” She boarded without another word.
Shame pricked her later. Maybe he’d meant nothing by it—just a talkative soul. Respectable-looking, too. But she wanted no entanglements, however brief.
She dreaded seeing him again. He’d taken the hint, moved on to other women. Strangely, that stung.
Lavender hills shimmered in the distance, fields of sunflowers and ripening grain stretching endlessly under a clear sky.
“We’ve arrived.”
His voice made her groan.
“I thought I’d made myself clear—”
“Apologies. I meant no harm. Take this.” He handed her a slip of paper. “My address and number. You’re a stranger here—I’m local. If you need help, call. No strings.”
She took it without reading. Passengers streamed past. He retreated to his compartment.
“Now I’ve offended him again,” she chided herself. The note bore an address, a number, and a name: William. Solid. Like him.
She disembarked last, scanning the platform. No sign of William. Taxi drivers called for fares, but she chose a young one—reminded her of that pop singer—who drove her to the guesthouse.
After settling in, she went straight to the sea. Only half-seven, yet the beach was crowded. She walked barefoot in the shallows, regretting she hadn’t changed. Plenty of time for swimming later. Gazing where sky met water, she breathed in the salt air—no regrets now.
She bought a wide-brimmed hat and strolled for hours along the promenade, her skin tanning, her spirits lifting. She took a selfie in the hat, sending it to her daughter with thanks. The market became a daily stop for fruit.
One day, cherries at a stall caught her eye—plump, near-bursting. The surly vendor named his price.
“Steep, isn’t it?”
“Try one. They’re sweet,” he offered.
“Too dear,” she said, turning away.
“Know how much work goes into these?” he snapped. “Don’t want them? Don’t buy.”
“Knock off a bit. They won’t keep,” she haggled.
“What’ll you pay?”She hesitated, then met his gaze—the same shy boy from her school days, now weathered but still familiar—and softly replied, “I’ll stay.”
