Hope walked through her flat, checking that everything was switched off and tidy. She loved coming back to a clean home. Why was she even leaving her comfortable little paradise? Why bother? She lived as though on permanent holiday, doing as she pleased. But if she didn’t go, her daughter would be upset. The seaside trip was a birthday gift from her.
With a sigh, she wheeled her suitcase out and locked the door with two turns of the key. She gave the handle a tug to be sure, then knocked on her neighbour Sophie’s door.
“Off already?” Sophie asked.
“Yes, just dropping off the keys.” Hope reluctantly handed them over.
“Don’t worry, I’ll water your plants and keep an eye on things. Enjoy yourself—no need to fret,” Sophie reassured her. “Lucky you, with a daughter who buys you a holiday. My Ben only thinks about the pub. Had a family, a home—lost it all to drink…”
Hope felt a pang of sympathy, but it struck her now how risky it was to leave her keys with Sophie. What if her son rifled through her flat? Not that she had anything valuable, but even small things cost money. And the thought of someone poking through her belongings made her uneasy. She regretted not arranging for someone else to watch her flat. Too late now. She didn’t want to offend Sophie with distrust—she’d helped her plenty.
Sophie noticed her hesitation.
“Don’t worry, I’ll hide the keys. Ben won’t know a thing. Go on—it’ll be fine,” she promised.
Hope nodded and wheeled her case toward the stairs.
“Safe travels,” Sophie called before shutting her door.
The station wasn’t far—no need for a cab just two stops away. Wrestling a suitcase onto a bus would only inconvenience others. She took the subway tunnel up to the platforms, where a passing train stood ready. Scanning the carriages, she found coach nine and stopped to wait.
“What if the numbering starts from the other end?” The worry flared, then faded. “No, the conductor usually announces it—I’ll have time.”
A week ago, her daughter had shown up unannounced, saying she wanted to give Hope’s birthday present early so she’d have time to prepare.
“Are you pregnant?” Hope had blurted.
A second child would be nice, but the first was barely a year old—too soon for another.
“No, I’m not. I’ve bought you a trip to the coast. Train leaves the eleventh, first-class. Here.” She handed over an envelope. “A whole week to get ready.”
“Alone? Without you? What’s this madness? On my actual birthday! What about guests? The meal? No, I’m not going. Return the ticket,” Hope had insisted.
“Mum, I planned it so you wouldn’t spend the day sweating in the kitchen like it’s a factory shift. I wanted you to have a proper holiday—by the sea. When was the last time you went? You can’t even remember. It’s a gift from me and Paul. Do what you want with it,” her daughter had said, hurt. “Don’t want the sea? Stay home. But I won’t return it. If I get pregnant again, you’ll be stuck for years. I picked a lovely guesthouse, right on the shore.”
What could she do? Grumble, of course—about decisions made without her—then start packing.
And so here she was. Trips like this, especially alone, brought more stress than joy. The dread of missing the train, the uncertainty of carriage-mates, the hassle of settling in—at her age, unnecessary strain.
When the tannoy announced the train’s arrival—carriages numbered from the rear—she relaxed. Her guess had been right. Soon, the whistle of the approaching train sounded. Hope adjusted her grip on the suitcase, documents ready in her other hand. Other passengers waited nearby.
The train rushed past, the end carriages in sight now. She nearly bolted after them, convinced it would overshoot and she’d never reach her coach in time. But it jolted to a stop. The attendant at coach nine opened the door right in front of her, wiped the handrail, and prepared to check tickets.
Hope handed hers over first, climbed aboard, found her berth, sat, and exhaled. Half the battle won—she was on the train.
With another lurch, it moved. The door slid open noisily, and three young women crowded in, filling the space with chatter. Hope stepped into the corridor to let them settle.
Fields and woods sped past the window, rivers gleaming in the fading light. July nights were short—darkness barely settled before dawn. The girls laughed their way past her to another carriage. Hope changed into her nightclothes and lay down. The rhythm of the wheels lulled her to sleep.
She woke at a station stop, the tannoy murmuring overhead. The sky had lightened. Her watch read half-two. A lock of fair hair dangled from the upper berth—she hadn’t heard the girls return. Quiet lasses—she approved—then slept again.
Next time she woke, sunlight flooded the compartment, stuffy and airless. The girls still slept. Hope slipped into the corridor, eased the door shut. The toilet was occupied.
“Off to the seaside?” A man with a towel over his shoulder smiled.
“Seems everyone is,” Hope replied wryly.
She wasn’t in the mood for chat, least of all by the loo. Turning away, she hoped he’d take the hint. He didn’t.
“Water’s off. I checked. Restaurant car’s two down—decent tea there, not that swill they serve here,” he offered.
“Listen, are you chatting me up?” She spun to face him.
“Why so harsh? Just passing time. What else is there to do? Even if I were, what’s wrong with that? Someone hurt you, is that it?”
“No one hurt me.” She pushed past him back to her berth.
The sound of hurried footsteps woke her. The train had stopped. At first, she thought something was wrong—then realised passengers were spilling onto the platform. She joined them.
“Fancy an ice cream? That kiosk sells them,” said the familiar voice.
Hope eyed him like a bothersome fly.
“And if I do?”
“Here.” He darted off, returning with a waffle cone. “Eat quick—it’s melting.”
“Mmm… chocolate. My favourite.” She licked it, eyes closing briefly in pleasure.
“My wife loved chocolate too. Died two years back. Visiting my son in London. Always begs me to stay, but the city chokes me. Got my home, my garden…”
“Ah, hunting for a replacement,” she thought—but didn’t say it. He had bought her ice cream, after all.
“…they’ll visit later, on holiday. You here alone?”
“Listen. My life suits me just fine. I don’t want changes. A daughter, a grandson, another on the way. Don’t pin hopes on me,” she said, climbing back aboard.
Shame prickled her. Maybe he’d meant nothing by it—just a friendly soul. A decent-looking man, but she wanted no entanglements, fleeting or otherwise.
Stepping out later, she half-hoped to see him. He’d taken the hint, moved on to other women. Oddly, the thought disappointed her.
Lavender hills shimmered in the distance, endless sunflower fields rolling by.
“Nearly there.”
She nearly groaned at his voice.
“I believe I’ve made myself clear—”
“Sorry. No harm meant. Take this.” He held out 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 looking. Passengers were leaving. He disappeared into another carriage.
“Blast. Rude again.” She glanced at the note—Walter’s name, number, address. Strong name, like the man himself.
She disembarked last, scanning for him. Taxi drivers touted for fares. Most waved them off, but Hope approached one—a lad who vaguely reminded her of Ed Sheeran. He drove her to the guesthouse.
After settling in, she headed straight for the sea. Only half-seven, yet the beach was busy. She kicked off her sandals, waded in, regretting not changing first. No matter—plenty of time for swimming. Gazing at the horizon, breathing in the salt air, she felt glad she’d come.
She bought a wide-brimmed hat, strolled the promenade for hours. The tan suited her; she liked how she looked in photos. She sent one to her daughter with thanks. The market became a daily stop for fruit.
One day, she paused at a stall heaped with cherries. Plump, crimson—ready to burst with juice. The surly vendor named his price.
“That’s steep.”
“Try one. Sweet as anything.”
“Too dear,” she said, turning away.
“You’ve no idea the work that goes into these. Don’t want ’em? Don’t buy.”
“KnockShe took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and dialed the number on the slip of paper, realizing that sometimes life’s greatest gifts come when we least expect them.
