The Gift
Margaret walked through the flat, making sure everything was switched off and left tidy. She loved returning to a clean home. So why was she leaving her little paradise? What for? She was already living as if on 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.
She sighed, wheeled her suitcase out, and locked the door with two turns. Giving the handle a tug for good measure, she knocked on her neighbour’s door.
“Off already?” asked Sonia.
“Yes, just dropping off the keys.” Margaret reluctantly handed over the set.
“Don’t worry, I’ll water the plants and keep an eye on things. Just relax and enjoy yourself,” Sonia assured her. “Lucky you, having a daughter who spoils you with a holiday. My Darren only ever thinks about the pub. Had a family, a home, drank it all away…”
Margaret pitied her neighbour, but only now did it dawn on her—giving Sonia the keys might be risky. What if her son let himself in? Not that she had anything valuable, but losing even a little would sting. Everything cost money these days. And the thought of someone rifling through her things made her uneasy. She’d have preferred to ask someone else. Too late now. Besides, she didn’t want to offend Sonia, who’d helped her countless times.
The neighbour caught the hesitation on Margaret’s face.
“Don’t worry, I’ll hide the keys. Darren won’t know a thing. Go on, enjoy your trip. Everything will be fine,” she promised.
Margaret nodded and headed for the stairs.
“Safe travels!” Sonia called after her before shutting the door.
She walked to the station—why bother with a taxi for just two stops? And lugging 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, scanning for carriage nine. Found it, stopped. Best to wait here now rather than rush later.
“What if the numbering starts from the other end?” A flicker of worry crossed her mind. “No matter, the guard will announce it. I’ll have time.”
A week ago, her daughter had turned up unexpectedly, saying she’d bought an early birthday present so Margaret could prepare.
“Are you pregnant?” she’d asked.
A second child would be nice, but the first was barely a year old. Too soon for another.
“No, nothing like that. I’ve got you a seaside break. Train leaves on the eleventh, first-class. Here.” She’d handed over an envelope. “A week to pack and get ready.”
“What? Alone? Without you? On my actual birthday? What about guests, the dinner? No, I’m not going. Return the tickets.”
“Mum, I planned it so you wouldn’t be stuck in the kitchen all day. I wanted you to have a proper holiday—a reunion with the sea. When was the last time you went? Can’t even remember, can you? This is from me and Paul. Do what you like with it,” her daughter had huffed. “Don’t want the beach? Fine, stay home. But I’m not returning the tickets. What if I do get pregnant? Then you’ll forget the sea for years. I picked a lovely guesthouse, right by the water.”
So what could she do? Grumbled, of course, about decisions made without her, then started packing.
And now here she was. These trips—especially alone—brought more stress than joy. Would she miss the train? Who’d share her compartment? How would she settle in? At her age, extra worry wasn’t wise.
When the guard announced the platform, confirming the numbering started from the rear, Margaret relaxed. She’d got it right. Soon, the train’s whistle sounded. She tightened her grip on the suitcase, documents ready in her other hand. Other passengers waited nearby.
The train rushed past—finally, the last carriage. She almost bolted after it, convinced she’d never reach hers in time. But it stopped, jerked, and stilled. The attendant at carriage nine opened the door right opposite her, wiped the handrail, and prepared to check tickets.
Margaret was first in line. She boarded, found her compartment, sank onto the berth, and exhaled. Half the battle done—she was on the train.
The carriage jolted into motion. The door slid open, and three chatty girls piled in, filling the space with noise. Margaret stepped into the corridor to let them settle.
As the train sped up, forests and fields blurred past, rivers glinting under the evening sun. Summer nights were short—barely dark before dawn. The girls, still laughing, passed her for another carriage. Margaret changed, lay down, and drifted off to the rhythm of the rails.
She woke at a station stop, the announcer’s voice in the speakers. Pale light edged the window. Her watch showed half two. A strand of fair hair dangled from the top bunk—the girls had returned without waking her. Quiet, considerate. She dozed again.
Next time she woke, sunlight flooded the compartment, the air stifling. The girls still slept. Slipping out, she found the toilet occupied.
“Off to the seaside?” A man with a towel over his shoulder asked.
“Aren’t we all?” she replied curtly.
She turned away, but he prattled on. She tuned him out, relieved when the toilet freed up.
The girls hadn’t stirred. Thirsty, she tried the attendant’s door—locked. Fast asleep.
“No water. I checked. The restaurant’s two carriages down—decent tea there, not that swill they serve here,” the same man offered.
“Are you… hitting on me?” she snapped, whirling around.
“Why so sharp? Just making conversation. What else is there to do? And if I were, what’s the harm? Did someone hurt you, make you wary of men?”
“No one hurt me.” She brushed past him.
A commotion outside woke her. The train had stopped. Passengers streamed onto the platform. She followed.
“Fancy an ice cream? That kiosk sells them,” came the familiar voice.
She glared. “What if I do?”
“Back in a tick.” He darted off, returning with a wafer cone.
“Eat quick—it’s melting.”
“Mmm… chocolate. My favourite.” She licked it, eyes closing briefly.
“My wife loved chocolate too. Passed two years ago. Visiting my son in London. Always begs me to stay, but I can’t breathe there. Got my cottage, my garden…”
“Ah. Looking for a replacement,” she thought but kept quiet—he had bought her ice cream.
“…they’ll visit later. You here alone?”
“Listen. My life suits me. I’ve a daughter, a grandson, another on the way. Don’t get ideas.” She climbed back aboard.
Guilt nagged her. Maybe he’d meant nothing by it. Just lonely. Handsome, decent-looking—but she wanted no entanglements.
Stepping out later, she feared meeting him again. He’d taken the hint, moved on. Strangely, that stung.
Lavender hills shimmered in the distance, fields of sunflowers and vineyards stretching endlessly.
“Nearly there.”
She groaned at the voice.
“I thought I’d made myself clear—”
“Sorry. I meant no harm. Take this.” He pressed a slip into her hand. “My address and number. You’re a stranger here—I’m local. If you need help. No strings.”
She took it without looking. Passengers disembarked. He vanished into another carriage.
“Rude again,” she chided herself. The note had his details: Edward. A solid name, like him.
She lingered until the platform cleared. No sign of him. Taxis waited; she chose a driver who resembled a young Gary Barlow and was whisked to the guesthouse.
After settling in, she headed to the beach. Only half seven, but crowds already dotted the sand. She paddled, regretting not wearing her swimsuit. Plenty of time for that. Gazing at the horizon, breathing in the salt air, she stopped regretting the trip.
She bought a hat, spent hours strolling the promenade. Her skin glowed; she adored her reflection. A selfie went to her daughter with thanks. Market trips for fruit became routine.
One stall’s cherries beckoned—plump, crimson. The gruff seller named a steep price.
“That’s dear.”
“Try one. Worth every penny.”
“Too much.” She turned to leave.
“Know how much work goes into these?” he snapped. “Take it or leave it.”
“Knock off a bit. They’ll spoil soon.”
“What’ll you pay?”
She recalled prices back home—cheaper, but the fruit was bruised.
“Half a kilo. At your price.”
He silently bagged them, took the money.
“Teddy, change for fifty?” A man approached.
The seller—Teddy—dug out notes. Pocketing them, he noticed Margaret lingering.
“Something else?”
“*”Teddy… Edward… Edward Wilson?” Margaret hesitated before smiling. “I’d never have recognized you if not for that old nickname—you were Teddy Wilson from school, weren’t you? Last I heard, you’d become a doctor.”*
*”I did,” he said, without a trace of warmth. “Your lot came through last summer—Hargreaves made professor, can you believe it? Clever bastard. Lived in the same city for years and never crossed paths, then I move down here and suddenly it’s a reunion every market day.”*
Customers jostled past.
*”Where you staying? I’ll find you later,” he muttered, already turning away.*
Walking back, she caught herself smiling. Teddy Wilson. She’d been smitten with him at fifteen—daydreamed through maths, scribbled his name in margins. Then he’d vanished after sixth form. Once, at a bus stop years ago, she’d seen him with a redheaded girl and cried into her scarf all evening. And now, forty years gone, here he was on a seaside market stall.
He arrived at her guesthouse the next evening, scrubbed clean in a checked shirt, carrying grapes and peaches. Over wine at a harbourside café, he spilled the decades: the hospital scandal that cost him his license (“They needed a scapegoat”), the divorce, the quiet refuge he’d made here, tending apricot trees and doling out folk remedies to wary locals.
*”You fancied me?”* she blurted when he admitted it.
*”Course. But you married young. Saw you once pushing a pram—didn’t want to intrude.”*
*All that time,* she thought, watching him peel an orange with his thick fingers. *All that wasted love.*
His cottage was whitewashed, smelling of rosemary and woodsmoke. Neat, despite the clutter of a man living alone.
*”Stay,” he said abruptly as she admired his fig tree. “Your daughter’s got her own life. Rent your flat out. We’re not dead yet, Margaret.”*
She almost refused—habit, more than reason. But then he looked at her the way he had that summer they’d turned sixteen, all heat and hope, and suddenly she was laughing through tears.
*”Bloody hell, Teddy. Took you long enough.”*
And so she stayed.
