A Seaside Town
Evening settled over the small coastal town. Autumn hadn’t quite made itself known yet—only the tourists had thinned out. Edward was the type who hated beach crowds and the summer heat, so he’d chosen October for his trip. Still warm enough for a swim, but the nights were crisp and fresh. And he had another reason for coming here, too.
He walked slowly, squinting at the street names on the houses. He’d thought arriving would bring everything back, but nothing looked familiar. Stopping at the right address, he pulled a crumpled note from his pocket to double-check. The house was the same, but the old single-story cottage was gone—replaced by a two-story home with a pointed roof. Through the wrought-iron fence, he could see a neatly kept garden with trees heavy with apples, pears, and plums.
Edward shrugged off his backpack, set it down, and wiped his damp forehead with a handkerchief. Deeper in the garden, a woman was taking laundry off the line. He watched her back for a moment. *Could her mother still be alive?* he wondered. The woman lifted a basket of clothes and turned to leave. Edward drew a breath and called out:
“Excuse me—do you still rent rooms?”
She glanced over her shoulder, then walked to the gate. Up close, he realized his mistake—she was his age.
“Looking for a room?” she asked, narrowing her eyes as if studying his face.
“Yes. Some friends stayed here over summer, recommended I try you,” he lied.
“Bit late in the season, isn’t it?”
“Perfect for me. Can’t stand the heat.” Edward smiled. “So, any vacancies?”
“Plenty. Place is empty,” she said, setting the basket down and unlatching the gate. “Come in—head straight to the house, door’s open.”
Edward grabbed his bag and walked past her.
“Go on in,” she urged when he hesitated at the door.
He stepped into a spacious entryway that doubled as a sitting room. Bright, clean, tastefully furnished—nothing like the cramped little place he remembered.
“Your room’s upstairs. I’ll show you,” she said.
The wooden steps gave a quiet creak under his weight. *There wasn’t even a second floor back then. Am I in the right place?*
“Door on the right,” she directed. “How long are you staying? Though, doesn’t matter. Bathroom’s next door—shared between three rooms, but you’ll have it to yourself.”
Edward entered a small, cozy bedroom. Through the window, the sea stretched out under a blazing sunset.
“Like something out of a fairy tale,” he murmured without thinking.
“Your friends mention the rates? It’s off-season, so it’s cheaper. Meals are extra.”
“Suits me fine.” Edward turned and smiled. “What should I call you?”
“Margaret. And you?”
“E—Edward,” he said, stumbling slightly.
*Margaret. Could it really be her? She’s changed so much. But what did I expect? That forty years wouldn’t touch her? Time changes everything. She doesn’t recognise me.*
“You ever stayed here before?” Margaret asked, as if reading his thoughts. “The way you’re looking at me, I just thought—”
“Never been in this house before,” he said quickly, scanning the room again.
“Dinner?”
“If it’s no trouble.” He searched her face for traces of the girl he’d known.
“None at all. Come down in twenty minutes,” she said, leaving.
Edward sank onto the edge of the bed—firm, silent. Forty years ago, he’d slept downstairs in a cramped little room. No second floor then.
*She didn’t recognise me. Can’t blame her—forty years is a long time. Probably forgot me years ago. Plumper now, older. If I’d passed her in the street, I’d never have known her. Oh, Margaret… so much water under the bridge.*
***
He’d come here with two mates that summer, to a quiet town by the English Channel. His girlfriend, Charlotte, was supposed to join them—but just before the trip, he’d caught her with another man. There’d been a row, tears, and she refused to come. Edward nearly cancelled his trip, too. What was the point of a holiday when the world had collapsed?
But his mate convinced him to go—get out of London, clear his head. They’d all crammed into one room with Michael and his girlfriend, Lucy. Awkward, especially with Edward feeling like a third wheel. He spent evenings wandering the promenade, giving them space, and even on the beach, he kept his distance.
That’s how he met Margaret. She swam far from the crowds, diving effortlessly. They got talking, and Edward asked where she was staying.
“I’m local—just back from uni, helping Mum with the garden,” she said, pulling a sundress over her damp swimsuit.
“Mind if I walk you? Wait for me,” he said, scrambling for his things.
On the way, he asked if her mum rented rooms.
“Course. Most here do—winters are quiet. Need the money.”
“I’ve got a place, but it’s a bit… crowded.”
“Well, if you like, you could stay with us. I’ll ask Mum,” she offered.
Edward agreed without even seeing the room. It turned out tiny and overpriced, but Michael and Lucy’s protests didn’t change his mind.
“Got my reasons,” he’d said vaguely, and they dropped it.
Two weeks flew by. He hardly thought of Charlotte—why would he, with Margaret beside him, pretty and smitten? At the time, he’d almost believed he loved her, too.
Once, he overheard her mum scolding her for staying out late with “that lodger.” But every evening, they still met by the sea—lying on the sand, watching stars, kissing until dawn tinged the sky.
Before leaving, they exchanged numbers, promised to meet again—after all, Manchester wasn’t *that* far from London. Margaret waved as his train pulled away, and for a mad moment, he nearly jumped out to stay with her forever.
The whole journey home, he lay on his bunk, staring at the wall. Missing the sea. Missing her. Making plans. Foolishly believing they’d come true.
But promises made in passion are cheap. The moment he got back, Charlotte showed up, tearful apologies on her lips—she’d only been trying to make him jealous. Then he noticed the new ring on her finger.
“Don’t bother. It’s over,” he’d said.
“Want me to throw it away?” She tugged at the ring.
Then term started. At first, he and Margaret wrote, even planned visits—but Edward kept postponing. Then, eventually, he married someone else.
That summer became just a warm, fading memory. Holidays with the wife later took them to Spain, Portugal, or his in-laws’ cottage. Then divorce… So many “then”s, he could hardly keep track.
Now, retired and alone—no wife, no kids—it struck him that revisiting the past might, for a moment, turn back time. But nothing was the same—not the town, not him, not Margaret.
***
Twenty minutes later, Edward sat eating a hearty supper. Margaret poured him a glass of homemade wine that left him drowsy. The seaside stroll could wait till morning. Upstairs, he showered, then collapsed onto the lavender-scented sheets.
At breakfast, the table was set—Margaret had gone out. He wandered the promenade, even waded barefoot in the shallows. Too cold for a proper swim.
Over lunch, he asked why she lived alone.
“Not alone. My daughter’s in York—grandkids stayed all summer. They’ll be back for Christmas. Son-in-law fixed up the house, added the upstairs.”
“Husband?” Edward asked.
She ignored the question, steering talk back to him. After, he offered to help with chores, but she refused. So he retreated upstairs, though sleep wouldn’t come.
Staring at the ceiling, he thought: *What am I doing here? Should’ve just booked another place, seen her from afar. Who turns up after forty years and barges into someone’s life? Could that daughter be mine? Maybe. But even if she is, I never raised her, never bought her toys. What good am I now? Bloody stupid thoughts…*
Sometimes, he caught Margaret studying him—maybe she *did* recognise him. He’d blush and escape to the sea.
*Coward. Always were. Just ask her, talk properly. What’s there to lose?* But he kept putting it off.
Then it was time to leave. Rain set in, the sea turned rough—autumn had arrived.
Margaret packed him fruit, jars of jam, even a cake for the journey. Shame gnawed at him—forty years ago, he’d swept her off her feet, then vanished. Now he’d shown up, silent for two weeks. Pathetic.
She invited him back next year. “Just call first.” He promised firmly,He never did return, but sometimes, when the first frost painted his window in Manchester, he’d uncork one of her jars of jam and let the taste of that seaside summer linger, just for a moment.
