**A Trip to the Sea**
At fifty-nine, Edward James Wilson found himself a widower. His daughter, Emily, suggested he move in with her straight after the funeral.
“Dad, come stay with us. How can you manage here alone? It’s too much. Just for a little while, until you’re back on your feet—”
“Thank you, love, but no. Don’t worry about me. I’m not some helpless old man—I can take care of myself. What would I even do at yours? Better you stay here with me longer,” Edward said hopefully.
Emily sighed. “Dad, Oliver and Daniel need me. Oliver’s at that impossible teenage stage, Daniel’s swamped with work… I have to go.” She hugged him tightly.
“I understand.” He patted her hand.
“Promise you’ll call if you need anything?”
“What could I possibly need? I can cook, the washing machine does the laundry, and I can mop floors. I learned everything when your mum was ill. She just gave directions. Unless you think the place is a mess?” His voice held a hint of hurt.
“Of course not, it’s spotless. I’m just worried, that’s all.” She leaned her head on his shoulder.
“I won’t drown my sorrows in whisky. Never did when I was young, and it’s a bit late to start now. Don’t fret—off you go.”
That settled it. Edward packed Emily a mountain of food for the journey. She hefted the heavy bag with a laugh.
“Dad, why so much? We have food at home.”
“Try saying no to your mother, eh? Take it, it won’t go to waste. The train’ll get it there, and Daniel can carry it.”
At the station, they arrived just in time. The attendant checked her ticket and hurried her aboard—the train would leave any second.
Emily hugged him one last time, kissing his stubbled cheek before grabbing the bag, her eyes glistening. She scrambled onto the train, waving through the window as the doors closed.
Edward stood watching until the train shrank to a speck and vanished. The ache in his chest deepened. Alone now. He’d held it together while Emily was here, but now the tears came. People bustled around him, laughing, chatting—he walked to the bus stop as if through a desert, seeing nothing.
“Ah, Margaret… how do I live without you? Maybe I should’ve gone with Emily…” At the bus stop, he decided to walk home, delaying the moment he’d have to face the empty flat.
As he trudged down the dusty street, memories surfaced. How he’d met Margaret…
***
Back in school, Edward had been mad about Lily—a delicate girl with copper hair and a dusting of golden freckles that never faded, even in winter. He called her his “sunshine.”
Then, in their final year, her father was diagnosed with tuberculosis. Doctors said they had to move somewhere warmer, so Lily’s parents sold up and left for the south coast, buying a house by the sea.
At first, they wrote constantly. Edward’s mother would scold him for staring out the window or scribbling letters instead of studying for university entrance exams. He barely heard her—his mind was already there, with Lily.
After his first year at uni, he joined a summer work crew to save up for the trip south, refusing to ask his parents for money. He returned in August, sunburnt and lean, and announced he was going to see Lily.
His mother was furious.
“You can’t just turn up unannounced! Write to her parents first, ask if it’s all right. A year’s passed—anything could’ve changed.”
Mobile phones didn’t exist yet, and landlines were rare, especially in private homes. So Edward wrote another letter, impatiently waiting for a reply, kicking himself for not writing sooner.
When the answer came, train tickets were impossible to get—let alone return ones. Everyone, it seemed, had conspired to spend summer by the sea. Edward never made it that year.
Bitter at the world, he wrote Lily, vowing to come next summer, promising they had their whole lives ahead…
She never replied. Edward moped, snapped at his parents, wrote letter after letter—nothing.
Then, on a rainy autumn morning, he crashed into a girl on his way to the bus stop. Her bag tumbled into a puddle. He never made it to class.
They sat in a café talking. With Margaret, it was easy—like he’d known her forever. She was at nursing college. Her wet textbooks dried on the radiator.
“Did I make you miss anything important?” he asked.
“An anatomy test. The lecturer’s a tyrant—I’d have failed anyway,” she said lightly.
Her dark eyes mesmerised him—bottomless pools. At first, he still thought of Lily, but she was far away, and Margaret was right here.
His mother adored Margaret—sensible, kind, a nurse. Perfect for her only son. Their love was steady, like Margaret herself. They graduated, married, and a year later, Margaret gave birth to Emily.
Lily still drifted into his dreams sometimes, leaving him restless, but he’d calm, surrounded by Margaret and Emily. Lily had surely moved on too. No use dwelling.
***
Back home, Edward refused to wallow. He stripped the black cloths from the mirrors, washed Emily’s sheets, flung the windows open, and mopped the floors. The flat filled with city noise, feeling less empty.
“See, Margaret? Managing fine. Don’t you worry.” He glanced at her photo. He hadn’t let Emily tie a black ribbon on the frame. “She’s alive to me—right here,” he’d said firmly.
At work, his boss called him in.
“We’ve organised a trip for you—the south coast. Take a break. It’s the quiet season now, peaceful, plenty of fresh fruit.”
“But I’ve already had my holiday,” Edward said.
“Take unpaid leave. We’ve approved a hardship grant—consider it a bonus.” His boss clapped his shoulder.
Edward booked a mid-September train ticket and filed for leave.
He and Margaret had only been south once, when Emily was five and constantly ill. A doctor suggested sea air for her weak immune system. After the trip, she’d thrived. Then Margaret’s heart trouble started, and trips were off the table.
On the train, Edward dozed and reminisced to the rhythm of the tracks. “What if I bumped into Lily?” he wondered. “See how she is… but she’ll have her own life now. No point.”
Another thought replaced it: “Retirement next year. Maybe sell the flat, move closer to Emily…”
The hotel room was spacious, modern, with a sea view. He visited Brighton a few times, joined tours, but evenings were best—sitting by the shore, watching waves hiss over pebbles. He wished Margaret were there.
One evening, as the sun painted the sky orange, a petite woman stopped nearby. Though warm, she wore a bulky grey cardigan and a crocheted hat. She reminded him of Lily. He wanted to see her face.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? I come every evening. Never gets old,” he said.
She didn’t reply. Maybe she thought he was flirting?
“I live here. I watch the sunset when I can,” she finally said, eyes on the sea.
“Is it just as lovely in winter?”
“Different. Stormy often.”
She turned. The sun lit her face gold—he couldn’t tell if she had freckles.
“You seem familiar. Not a chat-up line—just a feeling.”
She eyed him skeptically.
“My wife and daughter holidayed in Bournemouth once. Were you there?”
“I should go.” She walked off.
The next day, he watched for her. She didn’t come. “Pathetic, old man,” he scolded himself.
Then a storm hit. From his balcony, Edward watched the churning sea.
The following evening, he spotted her crocheted hat. A raincoat this time.
He greeted her. “Do you live nearby?”
“Yes. But I don’t rent rooms, if that’s what you’re after.”
“I worried I startled you last time. I’m Edward. And you?”
“Alice,” she said after a pause.
“Funny—I was in love with a girl named Lily in my youth. Almost married her.”
“What stopped you?”
“Her father got TB. They moved south. I promised to visit, even worked all summer to afford it.”
She listened silently.
“My parents wouldn’t let me go. No tickets either.”
“I wouldn’t let my son travel alone either,” Alice said.
“I carried the guilt for years. Then I met someone else, married. She died two months ago.”
They stood quietly as the sunset faded. Alice left without a word.
After the storm, the air turned crisp. Walking through town, Edward heard shouts behind a fence. Alice was arguing with a swaying, unshaven man.
“That’s Alice’s ex,” a passing woman muttered. “Twenty years divorced, and he stillHe sighed, watching her walk away, knowing some stories weren’t meant to have endings—just quiet goodbyes.
