**A Trip to the Sea**
At fifty-nine, Edward James Wilson found himself a widower. His daughter, Emily, insisted he move in with her after the funeral.
“Dad, come live with us. How will you manage alone? It’s too hard. At least stay for a while, until you’ve settled.”
“Thank you, love, but no. I can look after myself—I’m not helpless. What would I even do there? You’re welcome to stay longer with me,” Edward said, hopeful.
Emily sighed. “Dad, Oliver’s going through his rebellious phase, and William’s swamped with work… I have to go back.” Her voice was heavy with guilt as she hugged him.
“I understand,” Edward murmured, patting her hand.
“Promise you’ll call if you need anything?”
“What would I need? I can cook, the washing machine does the laundry, and I can mop the floors. When your mum was ill, I learned it all. Unless you think the place is a mess?” His tone sharpened with defensiveness.
“No, Dad, it’s spotless. I’m just worried, that’s all.” She leaned into his shoulder.
“I won’t drown my sorrows in drink. Never fancied the stuff when I was young, and it’s too late to start now. Don’t fret—go on.”
With that, it was settled. Edward packed a heavy bag of treats for her. Emily lifted it, surprised.
“Dad, why so much? We have everything.”
“Try saying no to your mother. Take it—it won’t go to waste. The train will get you there, and William’ll meet you,” he grumbled affectionately.
At the station, they arrived just minutes before departure. The conductor checked her ticket and urged her aboard. Emily hugged him one last time, kissed his stubbled cheek, then hurried into the carriage, hiding her tears behind a forced smile. She waved until the train vanished into the distance.
Edward stood there, heart aching. Now he was truly alone. While Emily had been with him, he’d put on a brave face. But now, the tears came freely. The bustling station faded around him as he trudged toward the bus stop, lost in his grief.
“Oh, Margaret, how do I go on without you? Maybe I should’ve gone with Emily…” At the stop, he decided to walk home, delaying the return to his empty flat.
As he wandered the dusty streets, memories surfaced—how he’d met Margaret…
***
In school, Edward had been smitten with Lucy, a delicate girl with a spray of golden freckles and copper hair. Even in winter, they never faded, just softened. He’d called her his “sunshine.”
Then, in their final year, her father was diagnosed with tuberculosis. Doctors advised moving to a warmer climate. Lucy’s family sold their flat in Manchester and relocated to a seaside town in Cornwall.
At first, they wrote often. Edward would stare dreamily out the window or scribble letters, promising he’d visit next summer. His mother scolded him—he should be studying for university entrance exams, not mooning over a girl. But Edward was already there in spirit, with Lucy.
After his first year at uni, he joined a summer construction crew to save for the trip, refusing to ask his parents for money. He returned in August, lean and tanned, and announced he was going to Cornwall.
His mother balked. “Not alone! Write first, ask her parents. Don’t just turn up unannounced. A year’s passed—anything could’ve changed.”
Mobile phones didn’t exist yet, and landlines weren’t common, especially in rural homes. Reluctantly, Edward wrote, waiting anxiously for a reply, kicking himself for not planning sooner.
When the letter arrived, train tickets were nearly impossible to get. The whole world seemed determined to keep him from her. That summer slipped away, unspent by the sea.
Resentful, he wrote to Lucy, vowing to secure tickets early next year. They had time, he insisted…
She never replied. Edward moped, snapped at his parents, wrote letter after letter—all unanswered.
Then, one rainy autumn morning, he crashed into a girl on his way to the bus stop. Her bag tumbled into a puddle. He missed his lectures that day.
They sat in a café, talking effortlessly, as if they’d known each other forever. Margaret was studying nursing. Her books dried on the radiator by the window.
“You’re not missing anything important, are you?” Edward asked.
“An anatomy exam. The professor’s strict—I’d have failed anyway,” she said lightly.
Her dark eyes captivated him—deep, fathomless pools. At first, Lucy still haunted his thoughts. But Margaret was here, real.
His mother approved immediately. Margaret was steady, kind, practical—a nurse, no less. Their love was calm, unwavering. They graduated together, married soon after, and a year later, Emily was born.
Lucy sometimes visited his dreams. He’d wake unsettled, but Margaret and Emily would ground him. Lucy likely had her own family now. No use dwelling.
***
Back home, Edward refused to wallow. He ripped the black drapes from mirrors, washed Emily’s sheets, flung open windows, and mopped floors. The flat buzzed with city noise, less empty now.
“See, Margaret? I’m managing. Don’t worry about me. We’ll meet again soon,” he murmured, glancing at her framed photo. He hadn’t let Emily tie a black ribbon around it. “To me, she’s alive—right here.”
At work, his boss called him in.
“I know it’s hard. We’ve arranged a seaside trip for you—barrel season’s peaceful, plenty of fruit.”
“But I’ve used my leave,” Edward said.
“Take unpaid time. I’ve authorised a hardship grant. Consider it a bonus for your dedication.”
Edward booked a mid-September train ticket and submitted his leave form.
He and Margaret had only visited the coast once, when Emily was five and constantly ill. A doctor recommended sea air for her immunity. After the trip, she’d thrived. But Margaret’s heart troubles began soon after—no more travels.
On the train, Edward dozed and reminisced. “What if I saw Lucy again? Would she resent me?” he wondered. Then he chided himself. She had her own life. Another thought surfaced: “Retirement’s next year. Maybe sell the flat, move closer to Emily?”
His hotel room was spacious, modern, with a sea view. He visited Brighton, joined tours, and spent evenings watching waves lap the shingle. “Margaret, I wish you were here,” he whispered.
One sunset, a petite woman stopped nearby. Though warm, she bundled herself in a chunky grey cardigan, her hair tucked under a crocheted cap. She reminded him of Lucy.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? I come every evening. Never gets old,” Edward said.
She didn’t answer.
“I’m staying nearby. Try to catch the sunset when I can,” she finally said, eyes fixed on the horizon.
“Is it just as lovely in winter?”
“Depends. Storms roll in often.”
She turned briefly. Sunset gilded her face—he couldn’t tell if freckles lingered.
“You seem familiar. Not a line—just an observation,” he added hastily.
She eyed him skeptically.
“My wife and I vacationed in Bournemouth once. Were you there?”
“Excuse me,” she said, walking away.
The next day, she didn’t come. Edward scoffed at himself. “Going senile, old man?”
After a storm, he spotted her crocheted cap again.
“You live nearby?” he ventured after discussing the tempest.
“Yes. But I don’t rent rooms, if that’s what you’re after.”
“I worried I frightened you yesterday.”
Silence.
“I’m Edward. And you?”
“Lucille,” she said after a pause.
“In my youth, I loved a girl named Lucy. Wanted to marry her.”
“What stopped you?”
“Her father had tuberculosis. They moved to the coast. I promised to visit, even worked all summer to afford it.”
Lucille listened, silent.
“My parents refused. No tickets, either. Never made it.”
“I wouldn’t have let my son go alone either,” she said.
“I carried the guilt for years. Then I met someone else. My wife died two months ago.”
They watched the fading sunset in silence.
Lucille left without another word.
Later, Edward overheard a quarrel. Behind a fence, Lucille argued with a drunken man.
“That’s her ex—shows up like clockwork for booze money,” a neighbour muttered.
When the man shoved Lucille, Edward rushed in, shoving him aside.
“You alright? Need an ambulance?”
The drunkard staggered, slurring denials.
“Piss off before I call the police,” Edward snapped.
“Who’re you to order me about? Her new bloke?”
A blow to Edward’s skull sent him reeling. Darkness swallowed him—Lucille’s frightened face the last thing he saw.He woke in the hospital to find Lucille watching over him, her crocheted cap gone, her hair streaked with silver, and in that moment, he knew—some paths, no matter how far they veer, always lead back to where they began.
