The Seaside Town
Evening settled over the little coastal town. Autumn had not yet made itself truly felt, though the holidaymakers had dwindled. William was the sort who disliked beach crowds and the sweltering heat, so he had chosen October for his seaside visit. It was still warm enough to swim, yet the nights were cool and fresh. But he had another reason for coming here.
He walked slowly, carefully reading the street signs on the houses. He had thought returning would bring back memories at once, but nothing seemed familiar. At the house he was looking for, he stopped, pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, and double-checked the address. It was correct—the same one, though in place of the old single-storey cottage now stood a two-storey house with a pointed roof. Through the iron railings of the fence, he could see a well-tended garden with trees heavy with the fruit of limes, persimmons, and apples.
William slid the sports bag from his shoulder and set it down, then took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his damp forehead. Deep in the garden, a woman was taking laundry down from the lines. He saw her from behind. *Could her mother still be alive?* he wondered. Just then, the woman lifted a basket of laundry from the ground and turned to leave. William drew a breath and called out:
“Good evening! Do you have a room to let?”
The woman turned her head, looked at him, and approached the gate. Up close, he realised his mistake—she was about his own age.
“You’re looking for a room?” she asked, squinting slightly as she studied his face.
“Yes. Some friends of mine stayed here over the summer—they recommended you,” he lied.
“A bit late in the season, aren’t you? Most visitors have gone now.”
“Exactly why I came. I can’t bear the heat,” William said, smiling. “So, do you have a room?”
“All of them, if you like. They’re all free,” she replied, setting the basket down and opening the gate. “Come in, then. The door’s unlocked.”
He picked up his bag and walked past her.
“Go on in,” she urged when he hesitated at the threshold.
Inside was a spacious hallway that doubled as a sitting room. Clean, bright, comfortably furnished—nothing like he remembered.
“Your room’s upstairs. I’ll show you,” she said.
The steps creaked faintly under his weight. *There was no upstairs before. Am I even in the right place?*
“First door on the right,” she directed. “How long are you staying? Not that it matters. The bathroom’s next door—shared between three rooms, but you’ll be the only guest, so it’s all yours.”
He stepped into a small, cosy room. Through the window, the sea stretched out, bathed in the deep crimson of sunset.
“Like something out of a storybook,” William murmured, unable to hide his admiration.
“Did your friends mention the rates? It’s off-season now, so I’ve lowered them. Meals are extra.”
“That’s fine by me.” He turned to her with a smile. “What should I call you?”
“Margaret’s my name. And yours?”
“W… William,” he said, stumbling slightly.
*Margaret. Could it be her? She’s changed so much. But what did I expect—that forty years would leave her untouched? Time changes everything. She doesn’t seem to recognise me.*
“Have you stayed with us before?” Margaret asked, as if hearing his thoughts. “The way you look at me, I thought…”
“I don’t think so. Not in this house,” he said, glancing around again.
“Will you be joining me for supper?”
“If it’s no trouble,” he replied, searching her face for traces of the past.
“None at all. Come down in twenty minutes.” She left the room.
William sank onto the edge of the bed. It was pleasantly firm and did not creak. Forty years ago, he had stayed downstairs in a cramped little room. There had been no upper floor then.
*She doesn’t recognise me. Hardly surprising—forty years is a long time. She’s probably forgotten all about me. Put on weight, aged. If I’d passed her in the street, I’d never have known her. Oh, Margaret, so much water under the bridge…*
***
Back then, he had come with two friends to this little seaside town. His own girl, Eleanor, was supposed to join them, but they’d quarrelled just before the trip. He’d seen her with an older man, made a jealous scene, and she’d refused to go anywhere with him. William had been heartbroken, ready to cancel the holiday—what was the point of a getaway when his world had shattered?
But his friend persuaded him to leave the city, to heal his wounded heart. The three of them had squeezed into one room—William, his friend, and the friend’s girl, Lucy. In high season, accommodation was scarce. William had felt awkward, often wandering the promenade late into the night to give the couple privacy. Even during the day, he kept his distance on the beach.
That was how he met Margaret. She, too, swam away from the crowded shore—and swam well. They struck up a conversation, and William asked where she was staying.
“I live here. Just home for the holidays to help Mum with the garden,” she said, slipping a sundress over her wet swimsuit.
“Let me walk you back. Just wait for me!” He scrambled for his clothes.
On the way, he asked if her mother rented rooms.
“Of course. Almost everyone does. It’s how we get by in winter. Don’t you have a place?”
“I do, but sharing with my friend and his girl—it’s awkward for everyone.”
“If you like, you can stay with us. I’ll ask Mum,” she offered.
William agreed at once, without even seeing the room. It turned out to be tiny and overpriced. His friends protested, urging him to stay with them.
“I’ve got my reasons,” he said vaguely, and they let it be.
Two weeks flew by. He scarcely thought of Eleanor—why bother, when pretty, smitten Margaret was by his side? At the time, he had believed he loved her too.
Once, he overheard her mother scolding her for staying out late with a lodger, warning her to be careful. Yet every evening they met by the sea, lying on the sand, gazing at the stars and kissing until dawn tinged the hills pink.
Before leaving, they exchanged numbers, promising to meet again—London wasn’t so far from Manchester, after all. Margaret had run after the train, waving. He had nearly leapt from the carriage to stay with her forever.
The whole journey home, William lay on the top bunk, turned toward the wall. He ached for the warm sea, for Margaret, spinning plans for their reunion. He was sure it would happen—why wouldn’t it? But as often happens, promises made in passion are quickly forgotten.
The moment he returned, Eleanor came begging forgiveness, claiming she had only wanted to make him jealous. Yet William spotted a new, delicate ring on her finger.
“Don’t bother. I don’t love you anymore,” he said.
“Shall I throw it away, then?” She twisted the ring from her finger.
Then university began. At first, he and Margaret wrote, even planned to meet, but William kept postponing. Eventually, he married.
That summer remained a warm, pleasant memory, though time dulled its edges. Holidays were spent with his wife in Spain, France, or at his parents’ cottage. Then divorce… So many “then”s followed, he’d lost count.
Now William was retired, alone, no wife, no children. He had imagined that returning would rekindle the past, that for a fleeting moment, time might reverse, carrying him back to those carefree, happy days. But everything had changed—not just the seaside town, but him. And Margaret.
***
Twenty minutes later, William sat at the table, enjoying a delicious supper. Margaret served her homemade wine, which left him pleasantly drowsy. He postponed his seaside walk until morning and retired to his room. After a shower, he lay on the soft bed, the scent of lavender and sea air drifting through the window.
At breakfast the next day, the table was set for him, but Margaret was gone. He strolled the promenade, even waded barefoot in the shallows, rolling up his trousers. Swimming seemed too daring—the water felt icy.
Over lunch, he asked why she lived alone.
“I’m not alone. My daughter and her family live in York. The grandchildren spent the summer here. They’ll be back at Christmas. My son-in-law had this place renovated—added the upper floor.”
“And your husband?” William ventured.
Margaret didn’t answer, steering the conversation to him instead. After lunch, he offered to help with chores, but she firmly refused. Left with little else to do, he went upstairs to rest, though sleep wouldn’t come.
Staring at the ceiling, he thought, *What am I doing here? Why did I come? I should’He never saw her again, but the taste of her jam and the scent of the sea lingered, like a ghost of what might have been.
