The Seaside Town
Evening draped itself over the small coastal town. Autumn hadn’t yet made itself fully known—only the holidaymakers had thinned. Victor was the sort who disliked the beachfront bustle and the summer heat, which was why he’d chosen October for his seaside escape. Still warm enough for a swim, yet the nights were crisp and fresh. But there was another reason he’d come.
He walked slowly, scanning the street names on the houses. He’d thought returning would bring instant recognition, but nothing felt familiar. At the right address, he paused, pulling a crumpled note from his pocket to double-check. The numbers matched, yet where a humble bungalow once stood now rose a two-story house with a sharp-gabled roof. Through the wrought-iron gate, he could see a tidy garden with trees heavy with limes, persimmons, and apples.
Victor lowered his duffel bag, wiped his damp forehead with a handkerchief, and watched a woman in the garden unpinning laundry from the line. Her back was turned. *Could her mother still be alive?* he wondered. The woman bent to gather the washing in a basket, ready to leave. Victor took a deep breath and called out,
“Excuse me—do you rent rooms?”
She turned, studied him, then approached the gate. Up close, he realized his mistake—she was his own age.
“Looking for a room?” she asked, squinting slightly as if trying to place him.
“Yes. Friends stayed here last summer—they recommended you,” he lied.
“You’ve left it late. The season’s nearly over.”
“Perfect for me. I can’t stand the heat.” He grinned. “So, any availability?”
“Plenty. The place is empty,” she said, setting the basket down and unlatching the gate. “Come in—the door’s open.”
Victor shouldered his bag and walked past her.
“Go on,” she urged when he hesitated at the threshold.
Inside, a spacious hall doubled as a sitting room—clean, bright, comfortably furnished, nothing like the cramped space he remembered.
“Your room’s upstairs. I’ll show you,” she said.
The steps creaked faintly under his weight. There’d been no upper floor before. Had he come to 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 have it to yourself.”
Victor stepped into a snug little room. Through the window, the sea shimmered under a crimson sunset.
“It’s like a dream,” he murmured.
“Did your friends mention the rates? Off-season, it’s cheaper. Meals are extra.”
“That’s fine.” He glanced at her, smiling. “What should I call you?”
“Margaret. And you?”
“V… Victor,” he said, stumbling slightly.
*Margaret. Could it really be her? How she’d changed. What did I expect—that forty years wouldn’t touch her? Time reshapes everything. She doesn’t recognize me.*
“You’ve never stayed here before?” she asked, as if hearing his thoughts. “The way you look at me, I thought—”
“Never. This house is new to me.” His eyes flickered over the room again.
“Will you join me for supper?”
“If it’s not too much trouble,” he said, searching her face for traces of the past.
“Not at all. Come down in twenty minutes.” She left.
Victor sank onto the bed—soft but sturdy, no squeaking. Forty years ago, he’d slept downstairs in a cramped little room. No upper floor back then.
*She doesn’t know me. Why would she? Forty years. She probably forgot I existed. Plumper, older. I wouldn’t have recognized her in the street. Oh, Margaret, how the years have slipped away…*
***
They’d arrived at the seaside town with two friends. His Emily was supposed to come, but days before the trip, he’d caught her with another man—older, polished. A jealous scene followed, and Emily refused to go. Victor nearly canceled too. What was a holiday when the world had crumbled?
But his mate convinced him. A change of scene would heal the wound. They’d all squeezed into one room—him, his friend, and the friend’s girlfriend, Claire. The season was busy; space was tight. Victor wandered the promenade late to give them privacy, and even on the beach, he kept his distance.
That was how he met Margaret. She swam far from the crowds, effortlessly cutting through the waves. When he asked where she was staying, she said,
“I’m local. Just home from uni, helping Mum with the garden.” She tugged a sundress over her damp swimsuit.
“Let me walk you. Wait for me?” He scrambled for his clothes.
On the way, he asked if her mother rented rooms.
“Of course. Half the town does. Winters are lean. You need somewhere?”
“I’ve got a place, but it’s awkward—sharing with my mate and his girl.”
“Move in with us. I’ll ask Mum,” she offered.
Victor agreed without seeing the room. It was tiny but cost more. His friends protested, but he brushed them off. “I’ve got my reasons.”
Two weeks flew by. Emily faded from his thoughts. Why dwell on her when Margaret was there—bright, infatuated? Back then, he’d almost believed he loved her too.
Once, he overheard her mother scolding her for staying out late with a lodger. *Be careful.* But every evening, they met by the sea, sprawled on the sand, kissing under the stars until dawn pinked the hills.
Before leaving, they traded numbers, vowed to meet again—London wasn’t so far from London. Margaret chased the train, waving. He nearly leapt onto the platform to stay with her forever.
On the journey home, he lay face to the wall, aching for the sea, for her, crafting plans for their reunion. It felt possible then. But promises made in passion? They rarely last.
The moment he returned, Emily came begging forgiveness. *Just wanted to make you jealous.* He spotted a new, delicate ring on her finger.
“Don’t bother. I’m done.”
“I’ll throw it away!” She twisted it off.
Then term started. At first, he and Margaret wrote letters, even planned to meet, but he kept postponing. Then he married someone else.
That summer became a warm, distant memory, fading with time. Holidays with his wife meant Spain, Greece, or his in-laws’ country house. Then divorce… So many *then*s blurred together.
Now retired, alone, no wife, no children, Victor thought returning might rewind time, even briefly. But the town had changed. So had he. And Margaret.
***
The next twenty minutes saw Victor savoring a home-cooked meal. Margaret poured her own wine—rich, drowsy stuff. He postponed his seaside stroll for morning and retreated upstairs, showered, and sank into lavender-scented sheets.
At breakfast, the table was laid, but Margaret had gone. He walked the promenade, even waded barefoot in the shallows—too cold for a proper swim.
Over lunch, he asked why she lived alone.
“I’m not. My daughter’s family’s in York. The grandkids stayed all summer. This was my son-in-law’s doing—he rebuilt the place, added the upstairs.”
“Your husband?” he ventured.
She sidestepped the question, turning it back on him. Later, he offered to help in the garden, but she refused. Left to his room, rest eluded him.
Staring at the ceiling, he thought, *What am I doing here? I should’ve stayed elsewhere, watched from afar. Who barges in after forty years? Could I be her daughter’s father? Maybe. But even if so, I wasn’t there—no birthdays, no fatherly duties. Why claim her now? Foolish thoughts.*
Sometimes Margaret’s gaze lingered, and he’d wonder if she knew. Flustered, he’d escape to the shore.
*Coward. Always were. Just ask her. Admit it. What’s there to lose?* Yet the words never came.
Then his time was up. The weather soured—rain, wind-tossed waves. Autumn had arrived.
Margaret packed him fruit, jars of jam, a freshly baked cake. Shame gnawed at him—forty years ago, he’d spun her dreams and left. Now he’d returned, silent, for no reason at all.
She invited him back next year. *Just call ahead.* He promised smoothly, knowing he never would.
A photo on the wall showed her daughter with a husband and two boys. Victor searched for traces of himself. *Old fool. Why assume she’s yours? Trying to leech off someone else’s happiness?* He cursed himself for coming, for saying nothing.
Time ran thin. His pallor must have worried Margaret, for she insisted on driving him to the station.
“Need groceries anyway,” she said, hefting a bag of fruit and jam.
On the train, Victor wrestThe train carried him away, and as the station shrank behind him, he knew the past was finally laid to rest.
