The Seaside Town
Evening settled over the small coastal town. The autumn chill hadn’t quite arrived yet, but the holidaymakers had already thinned out. William was the sort who disliked the beachfront bustle and the summer heat. That’s why he’d chosen October for his seaside trip—still warm enough for a swim, yet the evenings were crisp and fresh. But he had another reason for coming here too.
He walked slowly, eyes scanning the street signs on the houses. He had imagined stepping back into the past the moment he arrived, but nothing looked familiar. He stopped outside the house he’d been searching for, pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket, and checked the address. It was right. The same street, the same number—yet where a modest single-storey cottage had once stood, there now loomed a two-storey house with a pointed roof. Through the wrought iron fence, he could see a neatly tended garden with trees heavy with apples and pears.
William shouldered off his sports bag, dropped it at his feet, and wiped the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief. Deeper in the garden, a woman was lifting laundry from the clothesline. He saw her from behind. *Could her mother still be alive?* he wondered. The woman bent for the laundry basket, then turned to leave. William drew a breath and called out.
“Excuse me—do you rent rooms?”
She turned, studied him for a second, then walked toward the gate. Up close, he realized his mistake. She was around his own age.
“Looking for a room?” she asked, squinting slightly as if trying to place him.
“Yes. Friends of mine stayed here in the summer—said I ought to try you.” The lie came easily.
“You’re cutting it fine. The season’s nearly over.”
“Suits me. Can’t stand the heat.” He smiled. “So, any rooms free?”
“Take your pick. Place is empty.” She set the basket down and unlatched the gate. “Go on through—the door’s open.”
William grabbed his bag and walked past her.
“Come inside,” she urged when he hesitated on the threshold.
He stepped into a spacious hallway that doubled as a living room—clean, bright, comfortably furnished. Nothing like the cramped little place he remembered.
“Your room’s upstairs. Come on, I’ll show you.”
The stairs creaked faintly beneath his weight. There hadn’t been an upstairs before. Was this even the right house?
“Door on the right.” She pointed. “How long are you staying? Not that it matters. Bathroom’s next door—shared between three rooms, but you’ll have it to yourself.”
He stepped into a small, cosy bedroom. Through the window, the sea stretched out beneath a crimson sunset.
“Like something out of a fairy tale,” William murmured before he could stop himself.
“Your friends tell you the rate? Off-season now, so I’ve dropped it. Meals are extra.”
“Suits me fine.” He turned and smiled. “What should I call you?”
“Margaret. And you?”
“William,” he answered—almost stumbling over the name.
*Margaret. Could it really be her? She’s changed so much. Then again, what did I expect? That forty years wouldn’t touch her? Time changes everything. She doesn’t recognise me.*
“Ever stayed here before?” she asked, as if she’d caught his thought. “You look at me like…”
“Never been in this house,” he said, glancing around again.
“Fancy some supper?”
“If it’s no trouble,” he said, searching her face for traces of the girl he’d known.
“None at all. Be downstairs in twenty minutes.” Then she was gone.
William sank onto the edge of the bed. It was firm, noiseless. Forty years ago, he’d slept downstairs in a tiny, airless room. No upper floor back then.
*She doesn’t know me. Can’t blame her—forty years is a lifetime. Probably forgot I existed. Put on weight, aged. If I passed her in the street, I’d never have known her. Ah, Margaret… so much water under the bridge.*
***
He’d come to the little seaside town with two friends. His own girlfriend, Eleanor, was supposed to join them—until he’d caught her with another man. A jealous scene followed, and she refused to come. William nearly cancelled the whole trip. What was the point of a holiday when the woman he loved had shattered his world?
But his friend talked him into leaving the city—time to clear his head, lick his wounds. They all crammed into one room: William, his mate, and the mate’s girlfriend, Claire. Peak season meant slim pickings for lodgings. Feeling like a third wheel, William wandered the seafront late into the night, giving the couple space. Even on the beach, he kept his distance.
That was how he met Margaret.
She swam far from the crowded shore, cutting through the waves with ease. When they got talking, he asked where she was staying.
“Local,” she said. “Just here on break, helping Mum with the garden.” She tugged a sundress over her dripping swimsuit.
“Mind if I walk you back? Don’t leave without me.” He scrambled for his things.
On the way, he asked if her mother rented rooms.
“Course. Most do round here. Got to make a living in winter. You short of a place?”
“Got one—but sharing with my mate and his girl. Awkward all round.”
“Move in with us, then. I’ll ask Mum.”
He agreed before even seeing the room. Turned out to be tiny—and pricier. His friends complained, begged him to stay.
“Got my reasons,” he said vaguely, and they dropped it.
The fortnight flew. Eleanor faded from his thoughts. Why dwell on betrayal when a pretty, smitten girl like Margaret was beside him? He even convinced himself he loved her.
Once, he overheard her mother scolding her for staying out late with a lodger. Warned her to be careful. But every night, they met by the sea, stretched on the sand beneath the stars, kissing until dawn brushed the horizon.
Before leaving, they exchanged numbers, promised to meet again. Peterborough wasn’t so far from London, after all. Margaret chased the train as it pulled away, waving until she vanished from sight. He nearly leapt from the carriage, ready to stay forever.
The whole journey home, he lay face to the wall of his sleeper, aching for the warm sea, for Margaret, weaving plans for their next meeting. It felt inevitable. Why wouldn’t it be?
But as so often happens, promises made in passion are cheap—easily broken, quickly forgotten.
The moment he got back, Eleanor turned up, begging forgiveness, claiming she’d only meant to provoke him. Then he noticed the new, delicate ring on her finger.
“Don’t,” he said. “I don’t love you anymore.”
“I’ll throw it away!” She fumbled to pull it off.
Then university began. At first, he and Margaret wrote, even talked of meeting—but he kept postponing. Then he married someone else.
That summer became a sweet, faded memory. Holidays with his wife meant package deals to Spain, Bulgaria, or weekends at his parents’ cottage. Then divorce… So many “then”s, he’d lost count.
Now, retired and alone—no wife, no children—he’d thought coming back might rekindle something, turn back time just for a moment. But the seaside town had changed. And so had he. So had Margaret.
***
Twenty minutes later, William sat at the table, eating a hearty meal. Margaret poured him homemade wine that left him drowsy. The seaside walk could wait till morning. Upstairs, he showered and sank into the soft bed, its sheets scented with lavender and sea air.
At breakfast, the table was laid—Margaret had gone out. He meandered along the promenade, even paddled in the shallows, rolling up his trousers. 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. They’ll be back for Christmas. My son-in-law fixed up the house—added this floor.”
“Your husband?”
She sidestepped the question, turned it back on him. Afterward, he offered to help in the garden, but she refused outright. Left with little else to do, he retreated upstairs for a nap—though sleep wouldn’t come.
Staring at the ceiling, he thought: *What am I doing here? Should’ve booked another B&B, watched from a distance. Who turns up after forty years and barges into someone’s life? Could that daughter be mine? Maybe. But even if she is—I wasn’t there. Didn’t raise her, buy her toys. She’s grown. What does she need me for now? God, what stupid thoughts.*
Sometimes, he caught Margaret studying him—as if she knew. Then he’d blush and escape to the shore.
*Coward. Always were, always will be. Just ask her. Talk. Admit itThe next morning, as he boarded the train back to London, he finally slipped the crumpled old photograph of them together into her mailbox—unsigned, unmarked, just proof that he had once been real to her, and she to him.
