**The Gift**
Margaret walked through her flat, checking that everything was switched off and in its rightful place. She loved returning to a tidy home. So why was she leaving her comfortable little paradise? For what? She already lived as though on holiday, doing as she pleased. But if she didn’t go, her daughter would be upset. The trip to the seaside was a birthday gift from her.
With a sigh, she wheeled her suitcase out and locked the door with two bolts. She jiggled the handle to be sure, then knocked on her neighbour’s door.
“Leaving already?” asked Sophie.
“Yes—here are the keys.” Margaret reluctantly handed over the set.
“Don’t worry, I’ll water your plants and keep an eye on things. Enjoy your holiday and don’t fret,” Sophie assured her. “Lucky you, having a daughter who buys you a seaside break! My Freddie only ever thinks about the pub. Had a family, a home—drank it all away…”
Margaret pitied her neighbour, but only now did it occur to her how risky it was to leave her flat keys with Sophie. What if Freddie snooped around? Not that she owned anything valuable, but every little thing cost money. And the thought of someone rifling through her belongings made her uneasy. She wished she’d asked someone else. Too late now, and she didn’t want to offend Sophie, who’d helped her countless times.
Sophie noticed her hesitation.
“Don’t fret—I’ll hide the keys, won’t tell Freddie. Off you go. It’ll be fine.”
Margaret nodded and dragged her suitcase towards the stairs.
“Godspeed!” Sophie called after her before closing the door.
She walked to the station—why take a taxi just two stops away? And boarding a bus with luggage would only inconvenience others. Through the underpass, she reached the platforms, where a passing train stood waiting. She walked along the carriages, searching for Coach Nine, and stopped. She’d wait right there rather than rush down the platform later.
*What if the carriage numbering starts from the other end?* she fretted. *No matter—the conductor usually announces it. I’ll have time.*
A week ago, her daughter had suddenly turned up and declared she’d bought the trip in advance.
“Are you pregnant?” Margaret had asked.
A second child would be nice, but the first was barely a year old—too soon for another.
“No. I’ve booked you a holiday by the sea. Train leaves on the eleventh, first-class.” She handed over an envelope. “A week should be enough to pack.”
“What? Alone? Without you? On my actual birthday? What about guests? The dinner? No, I’m not going. Return the ticket.”
“Mum, I planned this so you wouldn’t spend your birthday slaving in the kitchen. I wanted you to have a proper holiday—when was the last time you saw the sea? You can’t even remember! This is from me and Peter. Do what you want with it,” her daughter said, hurt. “If you don’t fancy the seaside, fine. But I’m not returning the ticket. If I fall pregnant, you won’t get another chance for years.”
So, grumbling about not being consulted, she’d started packing.
And that was how Margaret found herself at the station. These trips—especially alone—brought more stress than joy. Endless worries: would she miss the train? Who’d share her compartment? How would she settle in? At her age, extra anxiety wasn’t wise.
When the conductor announced the train’s arrival, with carriages numbered from the rear, she relaxed. She’d positioned herself correctly. Soon, the train’s whistle sounded, and she tightened her grip on her suitcase, documents ready. Others with luggage stood nearby.
The train slowed to a halt, and the attendant for Coach Nine opened the door right in front of her. Margaret handed over her ticket first, boarded, found her compartment, and sank onto the bunk with relief. Half the battle won—she was on the train.
With a jolt, they set off. The door slid open noisily, and three young women piled in, filling the compartment with chatter. Margaret stepped into the corridor to let them settle.
Fields and woods blurred past the window as the train gained speed. On an early July night, darkness was fleeting. The girls, laughing, passed her to another carriage. Margaret changed into nightclothes and lay down, lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the rails.
She woke at a station stop, the announcer’s voice crackling overhead. Dawn lightened the sky—half past two. A strand of fair hair dangled from the top bunk—she hadn’t even heard the girls return. Praising their quietness, she dozed off again.
Next time she woke, sunlight flooded the compartment, thick with heat. The girls still slept. She slipped into the corridor—the toilet was occupied.
“Off to the seaside?” asked a man with a towel over his shoulder.
“Where else?” she replied curtly.
She turned away, but he prattled on. Only when the toilet freed up did she escape.
Back inside, the girls still slept. Thirsty, she went to the attendant’s cabin—locked. Fast asleep.
“No water. I’ve checked,” came the familiar voice. “But the buffet’s open—two carriages down. Their tea’s drinkable, at least.”
“Are you flirting with me?” she snapped.
“Why so harsh?” He looked wounded. “Just talking. If I were, what’s wrong with that? Has someone hurt you, made you wary?”
“No one’s hurt me.” She pushed past him.
Later, she woke to commotion outside—a station stop. Passengers surged onto the platform. She followed.
“Fancy an ice cream? Sold at that kiosk,” said the man.
She glared.
“And if I do?”
“Coming right up.” He darted off and returned with a chocolate cone—her favourite.
“My late wife loved these too,” he said as she licked the cool treat.
*Ah. Looking for a replacement.*
He spoke of his son in London, his garden back home. Then: “Are you alone?”
“Listen. My life suits me. I’ve a daughter, a grandson—another on the way. Don’t get ideas about me.”
Back in the compartment, shame pricked her. What if he’d meant nothing? Just a friendly soul. Handsome, decent—but she wanted no entanglements.
Stepping out later, she braced to see him again. He’d taken the hint—now chatting up another woman. Oddly, that stung.
Beyond the window, lavender hills shimmered in morning haze. Sunflower fields stretched golden under a clear sky.
“We’re here.”
She stifled a groan at his voice.
“I thought I’d made myself clear—”
“Forgive me.” He held out a slip of paper. “My address and number. You’re a stranger here—I’m local. If you need help… No obligations.”
She took it wordlessly. Glancing later, she saw his name—William. Solid, like him.
At the station, taxi drivers hounded arrivals. Most brushed them off, but Margaret approached one who resembled Harry Styles. He drove her to the guesthouse.
Once settled, she headed straight for the sea. Early as it was, the beach bustled. Barefoot in the shallows, she regretted not changing first—plenty of time for that later.
By the promenade, she bought a sunhat, her skin bronzing daily. She snapped a selfie, texting her daughter in thanks. The market became a frequent stop for fruit.
At one stall, she paused before crimson cherries.
“Too pricey,” she said.
“Try one. Worth every penny,” grunted the vendor.
She haggled half-heartedly before relenting.
As she paid, another man approached. “Willy, change a fifty?”
As “Willy” dug out notes, he spotted Margaret.
“Something else?”
“Willy… William Turner?” Recognition dawned. “Margaret Hayes. I’d never have known you—except for the nickname.”
He nodded stiffly. “Qualified as a doctor. Last year, Tom visited—professor now. Funny—lived in the same city years and never met. Down here, I bump into old classmates constantly.”
Customers interrupted. “Where are you staying? I’ll find you,” he said brusquely.
Walking back, she smiled. *Willy Turner.* She’d had a schoolgirl crush on him. After graduation, they’d lost touch—until now.
He visited next day, smartly dressed, bearing fruit. Over coffee, he spoke of classmates she barely remembered. Turned out, a professional scandal had driven him south. Now he farmed, locals trusting him as much as doctors.
“You fancied me, didn’t you?” His sudden teasing sent her pulse racing.
“Why didn’t you say? I liked you too.”
He shrugged. “You married young. Pram and all.”
So they’d missed their chance, married wrong, lived unhappily. All might’ve been different…
His seaside cottage charShe turned to him with a smile, tucked the seashell they’d found into her pocket, and said, “You’re right—it’s never too late to begin again.”
