The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [117]
‘Thank you, Ted.’ I leaned across and kissed his cheek.
‘My pleasure, luv. Now don't forget to keep him upright. Don't let 'im lie down, or his gut will twist.’
I stared at him a long moment. ‘Oh! Hector.’
‘Tha's it. Me dad told me that, with colic. He knew about ponies.’
‘Did he?’ How extraordinary. Oh, wait: ‘Pit ponies?’
‘Nay, luv,’ he laughed. ‘He rode a lot as a youngster. Hunted mostly. Me grandfather farmed.’
‘Really? So did mine.’
As I got out, he leaned across the seat to smile up at me under the door. ‘You see? What a lot we've got in common!’
Yes. Although not too much more, I hoped, as I waved him goodbye. Didn't want any more skeletons clambering out of the Edgeworth/Hamilton closet: any more charming brothers and sisters with high cheekbones and winning smiles looking up at me under Shy Di lashes whispering, ‘Hi, I'm Ant's progeny.’
With the sort of luck that is never habitually on my side, a train bound for the south was waiting, expressly it seemed for me to secure a ticket and race breathlessly aboard. Then, by some small miracle, and with the sort of ruthless efficiency one usually only associates with a German, or perhaps Swiss, rail transport system, a connecting train was patiently biding its time at Gosport to deliver me to Paddington, where another spookily convenient train whisked me to Oxford in record time. It gave me, in effect, only a scant four hours to reflect on why I had left Yorkshire in such a tearing hurry, and then to come to the startling, but alarming conclusion that, as usual, I'd not only acted impulsively and foolishly, but also imprudently. As I got off the train and it pulled out of the station, I had to stop a moment on the platform, put a hand to my brow; wonder what the bloody hell I was doing. Standing on Oxford station like a middle-aged waif, clutching a handbag containing a toothbrush and two jars of L'Oréal Revitalift for mature skin, one Day and one Night? Why not a hastily scrunched-up pair of pants too, Evie? Why not go the whole knee-jerk hog? And what had I really been afraid of back there in the Peak District? The sparking of Ant's latent emotions for Bella, or the sparking of all sorts of unattractive emotions in me, all sorts of jealous rants and possessive outbursts I'd have bitterly regretted later? I let out a low sigh. The latter, I suspected. With a bit of the former thrown in just for good measure.
But I was here now. Could hardly go back, could I? Could hardly turn round and get the four fifty-two, which, I discovered, as I whipped the timetable from my bag and scanned it feverishly, would take me back via Gosport to Sheffield, then a taxi from the station to burst back into the kitchen saying – ‘Ta-dah! I'm back! Hm…? Oh, yes, much better thanks. Made a miraculous recovery. Anything I can do for supper?’
No. Of course I couldn't. I put the timetable away. I'd made my bed and I jolly well had to lie on it. I walked slowly out of the station. But by the same token, I couldn't go home either. I stopped abruptly on the forecourt outside. Felt a bit wobbly. Because now that I was here, I knew I didn't want to be alone. Didn't want to get a taxi to my own home, to open up an empty house, walk from room to room, arms tightly folded, imagining the rest of my family in that idyllic rectory in Yorkshire, bonding seamlessly in the knot garden – so stupid to leave – whilst I laid the first fire of the autumn and wondered, fretfully, what time on Tuesday they'd be home, my family: wondered, now that I'd lit the blue touchpaper and stood well back – a hundred and fifty miles back, in fact – just how long that fuse would take to gently smoulder and reach my husband's heart?
My hand shot up in the air impulsively and two minutes later, I was in the back of a taxi bound for the river. Not to weigh my pockets with stones as I'd once darkly hinted to Malcolm, but to avail myself of his company, which, right now, I decided,