The Third Bus E-Book

Bobbie Darbyshire

• Herausgeber: Cinnamon Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 390

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Galvanised by a health scare, Felix Walton's chances of remaking himself by ending his forty-two-year marriage may be slight, but they are otherwise zero, so he ups and runs from London to Norwich in search of a new start. His family's distress has him doubting his decision, and he must unravel the sad truth of his marriage if he is not to give in to remorse and go home. In a chaotic household of waifs and strays run by a warm, erudite earth mother, his fellow lodgers open his eyes to lives unlike his own, help him to make peace with his conscience and find meaning and joy, but the price is unforeseen danger.

Leseprobe

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

About the Author

Dedication

Half Title

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

The Third Bus

Bobbie Darbyshire

Published by Cinnamon Press,

Office 49019, PO Box 15113, Birmingham, B2 2NJ

www.cinnamonpress.com

The right of Bobbie Darbyshire to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act, 1988. © 2023, Bobbie Darbyshire.

Print Edition ISBN 978-1-78864-147-0

Ebook Edition ISBN 978-1-78864-155-5

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A CIP record for this book can be obtained from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publishers. This book may not be lent, hired out, resold or otherwise disposed of by way of trade in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, without the prior consent of the publishers.

Designed and typeset by Cinnamon Press.

Cover design by Adam Craig © Adam Craig.

Cinnamon Press is represented by Inpress.

Author of five novels, Bobbie Darbyshire won the 2008 fiction prize at the National Academy of Writing and the New Delta Review Creative Nonfiction Prize 2010. She has worked as a barmaid, mushroom picker, film extra, maths coach, cabinet minister’s private secretary, care assistant, adult literacy teacher, and in social research and policy. Bobbie hosts a writing group and lives in London.

You can find Bobbie on Facebook and Twitter @bobbiedar, or visit her Amazon author page.

Also by Bobbie Darbyshire:

Truth Games

Love, Revenge & Buttered Scones

OZ

The Posthumous Adventures of Harry Whittaker

For Paul Lyons,

who carried on believing in this one when I might have faltered

The Third Bus

March 2019

Thursday

1

‘You’re under my feet,’ his wife said.

His head spun with fury. He spluttered, but he’d run out of words. 

He waited in case she had something to add, but she was busy extracting the Dyson from the hall cupboard. 

Enough. This was it. He would leave. He thumped his way upstairs to the bedroom, where he glared around. 

Fury began to be overlaid with purpose. It helped to have purpose. His urgent desire was to be anywhere other than here. He threw a few changes of underwear, some shirts and essentials into a holdall. It didn’t take long. Down he came to the front door, where it struck him he might need his passport. 

Everything in the house had its place, and the place for passports was a drawer in the dining room, where Cath was vacuuming. Dumping the bag in the hall, he pushed in through the roar of cyclone technology.

Briefly she glared at him. ‘For goodness’ sake.’ She was running one of the machine’s attachments along the tops of things—the dresser, the picture frames, the curtain pelmet.

The passport had three years to run. The photograph that once he had hated for making him look old now looked young. Time hurries on. Here was his birth certificate too, completed in the faded copperplate handwriting of some long-dead registrar. He slid it between the pages of the passport.

‘Okay, I’m leaving.’ He managed to keep his tone even.

‘What?’

‘I’m leaving, I said. Saying goodbye.’

She shook her head, stretching on tiptoe to reach a corner of the ceiling. Not a word, not a glance, refusing to engage. He marched back through the hall to the kitchen, where he reached for the pad. Cath, he scribbled. It’s plain that we’ve run out of road. I need my own life. So do you. I’ll be in touch to agree whatever needs agreeing. Felix

Act now, think later. His feet carried him towards the front door. 

Outside, the breeze smelled of new growth, life, freedom. The sunshine bounced off the primroses he’d planted last autumn and the blue sky sported fluffy white clouds. Beyond the front gate lay a whole world into which he was going to vanish until he felt calmer, more cogent. 

Only now he thought of the car, squeezed into a space a few houses along. It was his, bought and paid for a year ago with his money, not Cath’s. A red Honda Civic, one previous owner, the interior still smelling new. By some sublime serendipity the registration number ended FLX. He could slip back inside for the keys and drive it away.

The sound of vacuuming continued. She’d soon pay attention if she couldn’t drive to the shops anymore, or to Laura and the grandkids, which was a dog’s hindleg of a journey by public transport. Laura would have to ferry her back and forth, or persuade Trevor to. That was a nice thought—smartarse DC Trevor Timms reduced to a chauffeur for his mother-in-law.

Nice, but mean, and the car would be trackable. His control-freak of a son-in-law could conceivably use his police powers and connections to come after him, like one of those implacable Wild West bounty hunters. Okay, unlikely, but even so where would he drive to? Key in ignition, he would need a destination in mind.

Decision made—leave the car. It was time to make free with his senior citizen’s freedom pass. He’d had it more than a year and hardly used it. Shouldering the holdall, he set off on foot for the bus stop on Clapham Common, where he would take the first bus that came, to the end of its route, then another. He would lie low until he was ready to talk, somewhere unpredictable where he wouldn’t be followed or recognised. Where would three buses take him, he wondered.

In no time he was crossing the grass of the common, swerving patches of mud and clumps of daffodils without making sense of them, as if in a dream. He was at the stop, no one else here, a bus pulling in just when he needed it, the doors opening for him. As the freedom pass beeped him aboard, the driver met his eyes, grinning. Did he look different, high on this rush of nervous excitement? How foolhardy he was being. For seven days he’d known that his life had to change, but he hadn’t expected to be so impulsive.

From the upper deck, he watched the budding trees of the common glide past, people playing fetch with their dogs in the spring sunlight, then the restaurants on Battersea Rise, overflowing with chattering youngsters. A world full of rising sap. 

Where was he heading? He had no idea. It was enough for the next day or two to evade confrontation and questioning. He felt certain he wouldn’t be back.

Five minutes later, the bus kicked everyone off at Clapham Junction. No matter, it was only midday, and there was no reason to hurry to wherever he was going. He would stock up with cash here, so he couldn’t be traced by his card transactions. Trevor wasn’t actually going to come after him—the supercilious git would more probably join with Cath in saying good riddance—but there was no harm in playing at outwitting pursuit. It kept his mind off the enormity of what he was doing. It held doubt and panic at bay.

After checking his balance at the ATM, he retreated to a quiet corner inside the bank, where he crouched on a chair, doing sums in the notebook he kept in his wallet. He would leave plenty to cover the month’s standing orders, groceries and so on for Cath. His two pensions and hers would soon be paid in, and the account would be flush again. There was more than enough to go round.

The withdrawal was more than an ATM would dish out. He queued nervously for a teller, who counted the little stack of notes twice before pushing it across with a bright smile. ‘Lovely weather, Mr Walton. Enjoy your afternoon.’ He nodded dumbly at her, blushing to his ears like an incompetent bank robber, half expecting an alarm to sound or burly men to seize hold of him. 

There were four credit cards in his wallet—his main one and three store cards. Glancing around, he made the maximum withdrawal on each at the ATM inside the bank. It took several minutes, but thankfully no one was queuing behind him.

His jacket pockets were bulging with money. He hurried back to his corner to sort himself out. Surely someone was watching by now—a suspicious bank clerk or a pickpocket. All seemed intent on their own business or were gazing at the newsfeed above the queue for the tellers. The screen showed another queue—refugees at some European border, driven and desperate. In flight. 

His innards contracted. Anxiety clutched at his lungs. What the hell was he playing at, fleeing home and safety himself? What would become of him? Feeling lightheaded, unreal, he took a deep breath to steady himself. Around him, the normality of grubby green carpet and subdued Thursday afternoon activity continued, but his eyes were drawn back to the screen, to meet those of a wide-eyed child who had witnessed unimaginable things. 

Shame on him. No one was bombing or terrorising him. Running away was self-indulgence. He rose to his feet. All he had to do was admit his foolishness, deposit all this cash, and go home.

The idea was dispiriting. Defeating. He didn’t think he could face it, the prospect of spending day after day, the rest of his life, trying not to mind about Cath. No... no... he had to do this—going had to be better than staying. He set about stuffing furtive clumps of notes into the holdall, his inner pockets, his wallet, telling himself to be brave. 

Still no one was watching. He’d be on CCTV of course, but so what? A man withdrawing his own money. A man whose credit card debt would be settled in full automatically. He headed for the door.

CCTV was everywhere, a new adversary to play at outwitting. Disguise was the answer. From the bank he went to a young person’s clothes store, where he paid cash for what he believed was known as a ‘hoodie’, in navy blue, trying it on quickly for size without visiting the changing room. Then to a sports shop for a cheap pair of blue-and-white trainers and a green baseball cap to cover his grey curls, which were a dead giveaway. 

In the gents at McDonald’s, he put these things on and confronted himself in the mirror, fidgeting with the dangling drawstrings, repositioning the stiff Donald-Duck brim of the cap. Ludicrous—he couldn’t possibly appear in public like this. He began wrestling his way out of the hoodie, then stalled because he was forgetting the point. Vanity had nothing to do with it. He made himself see with a stranger’s eyes—some old bloke, down on his luck. His M&S trousers were wrong, too smart for the trainers. The tie needed to go, and for a real change in appearance he should lose the glasses. Except for reading he could manage without them—his distance sight was improving with age, each prescription weaker than the last. 

He squashed jacket and brogues into the holdall, wrapped his tie around the glasses and zipped them and his wallet into a pocket of the hoodie. Blinking to clear his vision and steady his nerves, he lowered the brim of the baseball cap and ventured out into the cacophony of piped music and burger-eaters.

Nobody laughed or paid special attention.

He was thinking like a proper fugitive now. It struck him that the freedom pass might be trackable, so in the soft-focus world without his glasses, he went next to a newsagent, and bought a pay-as-you-go travelcard from a man with a blurred Asian face, who looked past him as if he wasn’t there. 

Okay, it was time to vanish. He had one final use for the freedom pass. It took him through the barrier at Clapham Junction station, where, on platform thirteen, he mingled with families bound for the south coast. When the train for Brighton arrived, he pulled his hood up over the baseball cap and slipped up the crowded stairs to the exit at the far end of the platform. The man on the luggage gate nodded the freedom pass through, and he was out in the open again. Head down, camouflaged in the busy flow of pedestrians, feeling elated and recklessly daring, he turned off his mobile, took out the new travelcard and went to a bus stop. 

The second bus, a single-decker, followed a circuitous route before carrying him north across Battersea Bridge. The Thames was at its most beautiful—high, fat and slow, the tide on the turn, the light pooling and glimmering in the wake of a pleasure cruiser. He wouldn’t bother with a third bus, he decided. This one was bound for Victoria, where he would consult departure boards and choose a train out of London. Or a coach, it occurred to him. From Victoria, coaches went west or north as well as east or south. Slower than trains, but time was no object. It must be forty years since he last travelled by coach.

Soon he was peering short-sightedly up at the coach departure board. Where to choose? He could go to any of two dozen or more places. Bristol, to visit old haunts from his student days? Liverpool, to see the Mersey and Penny Lane, to replay Beatles songs in his head? Edinburgh? He was tempted, but it was a mighty long way.

How about Norwich? He’d never been there, knew nothing about it, but he could drop in on Jane Hooper. Now that was an idea—it wouldn’t hurt to have a friend’s take on his predicament. The next coach for Norwich was leaving at two.

With time to spare after buying a ticket, he crossed Buckingham Palace Road to the busy arcade above the railway, where he bought sandwiches and water for the journey and, on impulse, a lightweight black rucksack and a pair of blue jeans. Viewing himself in a changing-room mirror, he was satisfied at last. All his belongings, along with the holdall, empty and folded, were now in the rucksack, and out he stepped, looking and feeling at least ten years younger, a weather-beaten fifty-something-year-old with dubious taste in cut-price clothing. Back he went to the coach station and found the departure bay for Norwich.

2

He wasn’t the only fugitive on the coach as it crawled out of London. The other—a young woman, scarcely more than a girl—was being very loud about it. 

‘It wasn’t even my fault. I didn’t do anything bad. Yes, I know you never liked him—don’t rub it in.’ 

She’d been gabbling hysterically into her phone for half an hour, repeating and repeating herself. At first he’d been irritated—his anxiety was mounting fast and hearing hers wasn’t helping. Fidgeting in his seat, ambushed by disbelief at what he was doing, it was impossible to gather his thoughts, to stop clenching his fingers and gritting his teeth. The girl’s voice kept breaking in, distracting him, making him worried for her. She was not much older than his two grandchildren, who were what now—thirteen and fifteen? Some man had hit her or worse and might come after her. 

‘He’ll find me. He’ll follow me. He’ll make me go back with him. Please, you’ve got to act dumb if he rings you.’

The coach was quite full. Felix’s elbow bumped against that of a large, red-faced woman in the window-seat, who had made short work of a burger and fries and was now glued to her e-reader. He’d had to put his rucksack on the overhead shelf. He kept glancing nervously upwards to check it was safe.

The terrified girl had a seat to herself, a row back from his across the aisle. Eyes blank, intent on her conversation, she seemed oblivious to how other passengers were murmuring and craning their heads. She was clad, same as he was, in jeans and a hoodie, but there the similarity ended. Her jeans were painfully tight, displaying a knee and the flesh of a thigh through a series of slashes. Her hair was a tangle of tiny pink-and-green plaits. Her phone was the colour of sherbet lemons and had a black rubber spider dangling from it. There was a nasty bruise around her eye.

‘Like, he’ll know for a fact I’ll be coming to you, but where else can I go?’

Was it her mum she was running to? 

‘Keep the volume down, please.’ The objection came from the seat just in front of her, straight across from Felix. The man’s jacket matched his ginger moustache, and he was unpacking a picnic from plastic containers.

The girl took no notice. ‘Coz I’m, like, hit me again and I’m out of here, but when he loses it—omigod, you have to see it, and next thing I’m on the floor, and he’s kicking... Hello?... Hello?’

Her connection must have failed—the coach was gathering speed through a tunnel. A woman from further back in the coach approached her, radiating sympathy. ‘Are you all right? Have you seen a doctor or been to the police? Is it your parents you’re going to?’ 

‘Mind your own effing business!’ 

Felix stole a look as the woman retreated, red-faced, ‘It don’t matter, it was no one,’ the girl said into her phone.

They were out of the tunnel, passing Billingsgate Market, and it was soon the whole coach’s business again. ‘He’ll know I’ve gone,’ she shouted. ‘I only said I was going for fags... Yes... No, ten a day maybe—don’t go on. Like, he makes me so nervous, I need them.’

It must indeed be her mum. Who else would nag about smoking? Felix imagined trying to explain what he was doing on this bus to his own mother or father. They wouldn’t have sympathised, but they would have had a go at pretending to, nodding, tight-lipped, torn between loyalty to their son and deep disapproval. They would never have dreamt of giving up on their own marriage. They’d soldiered on together for fifty-odd years until death claimed them within twelve months of each other, not letting on, either of them, whether they were content with their lot, giving not much sign of enjoying life. Enjoying life was never really their thing. His newfound compulsion to be more awake and alive would have baffled them.

Had Cath realised yet he was gone? She’d be unbelieving most likely, expecting him back any minute. He tore cellophane from a cheese sandwich and tried not to imagine, tried instead to concentrate on what to do next. In a couple of hours he’d be in Norwich, and he needed a plan. Calling on Jane Hooper was a bit of a mad idea, because what would he say to her? She hardly knew him, he hardly knew her and, oh heck, he didn’t know her address. He’d have to turn on his phone to find out, or perhaps there’d be an internet café. They looked like scruffy dives from the outside, with their hand-painted signs on down-at-heel shop fronts. He didn’t know quite how they worked, but presumably someone would explain.

‘Yeah... no... I was hurting all over, like I couldn’t get up, but I had to get out of there... Nothing, I couldn’t. I’ve brung nothing with me. He keeps ringing... What?... No, I’m effing not going to answer.’

Heavens, the poor lass needed protection, but Felix was in no position to offer any. He hoped she was heading for safety. Again he thought of his grandchildren, the last time he’d seen them a couple of weeks ago, hunched over their phones on the sofa, briefly lifting their heads to smile in unison at him and Cath. Back then he’d been half-convinced that he was mortally ill—their youth had brought a lump to his throat. Their bright eyes and peachy skin. Emily’s resemblance to Cath and Oliver’s to Lucas. Oh Lucas, why did he have to go and die? Felix could have done with his brother’s counsel today. One thing was certain, he might be leaving Cath, but he wasn’t abandoning Em and Ollie, growing up fast in this troubled world. He must stay within reach, keep in touch, get to grips with video chat.

First things first, though. He would think about all that tomorrow. In Norwich today he would somehow find the address of Trove Press, the little publishing company that Jane ran from her home. Then, gathering his courage, he would knock at her door. If she wasn’t there or seemed alarmed or put out, fair enough, time for plan B—book into a hotel for the night. Plan A in fact, because it would be pushing it to ask her to put him up.

Okay, that was settled. He breathed more easily. He glanced again at the girl, rocking in her seat, legs tightly crossed, hugging herself with the arm that wasn’t holding the phone. ‘Yeah, he’s been like it before, but never this bad.’ The black spider bounced on its elastic. ‘You can’t even talk to him. His eyes go all different—mad, d’you know what I mean?—like it’s not him anymore.’ 

The coach powered northwards, full pelt on the M11. He had to stay focused. The pressing issue was how to make sense of himself. He couldn’t dodge it, had to address it. What had got into him? What the hell was he playing at?

‘... kicking and yelling. I was freaking out, thinking, like, this time he’s going to kill me for real.’

In an odd way, this flight from his marriage felt the same way to Felix—as if he were running for his life. For the last month he’d been in numb fear of having life snatched away, poised on the threshold of the nightmare of surgery, chemical cocktails and radiotherapy that had snuffed out his brother was reducing two of his old friends to hollow-cheeked wraiths. A one-in-ten chance he had cancer, the doctor said four weeks ago. Good odds, he’d kept telling himself, nothing to worry about, but slowly it preyed on his mind, he stopped trusting his luck. The world became a receding dream, half out of reach. A week ago, as someone explained the cystoscopy one last time and he started the countdown from ten for the anaesthetist, his sole wish was to dodge the grim reaper. Resurfacing, he met a nurse’s kind eyes. ‘It’s good news, Mr Walton. The doctor’s had a thorough look inside with the camera, and your bladder is healthy and normal. Your symptoms cleared up, am I right, with the antibiotics? There’s no more need to worry.’

He’d emerged from the hospital almost running, barely suppressing a whoop. People turned to stare. Ahead of him, beyond the automatic glass doors, the sun shone on a world all at once in high definition, each exquisite moment beyond capture. In the recovery room, they had asked how was he getting home, someone should have come with him, they said, could they call him a cab, but he’d known he was fine. When was the last time he’d run anywhere or felt this euphoric? Over the years he’d been losing his physical fitness, his appetite for life, letting them leak away as if the loss were inevitable. All the way home he made promises to himself—to be fitter, more active, more interested and engaged, to do something new every day, something adventurous. He burst in on Cath, eager to share his relief and his new resolutions.

She’d been about to go out, preoccupied with a search for her phone. ‘I never believed for a minute it was anything serious,’ she said, barely glancing his way, and set off for her Pilates class without a word more.

The memory still came as a slap. She’d meant no harm by it. Her indifference was habitual, not pointed. He’d come to expect and accept it, but suddenly he no longer could. Here he was, wide awake after years of sleepwalking, but in his wife’s world nothing had happened. Might she even be a little disappointed, the thought had crept in. Several of her friends were widows, and none of them seemed too unhappy about it. 

Would she have seen his note yet? Quite possibly not—her Thursdays were busy. Two o’clock was French conversation, and four-thirty was Pilates again. He tried to remember the curt words he’d left on the pad. What would she make of them? Walking out was drastic, might seem histrionic, but what else was there to do? He’d been counting to ten until he was blue in the face. His suggestion a few days ago of a holiday somewhere had met with an abrupt ‘no, thanks’, and fair enough—two weeks in the Algarve last summer had become bearable only when they agreed to amuse themselves separately. Yesterday, he’d even suggested counselling—wasn’t that what one was supposed to do?—but she said she was fine, they were fine, they had no need of counselling and she wished he would stop going on. He’d done everything he could think of. He no longer wanted to try. 

This seat gave no lumbar support—it refused to recline and the footrest was broken. The central armrest had been won and held by the red-faced woman in the window seat, who snored gently now, her shoulder pressed against his. Felix squirmed in a vain search for comfort, thinking about Cath. He supposed from her point of view things were fine—she didn’t complain about him or their life together. She barely focused on him at all. She hadn’t come to the hospital with him because it clashed with French conversation. 

A week ago, high on his reprieve, he’d been in no mood to examine the state of his marriage. Instead, hanging on tight to the elation, he’d gone to the pub, where John and Barnaby, bless them, and even the barman, had been chuffed for him, and indeed for themselves, sharing his renewed sense of life’s possibilities. They stood him a pint each, and he stood them one back, before rolling home at half past eleven, blissfully fuddled with drink, to find Cath in her dressing-gown in the bathroom, pausing from brushing her teeth to tut at the state of him.

‘He’ll figure it out,’ the girl wailed. ‘He’ll come looking... What?... Are you sure, coz I’m, like, so freaking scared.’

‘For goodness’ sake!’ The man with the ginger moustache swept his Tupperware aside and stomped off down the aisle.

What a strange phrase ‘for goodness’ sake’was, Felix thought, biting into his second sandwich. It was almost the last thing Cath said to him today. What did goodness have to do with irritability?

‘He’ll come after me, Cordelia,’ the girl shrieked against the noise of an overtaking HGV. ‘You don’t know what he’s like.’

Cordelia? Surely not her mum then, and what an improbable name for her friend or her sister. Felix twisted in his seat to have a proper look, and the girl’s eyes met his. He smiled, but she didn’t smile back, perhaps didn’t see him. He was used to being invisible to young people, and to Cath.

Ginger was arguing the toss with the driver, pointing indignantly up the aisle. He shouldn’t be distracting the driver like that. The girl’s fist closed on the spider. Released, it sprang back with a squeak, faintly audible above the roar of the coach. ‘I know you will. I’m gonna run all the way from the bus station.’ Her pale face had an ethereal beauty, prompting Felix almost to tears.

 Was it the beer goggles that made Cath seem beautiful last Thursday night when she turned from the basin towards him? Scrubbed clean of makeup, her face had shown its lines and its age spots, but for a moment he glimpsed the woman he’d married, the Cath who once, long ago, had bounded naked into the garden at midnight, declaring that the neighbours weren’t looking—and if they were, then good luck to them—just to feel the summer breeze on her skin. He’d reached tipsily for her in the bathroom last Thursday, wanting that Cath back. He’d only needed to find the right words. ‘It’s not the one-in-ten chance that’s important, Cathy, my darling. We’re all dead in the end. It’s being alive while we’re here—that’s what matters.’

‘Silly old man,’ she’d protested, ducking out of his arms. ‘You stink of beer.’

He stared from the coach at the fields scrolling by, reliving the bleakness of that rejection and the truth he had seen. The Cath he’d married was long gone—there was no getting her back. He’d caught hold of her hand, blurting tipsily, ‘Do you want to split up? Would that make you happy?’ but she showed no sign of hearing, pushing past him out of the bathroom. 

Grief swept through him now, snatching his breath. How had they come to this? He saw no way back, no other way forward. Cath was the person she wanted to be with all her friends and activities, whereas he... who did he want to be? Certainly not the person he’d become over the years—disregarded, of little use to Cath or anyone else, a ghost in his own life. Who else might he be? He hardly knew. Would running away solve anything? His chest tightened. Was it true what they said—that you couldn’t run away from yourself?

He stared around at the unmindful passengers, trying to control his anxiety. Cath’s contentment with her life was the point, he told himself. She didn’t need him or want him, didn’t welcome his eagerness for change. His chances of remaking himself by running away might be slight, but staying with Cath they were zero.

The coach was slowing, steering into a service station. A murmur broke out as it came to a halt and the engine stopped running. ‘Can we get a coffee?’ someone called from the back.

The intercom crackled and hissed. ‘Please remain in your seats. This is an unscheduled stop.’ The driver rose to his feet, a hefty black chap, whose presence filled the aisle, growing ever more impressive as he followed Ginger this way. The girl fell silent, hugging the phone to her chest. The coach held its breath.

Ginger hovered gleefully. ‘Sit down, sir, please,’ said the driver. His deep bass voice was patient, but not one to argue with. He watched Ginger back to his seat before speaking quietly to the girl. ‘You need to switch your phone off now, love.’

‘It’s a free country,’ she whispered, cowed but not beaten.

‘Yes,’ Ginger shouted. ‘Some of us want freedom to hear ourselves think.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said the driver. To the girl he said, ‘You look tired. How about you try for some sleep? Can you finish the call? Tell your friend you’re hanging up?’ 

She looked as if she might make a fight of it. 

He held out a big hand. ‘Or shall I?’ he said gently.

‘It’s okay,’ she said into the phone, ‘It’s only the driver. Some ratbag complained. Got to go... Right, thanks, cool, me too, see you later.’

She chucked the phone at her bag. Then, hood up over her pink-and-green bird’s nest of hair, hands knotting and twisting together, she drew her knees to her chest and leant her forehead against the window. The driver stayed a moment, looking at her, before going back down the coach.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Ginger, with heavy emphasis, but not very loudly.

The buzz of interest subsided as they drove on. Lulled by engine noise and the hum of traffic, Felix began to doze in the hot stuffy air. He gave in to it, slumped in his seat, letting sleep claim him, the brushed cotton fabric of the rolled-up hoodie soft under his cheek. Now and then, he was dimly aware of an absence of motion, of people getting on, getting off, but soon he slid back into dreams of Cath, flaunting her sixty-three-year-old curves, dancing naked in the garden, while the neighbours leaned from their windows to applaud and throw flowers.

‘We’ll be arriving at Norwich bus station in a few minutes’ time.’

 He opened his eyes. 

‘I hope you’ve had a comfortable journey. Thank you for travelling with us.’ 

The seat across the aisle was empty except for a copy of the Daily Express. Ginger had gone, must have got off at one of those stops on the way. 

‘Please check you have all your belongings.’

Soon the driver was outside, hauling suitcases from the belly of the coach. Passengers jammed the aisle, queuing to get off. The woman beside Felix squeezed past him and was gone. The girl was still here, on her feet, bleary-eyed, extracting a cigarette from a packet, jiggling with impatience, grabbing her bag, joining the queue. 

Felix took his time. He pulled the rucksack from the luggage shelf, unzipped it and squeezed the various lumps to check on his cash. No one would be looking for him on Norwich’s CCTV—it was safe to wear jacket and glasses and liberate his curls. He kept the trainers on, though. They were surprisingly comfortable.

The queue in the aisle was thinning. Right. Ready to go. 

Something caught his eye. Where the girl had been sitting, under the seat on the floor was the yellow phone with the spider.

He grabbed it. ‘Excuse me.’ He pushed his way through the queue—‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, the girl left this behind, thank you’—and down the steps, leaping the last one. ‘Ouch!’ His knees buckled painfully—he’d been sitting too long. He couldn’t see the girl anywhere—although, no, there she was, disappearing round a corner. He set off in pursuit, but a cramp gripped the back of his thigh, and by the time he’d hobbled, suppressing a yelp, around the corner himself, she was gone. Damn. He’d have to give the phone to the driver.

Dropping the rucksack to pummel his thigh, he was startled by the buzz of an incoming text. The phone’s screen came alive. Not PIN-protected—how reckless the young were. 

Dint mean it babe said sorry cum home, said the text. The phone showed nine missed calls, eight from someone called Ryan, and one from Cordelia Brown. Felix dialled Cordelia Brown.

3

The bus station’s various clocks showed twenty past five. It would be dark soon. He needed to wind up this call. ‘She hasn’t come back for it,’ he said. ‘She was anxious to get to you. I’ll give it to the driver, or drop it round myself if you’re nearby.’ 

‘How kind. That would be wonderful.’ 

Cordelia Brown’s self-assured, educated voice was increasing his curiosity about her and the girl. She was friendliness itself. ‘Daisy will be so grateful. May we thank you properly, give you some supper perhaps?’ 

‘That’s really nice of you…’ He was tempted, but his greater need was for Jane Hooper’s listening ear. ‘I can’t though, not tonight. I’ll pop it through your letterbox tomorrow. Hang on.’ Holding the phone with his chin, he got out his notebook and scribbled down the address. Unthank Road—an unusual name, easy to remember.

‘It’s not far from the centre,’ she said, ‘on the way out to the university. The number twenty-five bus if you haven’t a car. Anytime tomorrow will be fine, and be sure to ring the bell and come in, if only for a cup of tea.’ 

‘I will. I look forward to it. I should mention,’ he ventured. ‘About this chap who’s been hitting her...’

‘Ryan,’ she said fiercely.

‘I couldn’t help overhearing. There are a lot of missed calls from him. I won’t answer. I’ll turn the phone off.’

‘Oh dear me—but yes, thank you, that’s best. Until tomorrow then, Mr Walton. Enjoy your evening.’ 

As the call ended, a cold spot of rain hit his cheek. He looked up, but the sky was obscured by some architect’s ego-trip, an immense, pseudo-aerodynamic white canopy, useless against the sharpening wind. No more delay—he must find Jane Hooper. On Daisy’s phone he soon found Trove Press’s address—Chalk Hill Road—and located it on Google maps less than a mile away east, across a river that wound round the city. Here was the phone number too, but he hesitated to ring it. Explaining himself would take time to do properly, would be easier face to face.

The phone jumped in his hand. Ryan calling. He stuffed it in a pocket, along with the spider, which squeaked.

In the bus station waiting room, he found little tourist maps that included Jane’s street. The rain had eased, almost stopped. A bus might take him there, but it looked walkable. His legs were back in working order.

Daisy’s phone buzzed like a trapped wasp in his pocket. Stupid bitch pick up, said the text. Nasty. Unsettling. He switched the thing off.

Oppressive clouds hung overhead, the chill wind had his teeth chattering, and the route he was following—Cattle Market Street, Rose Lane—was a soulless conduit for through traffic that bypassed the tourist attractions marked on the map. No bus or bus stop in sight either.

What would he say to Jane? He should have thought about that on the coach. She’d be startled to see him and, oh dear, might suspect him of having romantic designs on her. She certainly had none on him. Her marriage had been a mistake, she said once in an email, describing herself as happily divorced and wedded now to her business. Their online friendship had sprung from a shared love of literature. He’d known her at least seven years, building a connection that supported him through the loss of his bookshop.

Pushing on along the desolate street, chin up against the cold, he suffered the usual pang at the thought of the shop. The hunger for change that drove him today, he’d felt it nine years ago when, quitting the Government Statistical Service, he’d thrown himself and his severance lump sum into becoming a bookseller. He’d loved every minute of having that business—the books, the customers, being his own boss, everything. It warmed him to think of it, the ten-minute walk to work, the view of the changing seasons beyond his window display, the soft strains of Classic FM. If only he’d been able to keep it going.

Trove Press’s catalogue had landed unannounced in his inbox in the early days, when he was still feeling his way. Quirky literary fiction by undiscovered writers. Tempted by the vibrant covers and intriguing blurbs, he ordered a selection of five titles, sale or return, and displayed them on the front table. Dipping into one during a quiet hour, he’d been gripped by the story, about a small lie that grew bigger in ever-widening circles. The five sold well, he ordered a few more, and so it began. He emailed Jane Hooper—praising her press, sharing the worry of difficult times in the book trade—and they carried on chatting online. He admired her unwavering belief in her authors. She uncovered some real gems, quiet as well as quirky, and did her best to promote them. He’d read most of her list and rarely been disappointed. 

Gradually his meagre profits dwindled to nothing. Too few customers were loyal—most came only to browse and left without buying. The combination of Amazon, his poor location at the wrong end of a street of small shops, and the Waterstones branch half a mile away finally defeated him. He rolled down the shutters for the last time four years ago. 

Jane’s press came close to failure too that year when her Arts Council grant wasn’t renewed, and for a while they exchanged emails daily. She was matter-of-fact about her troubles and consoling about his. ’Tis better to have loved books and lost money than never to have loved books at all was her message on the day he closed down, making him smile through his tears and sending him to the shelf to take refuge in Tennyson. 

Without warning the rain was back, rushing at him in squalls driven by what was now a biting east gale. An umbrella would be useless, he needed a waterproof, but he could see nowhere to buy either. He’d passed a shopping centre a while back, below a hill with Norwich Castle on top, but it was better now to push on—not much further to Jane’s. He trudged through the downpour, folding the wet map into his pocket, ducking his head, and hugging his jacket around him. Here on the left was a Travelodge, but the prospect of being alone in a hotel room was daunting. He hurried on.

Cath wasn’t a reader. She’d been uncomprehending and angry when he risked Ben and Laura’s inheritance to play shop, as she put it, relieved when he sold up and got most of his money back. She knew that he and Jane still emailed each other about books and such. ‘How is Jane?’ she sometimes asked. ‘Is her press still afloat?’ 

Oh dear, Cath too would mistake his motive for calling on Jane like this. He couldn’t imagine her being actually jealous, but she would mind how it looked. He’d best not mention Jane to her if it could be avoided.

He brought to mind the images of Jane on Facebook—insubstantial, a fluffy-haired, small-featured woman in her mid-fifties, given to wearing colourful scarves and hand-crafted beads. She had a solemn, slightly worried look, and her emails gave a similar impression—his attempts at humour tended to go unremarked. Romantically, she wasn’t his type at all, whereas Cath, when he’d first met her, had been full of beans. That was the woman he’d married, lively and extrovert, good for a laugh, so different from how she was with him now, though he saw her enjoying herself with her friends.

The rain was sluicing his glasses. His fingers were achingly cold. Cath must have read his note by now and be calling his mobile, finding it switched off. She’d be on the phone to Laura, the two of them trying to decide what the note meant, what to do, with Trevor weighing in, taking control. They’d be wondering what to say to the children and whether to trouble Ben. 

Felix came to an abrupt halt, all at once heedless of the rain battering down, hit by concern for his son. Ben’s latest slide into depression must be straining his relationship with his new nice young woman. His parents’ splitting up was the last thing he needed. What would Ben think of him? And Laura—what would she think? And Emily and Oliver? Would his grandchildren stop wanting to know him? He stared into the rain as if it held answers. Well-behaved people didn’t walk out of their lives with no notice. 

Stalled on the drenched pavement, he pulled out the soggy map. Not far to the river bridge now, with the railway station just beyond. He could skip Jane, go to the station instead, buy a ticket home, make up some story about a day spent sulking in London, send Daisy’s phone to Cordelia Brown by post.

No, he told himself fiercely. He mustn’t weaken. He’d come this far and would keep going, at least for today. He pushed his feet forward, trying to imagine Jane’s door opening, her recognising him, her reaction. People said online friendships were deceptive, everyone pretending to be better than they were. He was guilty of it himself, happy for Jane to believe he was wiser, wittier, more cultured and tolerant than he managed to be in the thicket of everyday life. By the same token, she was unlikely to be as goodhearted as she seemed through email and Facebook. Would she welcome invasion by a semi-stranger lacking a solid reason not to go home?

Fatigue pulled at him, made his limbs heavy. One foot in front of the other, checking the map, nearly there, checking his watch, five fifty-five, stumbling through puddles towards warmth and a welcome, oh please let there be one. With each step, left or right, the pavement jarred through his heel to his hip. Where was the springiness he’d had in his youth? At some point in the last decade his suspension had gone. A freezing trickle ran down his back, and for a sorry moment all he wanted was to be at home, with a cup of tea and his feet up, listening to the six o’clock news. 

Here at last was the river. Briefly the rain held off, and the leaden sky was theatrically lit by the evening sun breaking through behind him. To his right was a Premier Inn, to his left, a riverside pub. Up ahead was the station and fast trains back to London. He resisted all three. He was going to do this. He was going to knock on Jane’s door. 

He crossed the bridge and turned resolutely left towards Chalk Hill Road.

4

Her face went through several expressions, none encouraging, before settling on an uncertain smile. ‘Felix?’ she said. ‘Felix Walton?’ Holding tight to the half-open door.

‘Yes, me,’ he said. ‘Totally barmy, and wet... so please, send me away, but... well... tricky to explain, I’m not making sense yet, I know.’

He was taking in the difference between online and reality. The lank, unwashed hair. The tracksuit bottoms and bedroom slippers. She was smaller and thinner than in her photos, not an ounce of spare flesh. 

Her eyes travelled down to his mud-spattered trainers and jeans dark with rain, then up to his chattering teeth. ‘Very wet,’ she said doubtfully.

‘Indeed... unsuitable clothing, but I... uh...’ 

‘You poor thing. Come in.’