Finding Henry Applebee. Celia Reynolds
Ariel tightened her grip on the old man’s elbow. Standing alongside them was a middle-aged man with a Station Supervisor badge pinned to his lapel. He’d come armed with a folding plastic chair which he was already in the process of opening.
‘There’s no need for an ambulance,’ the old man said. He squeezed out a narrow smile. ‘It’s nothing serious, and the bleeding’s stopped now, as you can see.’
He took a concerted step away from the chair and lowered his gaze to the floor. He seemed far more interested in the whereabouts of his suitcase, which was still lying next to the Pollock at their feet. Bending very gently forwards, he caught hold of the handle and moved it an inch closer to his heel.
‘With respect, sir,’ the Station Supervisor resumed, ‘it’s my responsibility to ensure the safety and well-being of all incoming and outgoing visitors to the station. I’d be a great deal happier knowing someone had checked you over.’
The old man’s eyes darted once again to the electronic screen. Ariel followed his gaze and saw that the Edinburgh train was now ready for boarding on Platform 6.
‘Thank you,’ he replied, ‘but I’m afraid I have a train to catch. In fact, I really should be on my way…’
‘Sir, under the circumstances I’m not sure continuing with your journey would be wise.’ The Station Supervisor slipped a pen and notepad from his jacket pocket and gestured to the circle of blood glistening at their feet. ‘There’s clearly some sort of medical issue here… I’ll need to compile an incident report at least. May I take your name, please?’
‘You have to file a report?’ the old man cried. ‘For a nosebleed?’
Ariel gave him a discreet look of solidarity.
His arm tensed lightly beneath her hand.
‘I don’t have much time, but of course – if you need it – my name is Henry Applebee. From Kentish Town.’
‘Mr Applebee, are you travelling alone today? If so, I think it would be best if I alerted a relative before you board your train. You really should have someone meet you at your final destination.’
Ariel threw Henry another sidelong glance and saw that the first real flicker of alarm was now flashing across his face. His eyes flew from the darkening smears of blood on his clothes, to the thick, liver-coloured streaks on the backs of his hands and nails. He rubbed distractedly at a stain on the lapel of his coat, his chin sinking to his chest, his posture drooping, as though his entire being were buckling beneath the force of an impossible weight. The change was so pronounced, she wondered if he might be suffering from some sort of delayed shock.
‘What must I look like?’ he mumbled, seemingly to the ground.
And suddenly, she understood. What Henry was experiencing wasn’t shock, after all. It was shame.
Sliding her hand upwards from his elbow, Ariel squeezed the back of Henry’s arm.
‘Henry isn’t travelling alone. He’s with me,’ she said, looking the Station Supervisor squarely in the eye. ‘My name is Ariel Bliss. From South Wales. Thank you for your help, but we really have to get going.’ She turned to Henry and smiled. ‘We’ll be fine once we’re settled on the train.’
‘Absolutely!’ Henry said brightly. ‘We’ll be right as rain!’
The Supervisor gave her a hard stare. He seemed to be acknowledging her presence for the very first time, and didn’t appear overly impressed with what he was seeing. ‘I see.’ He made a low grunting sound at the back of his throat and bent over to retrieve his folding chair. ‘One last question,’ he said, pulling himself upright once again. ‘Could I just verify where you’re both travelling to today?’
‘Edinburgh,’ Henry replied at once. ‘We’re on the nine o’clock train.’
‘Edinburgh?’ The Supervisor raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s quite a journey!’
‘Oh yes,’ Henry said, reaching for his suitcase. ‘You have no idea.’
Neither of them uttered a word as they set off towards the ticket barrier, their suitcases at their sides. Ariel could feel the Station Supervisor’s eyes boring into the backs of their heads as they walked, tracking their progress through the crowd. She was sure Henry could sense it too, because the moment they were through the barrier he began to move more quickly, the acceleration of his footsteps accompanied by the heightened tap-tap-tap of his stick on the granite floor.
She glanced at the train, eager to depart, before them.
Promise me, a voice rang out in her head.
I promise, Mam.
Ariel tightened her hold on her wheelie bag. She focused on the soft, rhythmic rattle of its wheels, and kept one eye trained on the mysterious stranger at her side. She wondered who he was, where he was going. Most of all, she found herself wondering who or what could be so important to him that he was prepared to lie to catch his train…
Finally, as Henry leaned in and whispered the words, ‘Thank you,’ under his breath, she stopped wondering altogether, and knew only that she had done the right thing.
The Promise
BLACKPOOL, FEBRUARY 1948
Henry
The North Pier is almost deserted apart from Henry and Francine, who stand at its furthermost tip, four-penny bags of cod and chips in their hands, a crisp wind whipping about their ears. The sky is leaden and eerily still, while below them waves slosh and break repeatedly against the pier’s wooden ballasts. The water is washday grey, streaked with menace. Henry is aware it’s a testament to their desire to see each other again that they find themselves here at all, blown about like sea-drift, when most people have retreated indoors to the comfort of a cosy tearoom, a favourite armchair, a lover’s tender embrace.
Francine’s presence beside him feels rare, disarming. She’s wrapped in a powder-blue coat a shade or two lighter than her eyes. Her cheeks glow with a wintry flush, and a dab of soft-hued coral-coloured lipstick enhances the natural lustre of her mouth. Henry thinks she looks gorgeous. She took his arm when she met him at the station, and he – unsure whether she would be there or not, but hoping for the best – offered to take her to a restaurant for lunch, so they could chat and get to know one another better, but she said no, not to worry, fish and chips would do just fine.
‘I know a good place down by the pier,’ she said, a faint, nervous breathlessness to her voice. ‘You’d never find it without me. Come on, I’ll show you the way.’
They talk in quick, excited bursts. Like the day before, the conversation flows in an effortless current between them. It is, Henry thinks, a tacit commitment on both their parts to share as much of themselves as possible, conscious that they only have today before he has to return home to London and face the responsibilities of a brand-new civilian life.
Around them the wind thickens and roils in great swirling eddies, whisking the waves to a pearly-white froth. Between the cold and the lingering spectre of disorientation, Henry’s hunger is acute. He wolfs down the last of his chips, pausing only to steal shy, sideways glances at Francine. Lying on his bunk in Kirkham the previous evening, he was certain he’d be able to visualise every contour, every quirk and subtle complexity of her face. But it was her eyes – her fearless, wild, liquid blue eyes – which had branded themselves so indelibly on his brain.
‘I’m