The Beachcomber. Josephine Cox
He could see the pain in Tom’s eyes. He nodded. ‘I understand,’ he murmured. ‘You’ve been so driven this past year … maybe it’s what you need.’
Tom nodded. ‘It is.’
‘All right, Tom, I won’t hold you to a month, but I will need you to pass on your schedules to a colleague … talk him through every aspect. Lend him the expertise to deal with it all in the way you yourself would.’ He threw out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘It has to be a smooth transition … all loose ends tied up. I don’t need headaches. You do understand what I’m saying?’
Tom understood exactly. This was big business. There was no room for errors. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll deal with it,’ he promised. ‘I won’t let you down.’
John nodded appreciatively. ‘I wouldn’t do this for anybody else,’ he said, ‘but you’ve given me everything you’ve got to give and it’s only fair I give some back.’
‘Who do you want to take over my schedules?’
‘Your brother Dougie. Oh, I know he’s still got a lot to learn, but he’s doing well now. He’s out of the same mould and he’ll have the added incentive to do you proud. Yes! Dougie’s your man.’
Shaking hands, they said their piece. ‘And don’t forget to keep in touch!’ John warned. ‘When you’re ready to get back in the saddle, your job will be here waiting for you.’
A few minutes later Tom was back in his own office, slightly dazed and a little shaken by the enormity of what he was doing. Yet, amongst all the niggling doubts, he felt instinctively that he was doing the right and only thing.
After three days of being ensconced in the office with Dougie who, though a little nervous, seemed confident about the workload he was taking on, Tom said his goodbyes. There was a small leaving party; the good wishes of his colleagues, and, inevitably, tears from Lilian, who had taken his news very hard. ‘We’ll miss you,’ she murmured, dabbing her eyes with her hankie. And he thanked her for all the years she had looked after him.
When it was over, he left the building with Dougie by his side.
They walked to the pub on the corner where they sat down with a pint each. Tom stretched his legs out and closed his eyes, a sense of relief washing over him. His brother’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘I’m still not sure you’re doing the right thing.’ Like Tom, Dougie was lean of build, with the same colour hair; but his eyes were a clear shade of green, and when he laughed he laughed heartily. He wasn’t quiet and thoughtful like Tom, nor did he have that same lazy smile. Instead, when he smiled, his face crinkled like a puppy dog’s.
But he wasn’t smiling now. Instead he seemed worried. ‘I wish you’d tell me where you’re going.’
‘I’m not sure myself yet,’ Tom confided. ‘You’ll know when I do, don’t worry. Besides, you’ve got enough on your plate without fretting about me. Look, I’ll be fine.’ He tried to smile reassuringly.
Dougie wasn’t convinced. ‘I wish I could believe that.’
‘You’ll just have to trust me. It’s what I need to do. Until I get it all out of my system, I can’t move on with my life.’
Dougie nodded. ‘I can understand that. But you will let me know how you’re doing, won’t you?’
‘I promise,’ Tom said. ‘When I’m settled.’
The following morning, after placing the flat and all its furniture in the hands of an agent, Tom packed his bags and left. His first stop was the florist, where he collected a pre-ordered bouquet, a pretty thing with bright-coloured summer flowers in a cradle of green leaves. It was a luxury in a country governed by austerity, but that didn’t matter to him. It was the sort of thing he knew Sheila would have chosen herself.
Sited nearby, the churchyard was speckled with shrubs and trees of all blossom and variety and, far enough from the hustle and bustle, it was a place of solitude and beauty.
Tom laid the flowers beneath the headstone; he read the inscription and softly cried. It told of how a mother and her two children were laid there, taken by a tragic accident. It showed their names and ages, and at the bottom were written the words that Tom had requested:
My dearest loved ones. May God keep you safe until we meet again.
The tears filled his eyes. There was a moment of contemplation, and all too soon the time had come for him to leave – for now.
As he walked away, he saw a young woman laying a wreath not far from where he had been. Almost at once he recognised her as being the same woman who had run out into the street in search of a cab. She didn’t look up. Instead, she blew a kiss towards the grave and walked slowly away, out of the far exit.
As before, Tom was intrigued. ‘Strange,’ he mused aloud, ‘to see her twice in such a short time.’
As he drove off, he wondered about her. Then, as always, his mind returned to the other, more pressing thoughts plaguing him.
Behind him, the stranger watched Tom depart before, with stealthy footsteps, emerging from the undergrowth. At the place where Tom’s family were laid to rest, the stranger paused a while, then reached down to snatch up the bouquet left by Tom. In an angry, callous gesture, the flowers were slung aside, and a new, grander bouquet left in its place.
A few words of regret, a blown kiss. And the stranger was gone.
WHILE ON THE trolleybus travelling back to her modest flat in Acton, Kathy had time to reflect. Every weekend for the past year, she had gone to the churchyard and laid a posy to remember her father. He had been a good man, a loving father, and she missed him more with every passing day.
The pain of losing that dear man was made worse by her mother’s admission that she had never really loved him. In a terrible outburst, Kathy’s mother Irene had claimed that her husband was not the innocent, caring man Kathy believed him to be. Moreover, she had told Kathy that he was selfish and domineering, in that he had always held Irene back in whatever she wanted to do. She said that, throughout their marriage, he had been the bane of her life … always at work; never adventurous enough for her. When he had suddenly fallen ill, she had made it quite clear that she was not prepared to dedicate her life to looking after him.
As it turned out, though, his illness was short and fierce. He was gone in a matter of weeks.
Distraught, Kathy had never forgiven her mother for the things she’d said. Her sister Samantha, however, was quick to defend Irene. It had always been that way: Samantha and her mother on one side; Kathy and her dad on the other. To make matters worse, Irene had almost seemed to enjoy setting her daughters against each other, always suggesting that Samantha was the prettier, more talented one of the two. There was no denying that, with her long, slim legs and a figure too perfect for words, Samantha was devastatingly attractive; the absolute apple of her mother’s eye.
One particular evening stuck in Kathy’s memory. In front of visitors, Irene had openly chided young Kathy for not caring enough about her appearance. ‘You’ve always been a slovenly creature,’ she complained. ‘You take after your father, more’s the pity, whereas Samantha takes after me. She’s smart and intelligent. She’ll make something of herself. As for you … I don’t know where you’ll end up. Or who will want to marry you. Still, what does it matter? I dare say you’ll be quite content.’
Later, when her mother was busying herself elsewhere, Kathy tearfully confided in her father. ‘Why does she hate me so much?’
Brushing aside his wife’s remarks, he quietly pacified the sobbing child, saying how Kathy mustn’t be upset, that her mother didn’t ‘hate’ her. He suggested that maybe Samantha got more attention simply because she was the first-born