I’m already feeling a little queasy about what I’ve done, and hours hurtling around in a tin can on tracks hasn’t helped. I’ve done something reckless, and I’m veering between being proud of myself, and being terrified. I’ve booked two weeks off work, I’ve dipped into the few savings I have to get here, and my overdraft will hopefully stretch to luxuries, like food. I really, really hope that card was genuine, or I’m going to land in a nightmare rather than a dream.
I shake my head, trying to clear it of the negative thoughts. What will be will be, I tell myself – if I arrive in Bonnie Bay and have nowhere to stay, I guess I’ll figure it out. The fact that I’m only just starting to worry about these practicalities makes mefeel like the World’s Biggest Idiot for ever thinking this was a good idea.
Still, I think, I suppose if something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right. I should probably get some kind of medal, or at least a certificate. So far, my magical journey to Bonnie Bay has involved me wasting cash I can’t spare, annoying the agency by taking leave at short notice, and spilling half a flask of coffee all over the table between me and the guy sitting across from me. The guy who is, frankly, a bit of an arsehole. That was ten minutes ago, and I don’t think I’ve stopped blushing yet.
He’s a big guy, tall and wide and impressive if you like that kind of thing. And possibly in a bad mood because he’s been squashed in a tiny train seat for hours. He’d grunted and glared at me, grabbing up his phone and ignoring my apologies. But still, it didn’t fill me with joy, having to tolerate the black cloud he seemed to be carrying around with him. I did notice him doing some of that box breathing I’ve seen on my mindfulness videos, so maybe he’s in pain, or stressed, or dealing with high blood pressure as a result of being near me for most of the day.
It’s a shame, really. It would have helped to have somebody to chat to. Somebody to share my doubts with, maybe – the doubts that are now not so much creeping in as rampaging towards me with machetes and sub-machine guns.
I’d been so convinced a few days ago – mainly because I’d played a little game of What Would My Grandma Do. She died a few years ago, and it was a brutal loss. She raised me, after we lost my mum. My dad wasn’t on the scene, which didn’t bother me – what you don’t have you don’t miss, and the two women in my life more than made up for his absence. We all lived together in a little terraced house in a London suburb, not one that you’d describe as ‘leafy’, but nice enough in its own way. My gran was tough as old leather, a no-nonsense woman who neither accepted nor gave any shits at all about anybody else’s opinion.She had a softer side – her love for books and stories, her love for me – but mainly she was the kind of girl you really did not mess with.
I still talk to her now. Living alone these days, it’s much easier – I don’t even have to pretend I’m on the phone. So the day I found that card tucked away in the book, I lay in bed, and told her all about it.
As usual, no heavenly voice came down from the Other Side to give me sage advice – but as soon as I started to consider actually going, I felt a sense of peace descend upon me. It’s hard to describe, but it was like a warmth flowed through me, sweeping away all my doubts. In that moment I really did feel like she was there with me – telling me to go for it, telling me that everything would be all right. I began making my arrangements the very next day, because you don’t argue with my gran, deceased or not.
Now, my bum numb from train seats and my conviction that I’ve made a terrible mistake growing, it seems so reckless. Have I really made a major life decision on the vague say-so of my dead granny?
I notice a little patch of coffee I didn’t quite dab up earlier, and get another tissue out of my bag. I surreptitiously peek at the man across from me, wondering where he’s going, and why. Probably doing something really sensible, because he doesn’t look like the kind to listen to dead people, for sure.
He’s tall and broad, wearing a black T-shirt that clings to his torso and makes his biceps pop. Which sounds like a pervy thing to notice, but you really can’t help it. He isn’t young, definitely older than me, and his face is on the battered side – like his nose has been broken a few times. Salt and pepper hair, thick and wavy, and eyes so blue it’s like they’ve been stolen from a summer sky. He looks glamorous somehow, in a way I can’t quite define. I glance at the window, now streaked with rainfrom one of the intermittent showers. ‘Nice weather for ducks,’ I say out loud. ‘And rainbows…’
A huge example of the latter is spanning the skyline ahead of us, creating an illusion of the train tracks heading beneath the brightly coloured arch. The man looks at me, then out of the window, and nods once, abruptly.
Why did I say that? Does he look like the kind of guy who cares about ducks, or rainbows, or small talk? No, I think, looking at the way his beefy arms are folded firmly across his chest. He definitely does not.
He looks at his phone, the one I almost killed, and I see a picture of a gorgeous young woman with long blonde hair and eyes the same shade of blue as his. The flicker of a smile touches his lips, and he taps out a message.
‘Is your phone okay?’ I ask, for some completely unfathomable reason trying to communicate with him.
‘It’s good,’ he replies simply, going back to the book he’s reading. The one about hiking in Scotland. These are the first coherent words he’s spoken.
‘Oh! You’re American!’ I say.
He glances across at me and nods. ‘Yeah. I know.’
With that, I am dismissed. I stare out of the window, mortified, even more so when I realise that we’re the last two people in the carriage. The only station left is Finnsburgh, and from there I have to get a bus further north along the coast to Bonnie Bay. As we pull into the platform, I jump to my feet, determined to escape before we’re forced to interact with each other again.
He seems to be trying to do the same, grimacing with pain as he stands. I race past him, down the passageway before you can say ‘lickety split’, hoisting my suitcase from the luggage rack and waiting for the door to open. He might be large, but I am nimble.
I make my way outside into one of the spells of sunshine, smiling at the warmth against my skin. All will be well, I tell myself. This is the beginning of an adventure, and I can’t let one chance encounter with a miserable Yank derail me. That was the past, and this is the now. Living in the now is something all those mindfulness people tell you to do, after all.
‘You all right there, hen?’ a woman’s voice asks me, as I wait at the bus stop. Why, I wonder? Don’t I look all right? I run my hands through my hair, and tug my coat a little tighter. I turn around, and see an older woman with a terrier on a lead. He yaps at me, but his little face still makes me smile. I love dogs, even the grumpy ones.
‘Yes, I’m fine thank you!’ I reply, putting some oomph into my words. ‘I’m off to Bonnie Bay!’
‘Aye, well, that’s as may be – but you willnae be getting there from here today. The last bus left ten minutes ago.’
I stare dumbly at the timetable. Fiddlesticks. She’s right. Why didn’t I think of finding out more? Why didn’t I check beforehand? Why did I just google it casually, and see there was a bus, but not look into exactly how often it runs? I might be taking a leap of faith, but did I have to do it quite so blindly? My face falls, and she pats me on the arm.
‘There’s a taxi rank over there, hen.’
I thank her and trundle in that direction. My case is missing a wheel, and it’s a tricky manoeuvre. One bump at a time, I head to the small row of cabs and people. How much will this cost? I think. Do they take cards? And if they do, is there enough in my account to cover it? Bugger!
Just as I thought things couldn’t get much worse, I spot the man from the train in front of me. There’s only one cab left now, and he’s throwing his small case, one with a full set of wheels obviously, into the boot. He looks up and sees me, and gives me what I now think of as his trademark nod. He packs alot into that nod – like ‘please don’t talk to me’, and ‘have you considered getting professional help?’ Or maybe I’m imagining that, who can say?
The taxi driver, a man in his thirties with hair so ginger it looks like he coated his head in marmalade, sees me approach. ‘Where are you off to?’ he asks. When I tell him, he adds cheerily: ‘You’re both going to the same place! It’s your lucky day – £30 each instead of £60!’
My eyes go wide in surprise. £30? He might as well have asked me to donate a kidney. I’d decided I had just about enough to pay for a train ticket up here, and some groceries if I was really careful. The rest… well, I took the invitation literally when it said the accommodation would be free. I never even considered taxi fares!
