Page 20 of Second Chances at the Board Game Café

‘Oh?’

‘Little things going wrong. Dripping taps. Dodgy socket in the kitchen. One of the lights upstairs flickers all the time and before you ask, I’ve tried changing the bulb. And I think that there might be a leaking pipe in the bathroom. There’s a stain starting to appear again on the kitchen ceiling. And that estate agent, Tarquin…’

She said his name with disdain, Harry was pleased to notice.

‘…he keeps promising the landlord will sort things, but nothing so far.’

Now was his chance, thought Harry. He loved helping people. He was good at DIY. This was a golden opportunity. ‘I could come round if you like. Bring my toolbox.’

As soon as he said this, he remembered Fay and wondered if history was about to repeat itself.

But Taylor said, ‘No, it’s fine. I wasn’t hinting. I needed a moan, that’s all. I’ll phone Tarquin again and ask him to get onto the landlord. It’s his job to fix things.’

Harry felt simultaneously relieved and disappointed. ‘As you wish. I suppose I’d better go and change.’ He smiled at her, then headed back upstairs.

Taylor wouldn’t let him pay for the alteration, despite the fact that it had clearly been his error. He wanted to say, ‘May I buy you a drink sometime? To apologise?’ but his mouth had gone dry and he couldn’t pluck up the courage.

She’d have probably said no anyway.

So much for being proactive.

That was it then. Unless fate engineered for their paths to cross again.

*

Their paths crossed sooner than expected. At least, Harry saw Taylor although she didn’t see him.

The following morning, he was on the 8.16 to Halifax, in his white shirt with his sandwiches in his briefcase. As the train pulled into Hebbleswick station, Harry stood up to haul an elderly woman’s large bag down from the luggage rack and happened to glance through the window. Taylor was standing on the opposite platform awaiting the 8.23 towards Manchester. For a moment, he thought perhaps his imagination had conjured her up, but no, she was really there in a striking pair of bright red trousers with her little boy by her side in a grey school uniform, clutching a school bag.

As the elderly woman thanked him profusely, Harry watched Taylor look at her watch, then up at the information board. She frowned. Perhaps the 8.23 was delayed, Harry thought, closely followed by: She even looks gorgeous when she frowns.

She didn’t see him. She leaned over and said something to the boy, who smiled at her and said something back. Then she ruffled his hair and the boy shrugged her off.

Harry’s train began to roll forward. He turned his head to look back at Taylor and the child, but they soon disappeared from view.

*

He saw her again on Monday morning, standing in the rain on the platform awaiting the 8.23. On Tuesday, he was working from home, but was tempted to catch the train to Halifax anyway, just to catch a glimpse of her, but he knew that was silly. He ground his coffee beans and, leaving his cafetiere to brew, he went back upstairs and opened the wardrobe. Janice from the office had once confessed to him that she sometimes stayed in her onesie, whatever that was, on WFH days, as she called them. Remaining in his pyjamas all day was unimaginable. Even wearing jeans and a T-shirt didn’t seem quite right, so Harry put on his cream shirt as usual, but paired it with his new hot air balloon tie. It would take him a while longer to pluck up the courage to wear one of the brighter shirts he’d bought in York.

After a morning of VAT returns and a lunch of cheese and tomato sandwiches eaten at his desk, he needed some fresh air, so took the shortened jeans, still in their plastic carrier bag, and set off on the short stroll to the Oxfam shop.

The shop was quiet. He took the opportunity to have a long browse through the non-fiction section, in case there were any railway books there. There seldom were. Either the residents of Essendale clung onto them, or someone local liked trains as much as he did.

Once he’d satisfied himself that there was nothing of interest, he strode up to the counter. He wasn’t quite sure of the protocol. Although not a mean man, he’d never given anything to a charity shop before, largely because he only bought items that he wanted to hang on to. He didn’t exchange presents with anyone at Christmas and no-one remembered his birthday, so he never had any unwanted gifts to donate either. As for clothes, when his garments grew too tatty to be seen in, he wore them around the house. When they became really tatty, he wore them when doing DIY. When they were completely threadbare, he popped them in the fabric recycling bin at the local fire station.

The volunteer behind the till looked at him expectantly.

Harry cleared his throat. ‘I’ve brought these jeans. They’re brand new, never worn. But they needed shortening, you see, and an overzealous seamstress got a bit overenthusiastic with the scissors.’

In his head, the whole sentence had sounded rather amusing, but the volunteer didn’t laugh. She glanced behind him, towards the door of the shop and said, ‘Afternoon.’

Harry turned and saw that Taylor had just walked in.

‘Overzealous seamstress, eh?’ she said.

11

Overzealous seamstress indeed.