A son is unexpectedly summoned to his mother’s Devon home
The frost was starting to clear as a watery sun began poking its way through the morning clouds. I tentatively made my way across the tiny gravel-covered car park, trying desperately not to slip and injure myself. I successfully made it to the entrance of the station, which housed a now abandoned ticket office, and onto the deserted platform.So here I am on Platform One at Harling Road Railway Station. The best way to describe the ambience of the station is that it was probably foremost in the mind of the author, Arnold Ridley when he wrote his famous 1923 Ghost Train play. In other words … a desperately spooky place.
I’m waiting for the 7.47 train from Norwich, which on previous experience may or may not arrive on time, or indeed not at all. The last time I attempted to catch this particular train was on a Saturday morning, when it didn’t arrive, I had to resort to climbing the ladder to the signal box and ask a startled Signalman if the train was coming. It wasn’t. It had been cancelled.
Anyway, this time my Trainline app is reassuringly telling me that although the 7.47 will arrive at approximately 7.57, at least I know I can commence my journey to Devon with a reasonable start.
I sat on the only wooden bench on this side of the tracks, pulled out the handwritten letter my mother had sent to me, and once again read through the contents. The convenience of text messaging and even emails had passed by my mother, which was somewhat surprising, as she was a renowned past author and currently much sought-after book critic, noted for her acerbic wit. Her work was featured regularly in worthy journals such as the New Statesman and the London Review of Books. I once asked her how she passed on her work to the editors of contributing publications. With a cursory wave of her hand, she replied, ‘Oh, Judy’ (her much put upon assistant/secretary) ‘deals with all that nonsense.’ I later discovered that my mother made handwritten notes that Judy then typed out and emailed to relevant recipients. Much to the chagrin of the overworked Judy, my mother’s Quill Pen and Ink Set remained in constant use.
The note was brief and to the point.
‘Dear Jeremy, come home at once, I need to speak to you urgently, and not on the telephone. My address is on the back of the envelope just in case you have forgotten it. When did you last visit me here? Ages ago I shouldn’t wonder. Anyway, I’m always at home so get going now. Love Mother.’
So, here I am homeward bound.
This is going to be an epic journey: Harling Road to Ely, then Ely to Peterborough and Peterborough to Birmingham, followed by the gruelling three-and-a-half-hour trip from Birmingham to Plymouth. Even when I finally set foot in sunny Devon my journey would still not be over, I had to bus it (or failing that a taxi) to the hamlet of Shaugh Prior where I was raised, and my mother has resided alone after my father ditched her and flew back to his native South Africa. I’m sure there must be other routes, but this is the one I’ve used previously, and it’s always got me there, more or less, in one piece.
Trainline is now telling me that the 7.47 is now expected to arrive at 8.07.
More time to drift backwards to my curious life.
My father was a peculiar fellow. He was an academic scientist, and originally from Vereeniging in the south of Gauteng province, specialising in research into rare tropical and infectious diseases. He was seldom at home, and on the infrequent occasions he did turn up, he spent most of the time in his study. I can’t recall having conversations of any length or substance with him.
Mother met him at some sort of convention. The story (as told by her), was that she got extremely drunk, and they ended up together in his hotel bed. With him being a person of a religious persuasion and fearing God’s retribution for this unholy act, my father thought that he ought to do ‘the decent thing.’ So, they married a week later, and I became the by-product of a drunken escapade! Some fifteen years into their marriage he suddenly upped sticks and went back to South Africa. Mother and I learnt later that he had died, not unsurprisingly, from a rare, tropical and infectious disease! He left my mother 1m Rand, which sounded rather splendid until we discovered that it was probably worth about forty grand in Sterling, which mother cheerfully described as ‘better than a kick up the jacksey.’
He was never spoken of again.
The 7.47/7.57/8.07 finally showed up at 8.09 and now I’m on my way to Ely, it would appear that I will miss my Peterborough connection, which means I’ll also miss my Birmingham train and a subsequent knock-on effect down the line. Hopefully, I’ll make it to Devon at some point, but it may mean a late-night arrival. With no way of contacting my mother; her landline was cut off many months ago, and mobile phones are anathema to her, it looks like either an overnight stay in Plymouth or a late-night arrival, which will probably frighten the living daylights out of her!
***
Things have picked up a bit, I am now on my way to Birmingham, the Peterborough Train was itself late arriving, and although I am still behind schedule, I am at least making some headway. The train is practically empty, but the journey is tedious, stopping at places I’ve never heard of: Narborough, Coleshill, and Nuneaton (which always reminds me of the corney joke about cannibals who refrain from eating Nuns), where practically no one gets off or on.
I eventually arrived in Birmingham, New Street Station to be precise. It’s more like what the Americans call a ‘Shopping Mall’. There are cafés, bars and all sorts of foodie outlets from a strangely named ‘Five Guys Burger Bar’ to a comforting M&S Simply Food shop! Oh, yes, and there is a fully functioning mechanical bull, with fiery eyes and a slightly unnerving snort. I gather this is a leftover from the Commonwealth Games and is named ‘Ozzy’ after the Black Sabbath lead singer, Ozzy Osbourne. He is ‘a true son of Birmingham’, according to a chap standing next to me sporting a claret and blue scarf. Coming from deepest Norfolk, all these goings on made my head spin.
The electronic departures board displayed a 19.12 direct train to Plymouth, which was estimated to arrive at 22.50. That would get me to my mother’s at about midnight which could be a concern, but I decided I worry about that later. My mother waking hours were always variable, so there would be a good chance that she would still be at her desk applying a butcher’s cleaver to the latest novel lovingly written by some young up-and-coming writer.
I made my way through the labyrinth of stalls, and the mass of milling people to Platform 11 where my train was already boarding. I found a rear seat, dumped my bag on the top rack and settled down for the long journey ahead.
More time to reflect.
Mother wanted me to be a writer, and to follow in her footsteps. But, as my imagination is about as sharp as a wooden mallet, and my spelling akin to a dyslectic chimpanzee, we both soon discovered that I should take a different career path. I was OK at sciences, so my mother, using her extensive network of connections got me onto a fast-track degree course in brewing and distilling. This in turn sent me on the way to the lofty position of Distillery Manager at one of the few English Whisky distilleries, based in East Harling, Norfolk. Hence my use of the spooky train station, Harling Road. When I pushed my mother into why she sought out a whisky-related career for me, she replied simply, ‘Free samples dear boy, free samples.’
I made sure that she did get plenty!
My mother had been described by various people as ‘eccentric’, ‘unyielding’, a ‘character’ and sometimes ‘brutal’ in her reviews. However, more recently, she was depicted as ‘curiously likeable’. That last comment was probably from an author that she had given a rare favourable review.
She once actually admitted to me, albeit after several glasses of freebie single malt, that she would have preferred me to have been gay. She said it would have fitted in with her ‘bohemian’ lifestyle. She was decidedly frosty when I introduced her to Marion, my new girlfriend; however, a heavy thaw suddenly descended and her very rare sunshine smile emerged when I told Mother that Marion was a human rights lawyer specialising in illegal immigration. Marion was welcomed into the bosom of my mother like a long-lost daughter, which one day I hoped Marion would become, well at least a daughter-in-law.
There is not a great calling for human rights lawyers in East Harling, immigration for native East Harlingers, means people that have settled there from such alien and faraway places like Norwich or Cambridge. I kept my Devon roots well hidden, I had even adopted a Norfolk ‘twang’ which seemed to have satisfied the indigenes that I had some ‘pure blood’ running through my veins.
Marion stayed mainly in London; we would meet at most weekends either in Hackney or at my place.
As I headed rapidly towards the south, through Bristol and en route to Exeter, I thought about my mother's note. I had visited her/my home several times since leaving at the tender age of eighteen, but I always drove these visits. Mother had never in the past asked me to visit, and I always felt that there was some slight relief on her part when I left.
So, what was she doing summoning me so suddenly right now?
A text message from Marion briefly stalled my insights. She wanted to know if my journey was going well. Not wanting to elaborate on the ins and outs of my junket in electronic messaging, I just replied, ‘Yep fine’ … with a promise to call her tomorrow.
By the time my train departed from its penultimate stop, Totnes, I had decided that this was all ‘something and nothing’, and my mother was just testing me out and that she still had some control over me.
I arrived in Plymouth at 23.02. There was a line of taxis waiting for fares. I jumped into the first one and gave the driver details of my final destination.
We lived opposite the ‘White Thorn’ pub, which was jam-packed in the summer with eager grockles sampling the finest Devon ales, but in the winter, it returned to a local boozer, where sorrows were drowned, and darts rivalries settled.
After settling up with the taxi driver, I slung my bag over my shoulder and marched, slightly tentatively up the garden path. Nothing had changed since I was last here.
I saw that the lights were on in the porch, and I could just about make a light seemingly coming from Mother’s study.
I tapped the metal door knocker and waited. The door swung open. I was confronted by a large lady, clutching a stainless steel kettle, dressed in paisley-patterned dungarees with a scarf around her shoulders that resembled the colours of the Palestine national flag.
“Who are you?”
We stared at each other for a moment.
“You go first,” she commanded.
Taken aback, I stumbled over my words, “I’m Jeremy … er… Tilly’s son … I’ve … er … come from Norfolk … she …er … um … asked me to come.”
“And here I am,” I said raising my voice in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.
The lady shook her head, “You’re too late. She’s gone.”
“Where’s she gone? She was expecting me.”
“Dunno.” She narrowed her eyes. “Could be heaven if you believe in that nonsense, or maybe she’s already been reborn as a cat or mouse, who knows, ask a Buddhist, they have some lofty idea about life after death.Or maybe she’s gone the Hindu way, that means we have thirteen days free from impurities. Now that would be nice, wouldn’t it? ”
“She’s dead?”
“Yeah, this morning Matilda, or Tilly as she is known by some folk, left this world rather peacefully. She’d be sorry she’s missed you. But that’s life, or death, whichever.”
I gathered myself. “So, who the hell are you? What did she die from? Where have they taken her?”
The lady picked up my bag and ushered me inside.
“I’m Evangeline I met your mother at Greenham Common many years ago. She invited me down here when she learned that she was terminally ill. I’ve looked after her for a while now.”
“She didn’t say anything to me.”
“Nah, Matilda was like that she didn’t want to make a fuss”.
“But, she sent me this note.” I brandished it in her face. She declined to take it from me.
Evangeline raised the kettle and waved it in my direction.
“We’ve got a lot to get through these coming days, so you’d better come into the kitchen. Tea? Sugar? Milk?”
About The Author:
Graham is a retired SME owner, although he still does some part-time copywriting. Principally, press releases, blogs, articles, case studies, and award entries centred on the construction machinery industry. He also volunteers at a local primary school helping children to enjoy reading.
Links:
https://crunchiecrisp.me.uk/
https://amzn.eu/d/7w2TBU6
