Now
The train was not an easy option, but it was the only option. Driving there was out of the question. Although Elizabeth knew that she was sailing into unknown waters, she also knew that she had no other choice. Her stomach was in knots, somersaulting with every twist and turn as the train rocketed through the countryside. The words on the pages of the book she had brought to pass the time seemed to dance around, and she was unable to get through more than a few lines before she was right back where she started. Eventually she closed her eyes and listened to the rhythmic pulse of the tracks, thinking about the boy she’d met when she was seventeen. The picture she had in her mind was as clear as it was then, standing on the stairs dressed in her father’s clothes, completely out of his depth. Her thoughts wandered to the moment when he emerged from the water with her mother at his side, and how his voice on that night had calmed her more than anything else. His presence in her life had brought such freedom, allowed her to consider what she wanted, and who she was. Before Tom she had never contemplated how the dreams that burned inside her might come true.
After two changes the train pulled into Paddington Station and she stood up with her suitcase, her palms sweaty and her grip on the handle poor. Her stop at Plymouth was nothing compared to this, the cacophony of announcements combined with the rumble of feet and stink of engines. Many years ago, she had walked through this same station with such certainty and excitement, but now as she stood on the platform with the bustle of bodies moving all around her and no idea where to go or where to start, she felt as if she had been transported into a different world. Her little village was so quiet, a place where the hours felt endless, where you could hear the waves breaking against the shore even when it was busy with tourists. Here people moved as if the hours offered little more than minutes, their heads down, angled into the screen of their phone. Overwhelmed by it all, and with no clue where to go from there, she took a seat on one of the benches to give the crowds a chance to disperse, herself a moment to collect her thoughts.
By the time she got moving she realized that almost everything seemed different from before. It had been over forty years since she had been to London, and even after ten minutes of trying she couldn’t work out the map. The machine in the wall from which, if her observations were right, she was supposed to acquire tickets was an even bigger mystery. People punching in numbers and inserting cards, rushing off at speed. Where were all the people who worked here? Why couldn’t she talk to an employee? Through the sea of heads, she came across a line, a huge bank of ticket sellers beyond, but between her and the cashier was a queue five rows deep. It made her think of rock concerts she had seen on television. Things Kate liked when she was young. Her fingers brushed her purse, the phone just inside. Should she send her daughter a message, tell her what she was doing? No, she decided. There wasn’t time for that right now. Hoping her legs would see her through the wait, she headed toward the line but was stopped by a young man in the queue.
“Do you need some help?” Elizabeth looked up. His face was round, his beard a fluffy auburn mass that seemed strangely familiar. What a relief he seemed, appearing like an angel, and she wanted to reach out and hug him for suddenly making her feel that her inexplicable decision to come to London was not only right but necessary. “You look a bit lost,” he said.
“I am. I have no idea how to work those machines, and I’ve come all the way from Cornwall and now I don’t know what to do or where to go.” Emotion was building, a mix of relief and anxiety, all of which seemed to work together to form a lump in her throat.
“Where are you trying to get to?” the man asked.
“I don’t even know that,” she said before reaching in her bag and rummaging for that slip of paper with the address from years before. The address she could only hope Tom was still living at. “A place called Hampstead,” she said, reading the paper.
“Sounds like you’ve had quite a journey,” he said, reaching for her suitcase, pointing toward the machines. “Come on, I’ll help you. It’s easier than it looks.”
Perhaps it was the exhaustion, the anxiety, or just absolute relief, but she reached out and took the young man by the arm. “Thank you,” she said, blinking a tear away. “I would have been here all day in that queue, and I don’t have the time to waste.”
“This is London.” He laughed. “Nobody has.”
* * *
Less than half an hour later she found herself in the relative calm of Hampstead Tube station, and thanks to the young man’s help, only minutes from where she believed Tom’s house to be. Feet drummed the corridors, and the smell of oil and food hung thick in the station, but the assistance from the stranger had bolstered her. This was doable, she told herself as she stepped outside into the heat of the city. It struck her that there was no breeze, no saltiness to the air, yet life continued; mothers with strollers, men and women in suits. The little slip of white paper that she had kept for over forty years shook in her hand with the rhythm of her nerves as she tried to remember where to go.
“How have you spent your whole life here?” she said aloud, talking to Tom despite his absence, as she often did as a way of imagining him alongside her. “So far from home.” It seemed impossible to think Tom had lived in this place for close to fifty years, but she hoped for her sake he had. This was the only way she was going to be able to find him.
Only once had she made this trip before, the occasion when she first acquired Tom’s telephone number and address. The idea of a reunion hadn’t gone as planned that time, but her memory of that trip had left her with a certain sense that she knew where she was going. Still, years had passed since then, and life had changed. They had changed. Would he answer the door? Would his wife be there? She hoped not but felt guilty for even thinking it. Would they understand her arrival? With each step it became harder to breathe as she wound down the street, following the map of her memory. It was exhausting, and her fingers were sore from wheeling her case. And then, in the window of an expensive-looking bakery the sight of herself—hair all limp, her face red and shiny with sweat—held her back. Throughout the whole journey, her mind had been focused on how Tom might have changed. But what about how she had changed? What in the hell was he going to make of her in the state she was in?
In her mind he had remained forever beautiful, blessed by youth, but it was impossible to deny her own aging. What others would call womanly things—moisturizers, fancy clothes, or stylish haircuts—had always seemed like a bit of a bother to Elizabeth. They were things for women like Francine. What did she need with frivolities like that when she spent her life in front of an easel, painting? Even now there were traces of blue paint on her wrists. Her fingernails were never neatly shaped, just snipped practically so that she could work unhindered. If she was honest with herself, she had weathered much like the thatching on her cottage roof, which, considering the bucket catching drips in the bathroom, was to say not that well at all.
The thought of standing in front of him like that took her breath away, and she needed a moment for herself. Crossing the road, she rested on a seat in the bus shelter outside a Waterstones bookshop. Licking a tissue found in her pocket, she managed to remove some of the blue paint from her wrists. The zipper of her bag was a struggle for her gnarled fingers, but she got it open and located her toiletry bag, using the small attached mirror to look closely at her face. Crepey eyes stared back, red from tears shed on the train, born from fears over what she might find. The inside of the bag smelled of old cosmetics, and she found the remains of a lipstick that was no doubt as old as she was. It was probably something Kate used to play with as a girl, and Elizabeth was relieved to find that it was still moist enough for a dab of pink to rub into her cheeks. For so many years she had dreamed of this reunion, but now all she could think of was that she wasn’t ready. Not physically, and certainly not emotionally.