The Train by Sarah Bourne (fiction books to read txt) 📕

miles per hour, the road familiar to him from the visits they’d made to the ‘big house’ when he was a child. And coming to the brow of a low hill, there it was before him. The house, the drive winding through trees and rhododendrons. He’d been so afraid of those bushes as a child, sure that bad men lurked in them ready to carry off small boys. He had no idea where the notion had come from but it had persisted in various forms and places. Fear. And shame because he wasn’t brave.

He stopped at the gates and stared up the drive, breathing heavily as if he’d run there rather than driven. He turned off the engine and sat looking at the house, remembering happy times as well as the childhood fears. His grandfather, the inventor, had been a scary old man, but when he was younger he’d been all right, and he’d liked his grandchildren when they were small. He would set treasure hunts for them in the grounds. The prize would be a cake or money. Once it was a stamp. Lawrence had won that time and been disappointed until his father told him it was a rare first edition and would one day be worth a lot of money. He still had it in the safe at home, although he had no idea if it really had any monetary value.

Thinking of his grandfather brought his thoughts once again to the suicide that morning. Judith. He’d liked her for a while. Longer than many of the women he had affairs with. She was uncomplicated, undemanding. What a waste of a life. And yet, what was he doing with his time on this earth? Working like a bloody Trojan. And what for? Was he happy? He closed his eyes and tried to relax as he straddled the bike.

Am I happy? It wasn’t something he ever thought about. What constituted happiness anyway – the fleeting glow after sex? No, it never lasted long enough and was often replaced by a profound sense of loneliness. It wasn’t love, it was just a physical need. He hadn’t felt close to Deidra for years, ever since the children came along; she was so focused on them there was no room for him anymore. So, winning a difficult case, being well regarded by one’s colleagues – was that what it was all about? He had always endeavoured to be top of his game, but did it make him happy? Were the endless hours of work and the energy required to stay at the top worth it? And what about the desperate fear he could lose it all? Suddenly everything he had based his life on felt hollow. Aware of his heart beating faster in his chest he forced himself to stay with the question. What gave a life meaning – success, status, love?

His eyes widened. Fear gripped him like a knife being driven into his guts. A piteous cry escaped his lips and he pulled his helmet off as he slumped forward over the handlebars. He held on to them for grim death – or was it dear life – tears now coursing down his cheeks unchecked. He was alone. That wasn’t new. But he was lonely, and that was. His life had become a long, narrow, empty path. He had loved his children when they were little, had at times resented the career that demanded so much of his time. As they got older he knew them less and when they were young teenagers and still at home, he would hear their gay chatter, their laughter, but when he entered the room it would cease, the conversation becoming stilted, formal, only to resume its lightness when he left. He hadn’t allowed it to bother him then but now it made him ache to turn back the clock and make it different. To be at home more, to listen to his children, to understand what made them tick.

And Deidra. When had they become so distant? When had they stopped taking delight in each other, calling during the day just to hear the other’s voice?

Slowly he wiped his eyes, sat up straighter, kicked the bike back into life and turned for home. He took the shorter route, by the A508, and felt the miles speed away.

Twenty minutes later he arrived home. The lights in the kitchen and lounge were out but Deidra had left the hall light on for him. Without taking off his jacket he took the stairs two at a time.

His wife was getting ready for bed, sitting in her negligée at her dressing table, taking off her jewellery. She turned when she heard him come in. Lawrence watched her looking at him out of the same blue eyes he’d fallen in love with. Her skin was still smooth and unblemished. Her red hair, thick and natural, fell in soft waves to her shoulders.

‘Deidra– I–’

‘What’s the matter, Lawrence? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

Lawrence couldn’t find the words to express what he wanted to say. He was struck by a feeling. Several feelings. Fear that he was too late. Gratitude she was there at all. Love. Most of all, love.

‘An awful thing happened today and it’s made me realise a few things. Let’s go away somewhere,’ he said.

Deidra laughed. ‘What are you talking about? Aren’t we going to the house in France in a few weeks?’

‘I mean away away. Not France. Somewhere we’ve never been. For a long time. I want to see and do things I haven’t done before. I could retire and we could go off for a year – or more. The children are old enough now – they can have this house while we’re gone. We could swim with dolphins, or learn to paint, eat local food, drink terrible wine. Escape the drudgery. Live!’

Deidra was looking at him in quizzically as if assessing his mental capacity. ‘What’s brought this on?’

Lawrence sank onto the bed, letting out a