Andrew’s eye was drawn to the railway debris. It was as if the crash had just happened.
Peggy looked at her watch. “Look, I should probably think about going now. I need to make sure the girls have been given something else to eat other than Curly Wurlys.” She stood up—letting Andrew’s hand go—and retrieved her coat and bag. “Just think about what I’ve said, okay? And if you start feeling . . . you know . . . then call me straightaway. Promise?”
Andrew nodded. He really didn’t want her to leave. He wasn’t going to be able to do this without her, whatever she might think. “I’m going to do it,” he blurted out. “I’ll tell the truth, to everyone—but it just can’t be now, when Cameron’s talking redundancies. I just need to find a way of getting through the stupid bloody dinner party with my reputation intact, and then when things have settled down I’ll fix everything, I promise. So all I’m asking for is a bit of help, short term, for how I’m going to . . .” His words petered out as he saw the disappointment in Peggy’s eyes. She moved toward the door and he limped after her.
“What are you . . . please don’t—”
“I’ve said my piece, Andrew. I’m not going to change my mind. Besides, I’ve got my own mess I need to sort out.”
Andrew just about managed to stop himself from begging her to stay.
“Sure,” he said. “Of course. I understand. And sorry, I didn’t mean to drag you away. And I’m sorry for lying to you. I wanted to tell you the truth, I really did.”
“I believe you,” Peggy said, giving him a peck on the cheek. “And I believe in you, too.”
Andrew stood there for a long time after Peggy had gone. He looked down at the wine stain on the carpet. It was in the same spot where he’d stood, rigid in his own despair, the phone ringing and ringing as Sally tried to get him to speak to her, the day after Diane’s death. He felt impossibly guilty for how he’d behaved then—how cowardly and weak he’d been to hide himself away, too broken to face the funeral, refusing to let Sally comfort him—and even more so now thinking about how he’d indulged in the fantasy of how his life might have gone if Diane had never walked out of the house that morning. He couldn’t believe how kind and understanding Peggy had been after she’d learned the truth. He’d expected her to run a mile. Unless of course she was just lulling him into a false sense of security before she dashed to the nearest mental hospital to report him as a deluded, dangerous fantasist . . . Surely, surely, nobody else would be as understanding as her, if he were to simply come out and tell them? He pictured Cameron’s beady eyes widening, Keith and Meredith turning from stunned to scathing in the blink of an eye.
He heard his mobile vibrate again. Another message from Carl, no doubt. The autopilot in him wanted to put on some Ella, but he stopped by the record player, his hand above the needle. Without music or the gentle whooshing of a train he was more aware of what he could hear. He opened the window. Sparrows were singing; a bee—a queen surely, judging from its size—buzzed past.
Despite the fact he was feeling jittery from caffeine, he made himself another cup of tea, enjoying the comforting warmth of it as he drank, his thoughts percolating. He understood why Peggy was frustrated that he wasn’t simply going to come clean with everyone now that he’d revealed the truth to her, but what she perhaps hadn’t fully grasped was how potent the fantasy was, how tied to it he felt. It wasn’t something he could just walk away from.
He stood and surveyed the train wreck. It was hard to tell what damage was repairable and what was ruined for good. The locomotive he’d had set up at the time—an O4 Robinson class—was probably a write-off, as were the carriages. Thank Christ it hadn’t been any of his really prized locomotives. Most of the scenery—the lighter stuff—was definitely irreparable. Trees and animals were flattened and bent. Figures lay prone on the ground. All of them, he realized, except three farmhands who were still upright in what used to be an orchard, a look of defiance about them.
Peggy had told him he alone had to choose what to do, and maybe she was right. But what if that meant he chose only to tell people the truth when he actually felt ready? That was still him taking control, wasn’t it? He ignored the dissenting voice at the back of his head by focusing on what he told himself was the more immediate concern: namely, the approaching dinner party. It was absolutely vital that he keep Cameron happy. What he really needed was some help. Peggy was out of the question. So that left . . . well, “Nobody,” he said out loud. But as he looked again at the stoic farmhands, he remembered that, actually, that wasn’t strictly true.
— CHAPTER 31 —
Saturday afternoons weren’t the busiest times on the subforum, but Andrew could still picture BamBam67, TinkerAl and BroadGaugeJim checking in before the evening was out—a quick glance as they waited for dinner to simmer, just in case someone had posted to confirm that the new Wainwright H Class 0-4-4T really did justify the insane hype.
It worked in his favor that recent events had meant his activity on the forum had been limited in the previous week, as the last two messages mentioning him, from TinkerAl and BroadGaugeJim, were written with genuine concern:
Tracker, you’ve gone a bit quiet. All good?
Was just thinking that! Don’t say old T-bone’s gone cold turkey??
The fact that they were obviously concerned for his welfare made him feel a little more comfortable about asking for help like this. He composed a message in a blank document, tweaking and rewording from start to finish several times.
He was still finding it hard to get completely warm, so he’d rooted around in a cupboard and found some blankets, which he’d washed and tumble-dried before wrapping around his shoulders, so that it looked like his head was poking out through the top of a wigwam. He had also—in a moment of madness, suddenly consumed by derring-do—made some soup from scratch.
He copied and pasted his message into a new post on the forum, gave it one final check, and then, before he could back out, he hit “send.”
—
Andrew took a sip of lager and made a note to remind himself that his instincts—much like burgers bought from rest-stop vans and people who started sentences with “I’ll be honest with you”—were not to be trusted. He’d chosen the pub near King’s Cross because it was called the Railway Tavern, and that felt like a good omen. He had visions of Barter Books—the same ambience, but substituting tea, scones and books for thick pints of bitter and interesting crisps. Instead, the pub felt like the sort of place you only ever heard mentioned in the same breath as “fled the scene” and “unprovoked attack.” Andrew had long since lost track of which clubs were battling it out at the top of Division One, or whatever it was called now, but the twenty or so other men in the pub were, to put it mildly, invested. Insults were leveled at the screen with furious relish. More confusingly, a man with ginger sideburns kept clapping whenever a decision went his team’s way or there was a substitution, as if his applause could actually travel through the screen and reach the player coming on. Another man in a leather jacket worn over his team’s colors periodically threw his arms up in the air and turned to try to make conversation with a group of fans who steadfastly ignored him. A young woman was standing further up along the bar, pulling nervously at her hair, which was purple and looked like it had the consistency of cotton candy. Never had Andrew seen so many people in the same place, supporting the same team, wearing the same shirt, looking so alone.