Dear Rosie Hughes: This is the most uplifting and emotional novel you will read in 2019!
Glasgow, it struck me that I might be able to cobble together a story that ends with a life-affirming train journey. Oh, I know it’s been done to death, but who cares, I just need an ending. You know the sort of thing. The rhythmic rocking of the carriage soothes the heroine’s troubled mind as she rests her forehead on the cold window and gazes, unfocussed, at the landscape as it passes by. The landscape is a welcome stranger – it harbours no painful connection to the past. When she reaches her destination, the heroine steps off the train, glances around, finds the energy to smile at unfamiliar faces and, with the sudden realisation that all will be well, she takes a deep breath, grabs her bag, and disappears through a cloud of steam into a brighter future. But before leaving the platform, she takes one last look down the line, and with tears in her eyes she watches the train as it disappears into the distance. There can be no going back now, the train has gone; the ending has become the beginning (bla bla bla).
Having pictured myself as the heroine in my own story, I half-expected my own epic train journey (Huddersfield to Mallaig) to lead me to an immediate epiphany and a world of joy. I even booked myself onto the tourist steam train from Fort William to ensure the environment was as fitting as possible. As I walked onto the platform, I visualised myself as Ingrid Bergman in The Inn of the Sixth Happiness - kind and ethereal, but with fewer kids. My bubble burst, however, when I realised I was about to board the bloody Hogwarts Express. Dozens – scratch that – hundreds of kids appeared on the platform, all dressed in school gowns and jimmy wigs (homage to Ron Weasley, no doubt) flourishing twigs and shouting, ‘expelliarmus’.
I wished they would!
I survived the journey by playing eye spy with the little girl sitting opposite. She was a dour little thing (either that or she was doing a spot of Hermione improv). An hour of mountains and moorland rolled by, and after a final, ‘Something beginning with T’, the train coughed out its last choo choo and we pulled into Mallaig station just as the rain began to pour. Determined to have my spiritual epiphany one way or another, I said a few expelliarmus’ of my own and waited for the kids to disperse before getting off the train. But my old friend Disappointment continued to act as an overly keen travelling companion, and when I stepped onto the platform I noticed a buffer stop and it dawned on me that I would not be left standing in a cloud of steam next to Bernard Cribbins, after all. Mallaig is the end of the line.
You won’t be surprised to hear that I’ve brought more baggage than one woman could possibly need. As I lugged my cases across the road to get to the harbour (of course, it would be raining) you popped into my mind and I gave myself a good talking to about travelling light - you survive in Iraq with nothing more than a change of clothes and a packet of baby wipes so why do I need all this stuff? These thoughts stayed with me and I visualised the excess of emotional baggage I’m also dragging in my wake which, in my imagination, was manifested as a great pile of tea chests pushed along by a little Indian boy dressed in traditional dress of the Raj (the boy had a gammy leg too, poor thing). It hit me as my eyes welled with tears (at the thought of the orphaned Indian child) that I really do need to have a break from my imagination for a while, or else I’m probably only one more bad metaphor from parting company with my mental health altogether.
Anyway, an old gentleman dressed in yellow wellies and a woolly jumper (so thick I wondered if he was actually just wearing a whole sheep), snapped me back into the real world by saying, ‘Hello, you must be Agatha. I’m Hector. Let’s get you on board’, (how is it that some wonderful people manage to talk and smile at the same time?). He nodded towards a boat. A handful of tourists were already impersonating a tin of sardines stuffed into the boat’s cockpit, hiding out of the rain. I made a right tit of myself embarking. My foot slipped and I’m still rubbing a twanged hamstring having fallen down the last three rungs of the ladder. There was no room for me in the sardine tin, but I didn’t really care. My jeans were wet anyway. I perched my bottom on a lobster pot, rubbed my thigh and glanced into the cockpit, but immediately wished I hadn’t. A young couple, clearly in love, stole a kiss. The man placed a protective arm around the lady’s shoulder and at this point my eyes stung with tears, just as a goffer of a wave hit me side on.
But the wave that drenched me also acted as a slap across the face. The sea washed a lightness of spirit over me that took on an immediate effect, and as the boat edged away from the pier and we began to bounce high then low across the sea, I had an overwhelming sensation that all was going to be well. And it was definitely my overactive imagination, but when I looked back and saw the little Indian boy standing on the pier, gesticulating towards the pile of tea chests I had left behind, I ignored him, which was a little cruel, considering the limp. Instead, I turned to face forwards, looked at the mountains ahead and allowed my body to enjoy the rise and fall of the ocean. It was as if the angels were telling me to travel light this time, and it felt good.
Take care, darling Rosie. Write again soon.
Aggie
P.S. And don’t worry, Casey has left her phone line connected, so I’ll still be able to send eblueys on the internet, thank goodness.
P.P.S. Re Gethyn, didn’t you read his review? I’m still thinking up my reply …
‘E’ Bluey
From: Mr Hughes
To: Rosie
Date: 23 January
Dear, Babe
Your friend (the one who played the piano to accompany your violin) came round the other day. Oh, but she did make us laugh. She had Mammy in stiches when I went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. I could even hear them laughing over the noise of the kettle. Agatha told Mammy some cock and bull story about a camping trip she went on a while back. Apparently, she ended up stranded with a load of naturalists in a remote Welsh Valley during a hurricane – do you think she makes half of these stories up? She brought us a lovely cake, though. Triple layer! It’s a shame Simon dumped her – she makes a bloody good cake!
Life goes on here as usual. Mammy had one of her appointments yesterday – routine stuff, nothing to worry about. It was good to get her out of the house. She’s obsessed with watching the news and I can’t stand it. I swear if anything happens to you she will kill Tony Blair. She spent two hours talking about you to the woman sitting next to us in the waiting area. I don’t think there was anything that poor woman didn’t know about you by the time she left, but at least Mammy chatted to a stranger, which is progress, you’ll agree.
We’re both hoping you’ll come home to Yorkshire for good after this mess in Iraq is cleared up. You’ll get a job somewhere round here, I’m sure. You could even go back to university to study something new, you’re never too old, and you know me and Mammy will help out financially, where we can. Give it some thought, at least.
Love you, Babe.
KYHD
MumnDad xx
‘E’ Bluey
From: Agatha
To: Rosie
Date: 1 February
Dear, Rosie
I’ve completed my first few days in Scotland as an eccentric recluse and can confirm that Appledart is wet, windy and awash with hill walkers. But it doesn’t matter, because the majestic hills and aquamarine seas are breath-taking whatever the weather, and the good news is that it stopped raining yesterday (I’m in tune with ‘the little things’ now, as you can see).
Disappointingly, I’m yet to meet a sexy, kilted Scotsman. In fact, there appear to be no Scotsmen here at all, with or without kilts, or, in fact, any single men within my accepted age bracket (which is widening as each year passes). The inhabitants of Appledart are an eclectic mix of international loners, all of whom (bar one, Ishmael) are over the age of fifty-five. Shaun (the landlord at the pub) owns the only vehicle on the peninsula (except for Hector’s 1950’s tractor, of course) and uses it to shuttle visitors between Aisig and Morir. He ferried me to the end of the road after my night at the pub.
As for Aisig – you didn’t say what a little piece of heaven it really is. I met my neighbours on the first day. Firstly, there is Anya, a white