The Railway Station Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

open and she walked across the road, up one step and into the flagged hallway. The air was musty and damp; over twenty years of dead mice and spiders. Even though it had all been scrubbed out and the walls painted white, the smell remained. The door onto the platform was open, letting a draught run through the hall. She walked over and peered through the window into the ticket office. A cheerful fire was burning in the small fireplace. A gate-legged table and a couple of chairs were piled with books. A duffel coat hung on the door that led out on to the platform. She could hear the sound of someone sawing wood.
    â€˜Yes?’
    The voice came from behind her. She jumped.
    â€˜Can I help you?’
    â€˜I didn’t hear you coming.’
    A tall man with a patch over his left eye was standing in the middle of the hall. His empty left sleeve was tucked neatly into the pocket of his tweed jacket. He was altogether very neat, apart from the fact that he was wearing old tennis shoes, in the front of both of which his toes had made small jagged holes. Or perhaps the mice, she thought. Unlikely. He didn’t look the sort of man who would let the mice at his shoes.
    His voice was neat too, when he spoke again.
    â€˜If you’re enquiring about trains …’
    She began to laugh.
    â€˜It will be a while yet before they will be running.’
    She stopped laughing.
    â€˜There’s still a lot of work to be done before we’re operational.’
    â€˜I …’
    â€˜As you can see.’
    His voice was dour, unwelcoming.
    â€˜Where did you want to go?’
    She didn’t know what to say.
    â€˜I believe there is a reasonable bus service. You can get without too much trouble to Letterkenny and Donegal town. After that …’ He shrugged. ‘There are connections.’
    She laughed again, because she wasn’t sure what else to do. A little nervous laugh.
    â€˜Oh no. It wasn’t that. I live here. I just came to see … to … Someone told me your name was Haythorne. I wondered … I used to know Haythornes back in Dublin. Ages ago. I thought perhaps …’
    â€˜Hawthorne,’ he said, and left it at that.
    â€˜Oh.’
    After a moment she held out her hand towards him.
    â€˜Mr Hawthorne. I’m Helen Cuffe.’
    He didn’t move.
    â€˜I live in the cottage down the road. Just before you get to the village.’
    There was silence except for the sound of the saw somewhere out along the platform.
    â€˜I just thought I’d come up and see if there was anything you … It must be difficult to manage here. If you’d like a meal … or something.’
    She felt her face going red.
    â€˜I am quite good at managing, thank you.’
    Two puckered scars ran from the eye patch down to his chin, pulling his mouth very slightly to one side.
    â€˜I seldom go out in company.’
    Bugger him, she thought. She turned away from him and began to walk back across the hall. I seldom go out in company either. Bugger him.
    â€˜Mrs Cuffe,’ he called after her.
    Helen stopped but didn’t turn around.
    â€˜You’re wet.’
    She nodded.
    â€˜Or is it Miss Cuffe?’
    â€˜Mrs.’
    â€˜Did you walk all the way up here?’
    â€˜Yes. For the good of my health. I want to live a long, long time. Goodbye, Mr Hawthorne.’
    â€˜Goodbye, Mrs Cuffe.’
    When she got out into the rain, she said, ‘Bugger him’ again, out loud.
    Towards evening the rain stopped, as happens so often on the west coast. The clouds lifted and the sky became a delicate washed blue. The distant sea, a darker blue, looked turbulent; white foaming waves licked and curled around the islands. The sun softened by mists moved downwards towards the edge.
    Helen sat on the step outside the porch and watched the colours change. The shadows of the trees and hedges below her grew longer and darker. Real excitement always filled her at this