Wrapping a towel around my wet and shivering body I drink from the mug of coffee before donning sunglasses, spreading the towel on the ground and settling down to dry off in the sun with a book at the ready. Other members of the family return from their swim and are soon scattered around the prom lazing, like me, on towels reading or dozing or sitting in chairs gazing out to sea. A few small sailing dinghies bob about in the bay and other larger sailing boats are dotted around further out to sea. It is quiet and peaceful in the early season and the entire bay seems to belong to us. As I turn page after page, words fade in and out of focus and I soon give in to warmth-induced sleepiness, resting my head on the open book and closing my eyes. There is barely a sound other than the distant passing whir of a speed boat, an occasional call of a child and the gentle afternoon drone of the corporate Nicholson snore. All is still and in the stillness I feel a tiny movement in my womb, like a flutter of butterfly wings. I hold my breath and wait; there it is again, another butterfly movement. For a few minutes I lie secretly revelling in the new sensation before lifting my head and saying, ‘I just felt the baby move’.
Turning over onto my back, placing my hands on the spot where I felt the tiny flutters of movement, an instinctive gesture of protection for the life within that has begun to make its presence felt.
Anglesey holds so much of the past, times to treasure and times lost. As the island recedes into the distance of the coast and into the distance of memory I’m surprised by an overwhelming feeling of sorrow and by the idea that I never want to return. My hands feel damp; I look down at them resting in my lap and notice a damp patch on my trousers. For one awful and embarrassing moment I think I’ve wet myself before realizing that my face is also moist. Instinctively, almost absently, I lift a hand to wipe away tears streaming down my face.
I don’t know how long I’ve been crying, yet not crying. No sound, just tears. How could I not have realized? Instinctively I glance around at the few people dotted around the carriage; no one is looking or taking any notice of the lone traveller staring through the window, lost in thought and crying her silent tears. Wiping my hands on a dry patch of trouser leg, I lean my head against the coolness of the glass window pane, aware but not caring about the sodden patch on my lap. Tears continue to flow and I let them fall, unchecked, on to the spreading wetness of darkening red linen, looking more like blood than water and feeling like the broken waters of impending childbirth. ‘Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean.’ Is this the difference between crying and weeping – sorrow rising from the heart, wordlessly and soundlessly?
Now I can’t bear my thoughts; they tumble out with my tears, images of Jenny lying hurt and afraid and alone. I screw my eyes up tight and lament with all my heart: Please God please God please God. Please God what? Keep her safe, keep her safe: words going round and round my head, picking up the age-old rhythm of the speeding train. I jump to my feet in a rising tide of panic, searching through my bag for a pack of tissues and blowing my nose fiercely to rid my head of wild unwanted thoughts and unuttered prayers. Groping for the sunglasses perched on top of my head I pull them down to shield my eyes, protection against more than the glare of the sun.
I try not to think of the last twenty hours or the implications of my journey but it’s impossible not to think of Jenny and I tell myself over and over again she’s going to be all right, she’s going to be all right, keeping my mind focused on that one positive thought.
The motion of the train is soothing and must have rocked me into a light doze. When I open my eyes we’ve left the coast behind, the landscape is duller, industrial and functional, more in keeping with my mood. The guard announces the approach to Crewe. Shrugging on my denim jacket and checking for the ticket in the pocket, I grab my bag, take a quick look around in case I’ve left anything, then walk along the carriage towards the nearest door, relieved that the first step of the journey is almost over.
I stand with my legs astride my bag and rocking from side to side with the motion of the train. Wales has merged into England and the past into the present. I try not to see the future looming darkly like the shadow currently spreading along the carriage as the train pulls into Crewe station.
I have to lean out of the window to manoeuvre the handle that opens the door, which jams and then swings open with such a force that I almost fall out. I head straight for the Ladies and check the pitiful state of my face. I repair the damage and then contemplate going to the buffet and having a cup of coffee but decide against it and sit on a bench to wait the half-hour or so for Sharon’s train.
More waiting! I sit very still, feeling quite composed, looking straight ahead and listening to station announcements, doors slamming and whistles being blown, sharp and piercing. A guard walks by and asks if I’m all right. Instead of answering I ask if this is the platform for the Manchester train.
‘You’re all right, love, about another twelve minutes now.’
‘Thank you.’
I smile to myself. Maybe he wasn’t asking after my wellbeing, merely enquiring if I needed any information.
A couple more trains pull in and pull out before the tannoy announces the arrival of the Manchester train. As the train pulls in I get to my feet, scanning the windows for a sign of my cousin; then as it stops I see her at the door directly in front of me. Dark brown hair frames her face on the other side of the window. She doesn’t see me at first. All her attention is on heaving down the window to lean out and open the door. Then just as I lift my hand to wave and attract her attention, she lifts her head, catches sight of me and smiles in recognition. My cousin Sharon, tall as I am short, colour co-ordinated and elegant even at this hour of the day, steps down from the train and we move towards each other, embracing, holding each other for a moment. No words are spoken, the hug says everything. As we move apart we both have tears in our eyes. There’s a while to wait for the connection so we sit in the buffet with a cup of coffee and catch up, talking calmly and concentrating on details and logistics and what we’ll do when we get to Reading.
There’s a man, smart, good-looking, youngish, in a seat across the aisle, travelling alone. He has a warm smile and confirms we’re on the London train as Sharon and I settle into our seats and dither about a bit, making sure we’re on the right train and that it stops at Rugby. He’s trying to get back to his family in London. He left home early yesterday, before the explosions, for a meeting in the North and because of the disruption of trains was unable to travel back yesterday evening. He has a wife and two little girls. We talk generally about the horrors of yesterday and then tell him the reason for our journey. He’s very concerned and attentive and kind. Talking to him helps; it gives us a sense of purpose and solidarity; it’s energizing somehow. We can be positive and say determinedly that Jenny appears to be missing, probably caught up in the chaos and we’re on our way to London to search for her. In less than an hour the train pulls into Rugby station and as we prepare to leave our travelling companion gives us his business card and asks if we can give him a quick call when we’ve found Jenny, to let him know how things are. As he hands me the card he says, ‘I’ll be thinking about you and hope you find your daughter safe and well. If there’s anything I can do, anything, please call.’ I want to hold the moment, give myself up to the reassurance of his caring presence and kind words, but we must be on our way and he must be on his.
Stepping down from the train we spot Martyn further along the platform, waiting and looking out for us. After quick hugs and greetings he takes our bags and we head towards the exit. Behind us carriage doors slam and a whistle blows before the train slowly starts to pull out of the station. As we reach the exit I catch a glimpse of the man inside a carriage, standing and looking out, his face no longer smiling but full of concern. He passes before my eyes, his arm raised in farewell.
Martyn and Sharon are talking.