Page 72 of The Last Kiss

And so it came down to one question: was that chance of happiness worth the risk?

He looked down at Ash’s precious letters scattered across the table, pressed a hand to his chest, over the great cavernous wound in his heart, and knew his answer.

Scraping back his chair, he came around the table and pulled Kitty up and into his arms. “I love you,” he said, squeezing her skinny frame tight. “My God, Kitty Morgan, you’ve no idea what your words mean to me. No idea at all.”

She gave him a swift squeeze and then pushed him back, smiling through a frown. “Alright, alright that’s enough. Light the stove for me, will you? You’ve time for a cuppa before you leave., Casanova”

He made time for two cups. And a wash and shave too — he wanted to look his best for Ash — before he packed his bag, kissed Kitty and the girls goodbye, and headed to Mayfair with a spring in his step and butterflies in his belly. By the time he left the tube at Green Park and made his way up to Charles Street, it was just before ten o’clock.

He paused on the other side of the road, staring at the black iron railings of number thirty-six, the grey sky reflecting off its windows. Stupid to be nervous, but it wasn’t every day you walked up to a man’s house and begged for a second chance to be his lover. Not that he thought Ash would turn him away, but even so…

Clearing his throat, he wiped his clammy hands on the back of his trousers and crossed the street, not pausing before climbing the steps to the front door. It opened before he reached it to reveal Miss Allen — Mrs Dalton — dressed to go out.

They both stopped and stared at each other for a long, terrible moment. Harry’s face flamed. What if Ash had been lying, what if Olive didn’t know, or didn’t approve, or — ?

“Well,” she said, “better late than never, I suppose. But I’m afraid you’ve missed him.”

He stumbled back down a step. “What?”

“Ashleigh’s taking the ten thirty to Southampton. He left for the station half an hour ago.”

Harry stared at her for half a moment, and then bolted back toward the underground.

***

The people and the bustle, made worse by the endless hammering of the building works next door, made Waterloo Station a challenge at the best of times.

These were not the best of times.

Ash was already miserable and navigating the labyrinthine old station with his heavy case in one hand, cane in the other, made him want to scream. He and Olive had motored into town last week, both excited about what their new lives might bring, and he’d hoped — planned — to make this return trip with Harry. Instead he was facing the enervating journey alone, the distant shrilling of whistles raising the hair on the back of his neck.

Gritting his teeth, he made his way into the shiny new booking hall to buy his ticket. Then he climbed up and over the footbridge to the old Southern Station, with its confusion of platforms and waiting rooms, to board the ten-thirty for Southampton. His leg throbbed like the devil, or perhaps he was simply paying it more attention than usual because the whistles were already sparking flashes of unwanted memory.

Having deliberately loitered outside the station until the final moment, Ash was relieved to see his train sitting at platform three. The less time he spent in the station the better. He showed his ticket at the gate and made his way along to the first class carriage, the great beast of an engine at the front of the train hissing and disgorging clouds of steam as it readied to depart. The platform guard opened the carriage door for him and carried his bag inside while Ash navigated the large step up into his compartment.

“In the overhead rack, sir?”

Ash nodded his thanks and sank down onto the seat with a grunt, grateful for the respite on his sore leg, and the guard closed the carriage door behind him with a soft thud. Through its sooty window, he could just make out the nebulous shapes of other passengers walking along the platform. Some of them, no doubt, would have been in London for Saturday’s parade. For himself, he’d taken pains to miss it. And Peace Day only reminded him of the devastating mess he’d made of things with Harry.

Should he write and apologise, or would that be too dangerous? Committing something as criminal as their love to paper might be considered reckless. Not that he gave a damn anymore, but he’d never endanger Harry’s safety.

With a sigh, he took off his hat and set it on the empty seat next to him. He hoped he’d have the compartment to himself the whole way; he couldn’t bear the idea of making small talk with a stranger while he fought off his damned plaguing memories. To that end, he rose and closed the compartment door, pulling down the blind over the window to discourage anyone walking down the corridor from entering. There wasn’t much he could do about the external door, but he hoped for the best at any rate. Not that luck had been much in his favour recently.

Leaning back, he closed his eyes and tried to picture Harry’s face. Harry as he’d been riding through the New Forest, or when they’d shared that transcendent night in London: happy, open, smiling. But as the carriage doors slammed up and down the train, and a whistle blew on the platform, the image before him twisted and greyed into Harry’s face beneath his tin hat, mud-streaked and grim.

His eyes jolted open, shattering the image, a flash of adrenaline detonating behind his breastbone. Pulse pounding, his fingers knotted into fists in his lap, nails biting into his palms. God damn it. God damn it to hell, would he never be free of this?

Another whistle blast further down the platform tightened the skin over his bones, turned his muscles to iron and strangled his breathing. Old faces flashed in the window, hunkered and cold. He screwed his eyes shut but could feel the metal of the whistle on his lips, could taste its steel tang.Two minutes, boys.His heartbeat thundered, breaths short and sharp, and —

“Oi! Oi, you — stop!”

Ash opened his eyes. The engine sounded its low hooting whistles, one long, four short. Steam poured down the platform as the train jolted forward, pistons slowly turning. Through the steam, as if through clouds of gas, he saw a hazy figure running.

Someone blew a whistle. “Stop! Oi stop there! You’re too late!” Another hissing blast of steam billowed along the platform and a man ran through it as if for his life.

Ash sat forward in his seat, heart hammering. “I’m not there,” he said aloud. “This is Waterloo station.” And the man was running through steam, not gas.

“Ash!”

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