Platform 5A for the delayed 1337 to London Kings Cross calling at Newark, Peterborough and London Kings Cross.
Daisy wondered if this coffee-shop beside the bridge to the platforms had once been a signal box. Perhaps the baristas, loading and switching their group-heads, twisting steamers and levering grinders were descended from men who had switched the points for the millions of trains that had passed through York over the last century and a half.
How many of them were students, she wondered, on journeys from home to dreams? From where had they come? To study what? With what aim? The girl that had brought her toasted teacake – where was she from? Poland? Lithuania? Student or migrant? Was she also in transit? Long fingers. A pianist perhaps, a player of Chopin to distance herself from the everyday. Long legs too. A model? Wide smile, perhaps just happy to be here, admirably professional, doing the job well, pretending she was something she was not, “keeping her eyes on the distant horizon”. She had often wondered such things about herself, until today.
Platform 4 for the 1424 train to Leeds Bradford Airport.
Daisy watched as the crowd swelled and dispersed. She saw the sandwich-board evangelist’s sign declaring “Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit”. In a quieter moment, she thought she heard him pronounce “Let your light shine before others” before the public address system warned everyone to keep their luggage with them at all times. She watched the digital display outside the window switch from departures to arrivals, gold and black origins and destinations fading and emerging, time passing by, moving on. She wondered if there might be a song in the list of names.
The train approaching platform 6 does not stop here. Please stand back from the platform edge.
“Daisy. I didn’t expect to see you here. So where have you been hiding? Not seen you for days.”
“Hello, Simon. I am…”
“We’ve been making great progress, Sis. Don has just phoned to say that the bank loan has been confirmed. I’ve just been to look at that property on the Thirsk road, with the surveyor and the architect. It’s an old farmhouse that can be fixed to make up ten bedrooms and there are outbuildings for four apartments. The barn is in really sound state and easily convertible for dining and entertainment. The old crew-yard needs levelling and will accommodate thirty to forty cars. We hope the builders can confirm a likely completion date of about twelve months’ time.”
Daisy leaned across the table, reaching out a hand that he did not notice. “Simon, there’s…”
“So, we open in the spring and we’ll be overflowing by the autumn and ready to put on something spectacular for Christmas. Fully established and on everyone’s lips and all the right websites and platforms within two years. Bingo! The world’s our oyster, Daisy.”
“That’s great,” she said, sitting back, resigned.
“Well, you might show a little more enthusiasm, girl.”
“Look, Simon., she said, rallying. “There’s…”
“We’ve a list of potential chefs to head-hunt. We thought you would like to settle down to arrange some informal chats. We also want you to explore the advertising field. You know, county magazines, tourist board brochures, web sites, and the works. And restaurant and hotel reviews. We thought you might research these and get a feel for the essential things that punters say about places that stand out from the rest. This is going to be so fantastic, Sis. Don and I are convinced that our business plan is spot-on and hard-wired. The bank is very happy with it.” Simon’s words were racing, hands animated, eyes charged with excitement.
“We’d also like you to get about a bit,” he said, “to make some exploratory visits – to study décor and design plans for the private and public places. You know, lobbies, dining rooms, bathrooms and the like.”
“Simon…”
“We are going to realise the kind of operation that Mum and Dad dared hardly dream of when they started the Bed & Breakfast chain. I do wish they could have seen what we are creating on the back of their legacy.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying…”
“Your cup’s empty. Let me get you a refill. Skinny mocha, yeah?”
“Simon, please. Sit down. There’s something you need to hear.”
She had always known that trying to explain to either Simon or Don would be difficult, if not impossible. That they would not know how to begin to understand that she had no appetite for the project; that they had simply assumed, as they always had, that she would follow their lead.
“The flowers of the field do not labour or spin,” the evangelist in the station hall was claiming before being drowned out by an announcement about a cancelled train from Leeds.
She felt Simon’s physical deflation as he sank back in his chair, head and shoulders drooping while she explained her long-term plans to relocate, to either London or Edinburgh. Friends in both cities had offered open invitations to stay for as long as she needed to settle when she shared her situation with them during the last fortnight. Only this afternoon had she decided where she would go.
“Oh come on, Daisy, don’t go getting cold feet on us,” Simon rallied, though less effusive than before. “We are relying on your artistic sensitivity to come up with the polish and glitter to make this project a success.”
“I am sorry, Simon. I’ve never been sure that this was for me. It’s never been something I really wanted to do. And I know what would be expected of me, what my responsibilities, my duties, would be; how much time I would have to give. And that would be too much. I know it would mean that my own ambitions, hopes, dreams would have to be put aside. And I am not prepared to do that.”
“Dan and I are pumping every penny of our inheritance into the mortgage, solicitors, surveyors and building costs. We were relying on yours to cover the research and marketing expenses and a significant part of early staff salaries.”
“I know how excited and committed you both are; and I do hope you succeed. I am sure you will.”
“Daisy, within five or six years we’ll be rolling in cash. This venture cannot fail. Location, timing, prospects, and opportunities – they are all flashing green lights at us. We need to act now. You can live singer-songwriter dreams later.”
“I don’t want to wait, Simon.”
Simon looked at her and, in the pause, the voice of the evangelist filtered through, claiming, “By their fruits you will recognise them.”
“That’s pretty damned selfish don’t you think? We’ve talked about this for so long. Where was the heads-up that you didn’t fancy the challenge?”
“I asked questions from the very beginning about how much commitment this demanded but you didn’t listen, wouldn’t hear. You both just brushed off my concern, reassuring me all would be fine, that it was all straightforward, couldn’t go wrong. It never seemed to occur to you that I simply might not want to be involved.”
And when were you going to tell us? How were we to find out that you’d up and gone, leaving us in the lurch, financially embarrassed? Via some cowardly phone call? Don will explode when he hears this. He’ll go ballistic. I am not sure I want to be there when you tell him.”
“I am not going to tell him, Simon. That’s why I am here. I am leaving today, this afternoon.”
He looked down at her bag, the simple hold-all, and the mandolin attached and she saw by the slackening of his face that he knew it was true.
“You know, Daisy, without your third, this whole plan goes tits-up. You never did have a business head. That’s why we didn’t concern you too much before now. ”
“Your plans are not really affected by this decision.”
“Not affected! Of course they are! How do you think..?”
“Don’t worry about my share of the investment. Our solicitors have instructions to arrange for all but £10,000 of my part of the inheritance to be unconditionally passed over to you two, specifically, for this project.”
Platform 9 for the delayed 1336 for Edinburgh, calling at Darlington, Durham, Newcastle and Edinburgh. First class accommodation is at the rear of the train.
“Oh don’t be ridiculous. How long will ten grand last you? It’s barely enough to live on for a year. What will you do then? Busk?”
“Perhaps, Simon. But don’t you see – that will be okay. It’s what I want to do. What I need. It’s my choice. My dream.
“But Daisy…”
“This is my decision, Simon. Mine. The prizes or the consequences will be mine alone. And I have to go. That’s my train coming in.”
Simon sat, unmoving, as Daisy rose to leave and did not seem to notice as she kissed his forehead before stepping out of the cafe, striding across the bridge, and down the steps to join the crowd for waiting train.
“Knock and the door will be opened,” intoned the evangelist as Daisy hitched her mandolin and hold-all over her shoulder.