Page 8 of Home This Christmas

SEVEN

‘Cancelled, really? It’s only a bit of snow…’ I say to no one in particular. I sigh in frustration as I view a board at the station informing me that my train has been cancelled due to bad weather.

‘Aye, love. Everything stops in this country when there’s a bit of snow.’ The grey-haired man in a checked cap standing next to me shakes his head, as he goes on to tell me how he walked four miles to school in knee-high snow when he was a lad. ‘Where are you off to then?’

‘Brindleford. I was going to take the train to Burnley, then a connecting train to the village.’ We both stare at the board, as if it might magically change and normal service will be announced.

‘I was heading to Burnley too.’ He rubs his chin with his hands. ‘My son was going to collect me from the station.’ He is quiet for a moment, seemingly deep in thought, before he speaks. ‘Would tha be interested in driving up North with me?’ he asks to my surprise, in his broad Yorkshire accent.

‘Driving? But you are talking at least five hours, maybe more in this weather.’

‘Hmm.’ He nods. ‘Ah well, maybe you will have to wait until tomorrow then, lass.’

I can’t wait until tomorrow. The Christmas fayre is tomorrow.

I wanted to arrive this afternoon, have dinner and an early night.

I was hoping to judge the competition then head straight back to London.

I guess I could just cry off given the train situation, but despite my initial reservation, something is almost pulling me there.

‘So, are you going home?’ I ask the older man.

‘I’m visiting family. My son lives in a village in the countryside.’

‘Right. Well, the train cancellation is certainly an inconvenience, but do you really want to drive there?’ I ask him uncertainly.

‘Why not? I’ve always been a good driver. Fifty years and only one accident, and even that was not my fault.’

I hope he hasn’t just jinxed things.

I mull over his offer of a lift. It is only ten in the morning, so we could be there by late afternoon…

‘Perhaps we could share the driving, if you are serious about it?’ I suggest. ‘In fact, I insist, it’s the least I can do.’

‘Aye, love, maybe we could.’ He smiles. ‘So, are we on, then? I am less than ten minutes away from here. We could get a cab and go and grab my car.’

The thought that the person I’m about to spend five hours in an enclosed space with could be a serial killer crosses my mind, but I reckon I am strong enough to fight off a bloke who looks to be pushing eighty.

Besides, it might be nice to have someone accompany me on my journey.

Before I can change my mind, I find myself agreeing to his proposition.

He calls his son then and explains the situation.

He even hands the phone to me, and we have a brief chat.

Perhaps he isn’t going to murder me after all.

And I realise it might be rather pleasant to chat with someone of a different generation.

I used to love talking to my grandparents, who I often think of, especially around this time of year.

I insist on paying the cab fare from the station, and a short while later we pull up outside a block of council flats.

The man, who has introduced himself as Henry, leads me to some garages at the rear, and soon enough we are driving his impeccably looked-after Vauxhall Vectra and heading for the motorway.

He fires up the radio and I quickly email the hotel to give them my new estimated time of arrival.

I can picture the Swan Inn, with its roaring log fire, and the huge Christmas tree that would stand in the entrance at this time of year.

I recall the old-fashioned jukebox and shelves lined with books and board games, the landlord polishing the brass beer pumps until they gleamed, and his bubbly wife chatting away ten to the dozen to customers at the bar, and hope it hasn’t changed too much.

I wonder whether the new owners have kept up the no-TV rule, encouraging conversations amongst the patrons? I hope so, although times have changed so much it seems unlikely.

‘So, what brought you to London?’ I ask Henry as we drive. The motorway is busy as always, but at least the weather is clear.

‘You mean why did a Yorkshire lad like me defect to the South?’

‘Well yes, something like that. It’s very different down here.’

So different that since leaving, I’ve had no desire to head back to the tiny market town I come from. It feels so strange to be heading there now.

‘Aye, it is, love. To be honest, I returned to London five years ago, although I was raised here as a young boy,’ he discloses. ‘I’ve all but lost my accent now,’ he says, which I would highly dispute, but I don’t say anything.

‘What about yourself, then?’ he asks, before telling me there are some mints in the glove compartment if I fancy one.

‘I’m from a village not far from Skipton originally.’

‘Are you?’ He looks surprised. ‘You have the most English accent I have heard. You could be one of the royal family.’ He chuckles.

‘Do you think so?’ I laugh too.

I consciously erased my Yorkshire accent with elocution lessons, which probably does sound like I was trying to disguise my roots, but that wasn’t necessarily the case.

At the time, I thought it would secure me more work – even though there are lots of people with regional accents on television and radio these days. I explain this to Henry.

‘Aye well, I reckon you should always be true to yourself. If people like you, they like you, if they don’t, they don’t,’ he reasons.

Which is true about life in general I suppose. But trying to carve out a career in television, I thought I had better aim for a neutral accent. I don’t think I sound like royalty, though. Do I? Surely my mother would have told me if I do.

We chat amiably and two hours later we stop for a drink at a café, just as the sky has turned a deep shade of grey.

Henry sips his tea and eats a toasted teacake that looks so good I order one myself.

‘This is much nicer than those motorway services,’ he pipes up about the café just off the M1 and I must agree.

The café with its laminated menus and home-cooked food feels warm and comforting.

Christmas music is playing in the background and colourful, slightly gaudy foil decorations hang from the ceiling and every picture on the wall is framed with red tinsel.

I feel as though I have stepped into a time machine back to the early nineteen eighties, if the old photos Mum has shown me are anything to go by. I find it rather comforting.

‘Seems like we might get a bit of snow,’ Henry muses, staring out of the window. ‘I’d say that sky is full of it.’

‘I hope not. At least not until we get to where we are going,’ I reply, when a cheerful young waitress delivers my teacake.

‘So, you’re heading home for Christmas, then?’ Henry asks as he sips his tea.

‘Kind of.’

In between bites of the delicious, hot buttery teacake, I tell him all about being asked to judge the gingerbread competition in my old village hall and my work as a food critic.

‘Well blow me down, I had no idea I was sitting here with a celebrity.’

He removes his checked cap and places it on the chair beside him and smooths down a few tufts of grey hair.

‘I never think of myself as that,’ I tell him truthfully. ‘I just seem to have got lucky somewhere along the line.’

Why don’t I eat more food like this? I’m almost tempted to lick my fingers.

‘But I have always been honest in my reviews,’ I continue. ‘Which has not always gone down well.’

‘Aye, well, some people don’t like hearing the truth,’ he says. ‘But there is no such thing as luck when it comes to success. Hard graft is the key, although maybe a little bit of luck along the way, getting your foot in’t door. But you must prove yourself in’t long run,’ he adds wisely.

‘You’re probably right.’ I smile at this man I have known for little over a few hours, but I like him already. It pains my heart to know that I will never have the chance to enjoy little chats like this with my dad, who I miss so much, especially around this time of year.

Henry excuses himself for a minute, whilst he pops outside to call his son. I ask for another drink and settle the bill. I hand the waitress a ten-pound note, and her mouth gapes open.

‘Thank you,’ she says gratefully, as I wish her a merry Christmas. The tip was marginally larger than the bill itself, but I remember the days working as a waitress on minimum wage when I was at university.

‘All okay?’ I ask when he returns.

‘Aye, fine, love. I think my son Will is happy to know that I have a travelling companion.’ He grins. ‘He thinks I am a bit too old to be driving all this way.’

‘Without being rude, perhaps he has a point…’ I say kindly. ‘I would be happy to take over the driving now, if you like?’

‘If you like, love. Sometimes I have a little snooze around this time, so it is probably best.’ He winks.

I smile back. ‘In that case, it definitely is.’

Henry had told me during our chat in the café that he came to London to nurse his mother, who had lived in the big smoke since the nineteen-fifties after marrying a man she met whilst nursing.

Unfortunately, Henry’s father had died when he was a child, and his mother raised him as a single mother, so unsurprisingly, they were very close.

Henry went back up North to study agriculture and met and married the love of his life, who passed away five years ago.

‘It was funny really,’ he recounted in the accent he thought had long disappeared. ‘But it came at the right time to go and live with my mother in London and look after her. I was completely lost after Betty died.’

He told me he had enjoyed being back in London, with its bustling atmosphere that took him away from his own thoughts. ‘So, I decided to stay. I help out on the community allotments. I have a lot of friends here now,’ he explained.

‘So you have no desire to return to Yorkshire, then?’

‘Not now.’ He shakes his head. ‘I love the energy of London. I return regularly to see my son, though, and catch up with old friends,’ he tells me. ‘Those who are still of this world,’ he says thoughtfully.

I grab a mint from the glove compartment before we set off, and as we continue our journey, Henry tells me his son is an architect and lives in a forest in an eco-friendly place, that he designed and built himself.

‘Sounds amazing.’ I imagine something sleek, made from glass and reclaimed wood.

‘Aye, it’s a smart place. A bit different from the flat in London, but I enjoy city life,’ he says, answering what would have been my next question, as I wondered why he did not live closer to his son.

‘Although it’s nice to be in nature for a while, recharge the batteries – and I like the birds in the countryside. ’

Half an hour later, Henry is gently snoozing to the sound of Christmas songs on the radio, and I sing along as I enjoy another mint humbug.

I am almost pleased the train was cancelled. Despite the long drive, I would never have got to know Henry. What a surprising start to the festive season, I think to myself as we turn off onto a slip road. Very surprising indeed.