“There we are, Mrs. Thompson, five thousand euros in fifties, as requested.”

The notes were placed in a plastic wallet and pushed across the counter.

“Have a safe trip to Malaga and bring back some sunshine.”

Hillary placed the wallet into her leather attaché case, left the bank and crossed the road to the coach station. 

 

Her routine, until today, had always been the same. She would drive to Gatwick, catch the courtesy bus to the terminal, check in and after testing some of the more expensive perfumes in the duty free shop, make straight for Café Delight. There, she allowed herself the indulgence of a freshly-baked, deliciously flaky almond croissant and a flat white. She enjoyed the routine; it offered a comforting sense of security. She’d buy a newspaper but seldom read it, choosing instead to stare at the departures board and listen to the endless public address announcements, for fear she might miss important information about her flight. She had to face a change to her routine because her car developed a fault days earlier and was awaiting repair so she would be travelling from Bromley to Gatwick by coach, the Airport Express.

Hillary walked into the bustling coach station and spotted an official in uniform.

“Excuse me, the coach to Gatwick?”

The station inspector smiled and pointed to a smart, green executive coach in the bay next to her. “This one right here, madam; you’ll be boarding in a few minutes.”

When it was Hillary's turn to board the coach, she was greeted by a steward not much older than her grandson, Jack, a university student in Exeter. Smartly dressed in a navy blue suit, bearing the livery of the coach company and a badge that displayed the name Ryan, he offered Hillary his hand. “Welcome aboard, madam.”

Hillary, shrugging off any notion of misplaced vanity, wondered if the steward had considered her younger or older than her sixty years but she was, nevertheless, grateful for his assistance. She took Ryan’s outstretched hand and climbed the three steps into the coach.

"I don't normally travel by coach, dear," she whispered, “this is all very new to me.” She paused briefly to catch her breath.

Ryan smiled. “I hope you enjoy your trip with us, madam, and if there’s anything you need, please let me know.”

“Oh, wait, I don’t have a ticket, I never thought to buy one. Can I buy one from you?”

“Sure, everyone buys their ticket on this coach; it’s a first-come-first-served arrangement.”

“Do I pay you now?”

“I’ll be coming through the coach to collect the fares once we get under way.”

The final passengers boarded the coach, sat down and set about exploring the array of buttons on the arms of the comfortable seats, upholstered in an attractive red tartan.

"May I?" A gentleman in his mid-fifties, holding a trilby hat slightly above his head in a gesture of respect, smiled broadly.

"Of course," said Hillary, sliding across into the seat by the window.

“Please, there’s no need to move along,” he said. “If you’d prefer the aisle seat I can…”

“No, really,” interrupted Hillary, “I’m more than happy to sit next to the window. I’d actually prefer it.”

He nodded, smiled and removed his cashmere overcoat, folding it meticulously before placing it on the overhead rack.

“First time with this company?” he asked.

“I don’t usually travel by coach but I must say this one is very smart,” said Hillary, “and I love the tartan seats: very classy.”

"A vast improvement on the bone-shakers of our youth," he laughed, "and we never had stewards serving on-board refreshments in those days.”

Hillary looked surprised. “Refreshments?”

“Absolutely, as soon as we get going, the young man at the front of the coach will start collecting fares and serving drinks.”

“How wonderful,” remarked Hillary, “I think I could get used to this?”

“And there’s a toilet on board,” he added.

“Most convenient.” She chuckled at her unintended play on words.

"I’m Tom," announced her charming travelling companion, extending his hand.

"Hillary," she replied.

They shook hands and remained silent for a while until Tom suddenly straightened his leg and grimaced.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Confounded Leg, I'll be fine in a moment."

"Cramp?"

"Nothing so simple, my dear."

“What seems to be the problem?” she asked.

“You sound like my doctor,” he replied.

They both laughed.

“I apologise,” said Hillary, “my grandson is always telling me off for being too nosey.”

“Well, since you ask, it’s a cocktail of joint problems born of years of public service and devotion to duty, both in the Army and while teaching teenagers who resisted being taught!”

Tom caressed his knee in a series of circular motions.

Hillary smiled. “My grandson, at Exeter University, wants to be a science teacher.”

“A noble profession,” remarked Tom, “I was a teacher for seventeen years, after twenty years in the army.”

“Let me guess,” said Hillary, “an officer?”

He nodded. “Captain.”

“And now?” enquired Hillary with mounting interest.

“Well, when I’m not working on community projects, I fundraise for animal charities: the RSPCA, the Blue Cross, that type of thing."

“Do you have any pets?”

“A springer spaniel called Bessie.”

Hillary laughed. “I bet she keeps you on your toes; I love springers.”

He was a kind man, she thought; one who appeared to value the welfare of others and that was something of which she entirely approved.

Ryan arrived to collect their fares. “Singles or returns?”

“A return for me please,” said Hillary. “Contactless okay?”

“Of course, madam, most use contactless these days.” He handed Hillary her ticket.

“And you, sir?”

“I only need a single today, Ryan,” replied Tom.

“How will you get back to Bromley?” asked Hillary.

“I’m going on to Brighton when I get back to Gatwick; another conference.”

Ryan handed them their tickets and moved off along the coach.

“I love Brighton,” mused Hillary. “I remember when, as a much younger woman, I visited a show where dolphins were the star performers, somewhere near the pier. Then I walked with the man, who eventually became my husband, for what seemed like miles along very narrow lanes with the most incredible little shops that put me in mind of the souks in North Africa. We had Fish and chips on the Pier before a couple of nightcaps and then back to the guest house; happy times.”

“And now?” asked Tom.

“Now?”

“Well clearly you’re too young to be retired so is it a business trip or a holiday?”

"Flattery will get you everywhere. It’s a short break," replied Hillary. "I travel to Spain at least six times a year to see my son and his family. He married a lovely girl from Cadiz and now they run a small bar and restaurant in Malaga."

“And how are they doing? I mean it can’t be easy running a business that relies solely on the tourist season.”

“Oh, I suppose like everything else,” replied Hillary, “the idea seemed a good one at the time. Things have been very tough but they’re determined to persevere and I help them when I can.”

“In the kitchen?”

“Oh no, they won’t let me anywhere near the kitchen. When I hear the word tapas I think of these clickety things the women wear on their fingers while dancing the flamenco.”

Tom laughed. “I think you’ll find they’re called castanets.”

“Now you can see why they don’t let me near the kitchen and are happy for me to visit and help financially when business is quiet. What about you, Tom, holiday, business?"

"Business," replied Tom, "I'm attending a law and order convention in Glasgow, in my capacity as the South-East regional coordinator of Neighbourhood Awareness, a fairly new charity. I've always been a great advocate of the Neighbourhood Watch scheme since the concept was first introduced, so Neighbourhood Awareness is worthy of support in its infancy."

"Neighbourhood Awareness? I’m sure I've heard of it or perhaps read about it somewhere. Do you live in Bromley, Tom?”

He nodded. “I do now that I’m retired. Back to my roots and all that.”

“So you were brought up in Bromley?”

Yes, born in a small semi near Sundridge Park in 1964, and you?

“I was born in Bromley too and although you’re not supposed to ask a lady her age, I’ll give you a clue: I’m five years older than you.”

Tom laughed. “Another youngster.”

 

Hillary closed her eyes. She was back in her beloved Florence, with the magnificent Ponte Vecchio in all its glorious architectural splendour, awash with tourists in the late afternoon sun that bathed the terracotta façade of the bridge in a pale lemon hue. The elliptical reflection in the water of the three major arches of the bridge, created a masterpiece of geometrical perfection, while the River Arno, its waters reflecting the deep azure of the late afternoon sky, flowed on to Pisa without a care in the world. It was in 1983, the year of her marriage to George, when he bought her a diamond brooch from one of the many jewellers on the bridge; after all, she reasoned, it was their honeymoon, so why not?

 

After some minutes, Hillary opened her eyes and looked around her.

"Ah, the sleeping beauty awakes," announced Tom.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm a little weary; been up for hours."

He studied her face for a moment and looked up to find Ryan holding a tray of complimentary coffees. Hillary lifted one from the tray and began to tear the paper from the sugar sachet.

"Do you have family, Tom?"

“My wonderful wife, Marjorie, is long overdue a mention in the King’s Honours List.”

“Charity work?”

“No, for putting up with me all these years.”

Hillary laughed. “Children?”

“When people ask me that question, I always say I have three children: one of each! I love to watch their reaction. Seriously, one son and two daughters.”

“Tom, honestly! Perhaps you’re right, your wife does deserve a medal if she has to listen to your jokes all day.”

Tom looked at his watch. “Listen, we’re making very good time so would you do me the honour of allowing me to buy you a lunchtime drink at the airport to wish you good luck on your way to Malaga?"

"Oh, I’m not sure, you see…"

"Please?" he persisted.

"Well, okay, why not? I'd be delighted, but only one."

“I promise.”

 

The coach pulled up outside the north terminal and passengers gathered their hand-luggage and moved towards the exit.

Hillary tapped Tom’s arm. "I must spend a penny before we leave the coach; the queues in the terminal at this time of year are horrendous. I won’t be long."

“Of course, my dear, there’s no rush; take your time.”

When Hillary returned, the passengers had disembarked. She stared at the empty seats she and Tom had occupied during their journey. Ryan, whistling loudly, pushed his broom along the aisle, bending occasionally to collect litter from the floor before dropping it into a bin liner. Tom had gone. She glanced up at the luggage rack above the seat; his coat and her case had gone too.

"Are you okay, Madam?" enquired Ryan.

Hillary stared at him for a moment. "The gentleman who sat next to me during the journey, do you know where he went?"

"The gentleman with the trilby hat and expensive coat?"

Hillary nodded.

"He collected his things from the luggage rack and said he’d wait by the steps for you. Look, he’s over there now.”

“Oh, thank God, I thought he’d run off with...”

“Captain Middleton? Not a chance, madam, he’s one of our regulars; a real gentleman and he tips well.”

“Middleton, did you say?”

“Yes, madam, Middleton, he was a captain in the army.”

“Middleton, Middleton,” repeated Hillary with a hint of intrigue, “How interesting. Goodbye and take good care of your Grandmother, she’s a very lucky woman.”

“Not sure she’d agree,” he laughed. “I hope you travel this way again, madam. Maybe I’ll be looking after you on your return journey.”

“That would be lovely, Ryan.”

Hillary took her case from Tom’s outstretched hand.

“I didn’t want you to forget it,” he said, “so I thought I’d better take care of it. You didn’t have a suitcase?”

“No, everything I need is already in the Malaga. I have my own room above the bar.”

“Now that’s what I call being very well-organised,” laughed Tom. “So, a coffee or something stronger?”

“I know just the place, Tom.”

Hillary took his arm and they walked up the slope to the terminal building. The almond croissant in Café Delight tasted more delicious than any she had previously eaten. The coffee was exceptional too.

“So tell me about your childhood in Bromley, Tom.”

“Well, I was born there in 1964 but the truth is I don’t recall much of the very early years. I was in care for the first three years of my life and although I have no idea of the circumstances I never particularly felt the need to find out, although I was informed many years ago that my biological mother was unable to look after me for some reason after she gave birth to me. Then, when I was around four years of age, I was adopted by the most wonderful couple who lived in Beckenham.

 “Clearly, they did a great job bringing you up, Tom, they must be very proud of you."

“They’re terrific, Hilary; we’re a close family and although they’re in their eighties they’re in great health.”

“Brothers, sisters?” asked Hillary.

“I know I had a sister, five years older than me. I think she was in and out of foster homes before eventually being adopted when she was aged about ten. I vividly recall visiting her on one occasion when she was living in Islington, in a foster home; she would have been around nine, and I guess I would have been about four. We lost contact when her adopted family moved to France, but I still think of her often.”

“Do you remember your big sister’s name?” asked Hillary with mounting interest.

“How could I ever forget it? It was Marylyn, but I was later informed that she increasingly used her middle name, Hillary, the same as yours.”

Hillary put down her cup. “Roll up your left shirt sleeve, Tom.”

“Roll up my sleeve?”

“Yes roll it up to your elbow.”

Tom removed his jacket, undid the cuff button and rolled his shirt sleeve to his elbow as instructed.

A smile spread across Hillary’s face. “Okay, you can roll it down again.”

“What was that all about?” chuckled Tom.

“When I was a little girl, around nine years-of-age, and living in Islington with foster parents, just before I was adopted, a woman and a little boy visited us one Sunday afternoon. Now, we’re talking Christmas 1968. That small boy was introduced to me as my little brother: his name was Tom.

Tom slowly raised his hands to his face. “Oh, my God, you don’t think...”

Hillary continued. “I had no idea I had a little brother, as my biological mother had him two years after I was taken into care at the age of three. That Sunday was a wonderful day. We were both thrilled and I cried when she took the little boy home that afternoon. I will always remember it: I can see it in my mind as clear as daylight. He pulled up his sleeve, to show me the birth mark on his left forearm, just like yours, Tom. He was so proud of it.” Hillary began to giggle. “Do you know what that little boy said to me?

“I have a good idea,” replied Tom, leaning in to hear every word of the rest of the story and not for a minute taking his eyes from Hillary’s.

“He told me it was a wound he’d sustained fighting pirates!”

Tom leant forward. “I know, and did you give the little boy a present that day?”

“Yes I did,” replied Hillary.

“What was it?”

“A child’s ring from a Christmas cracker; it’s all I had to give him.”

Tom loosened his tie, undid the top button of his shirt and pulled out a solid gold chain from around his neck. Attached to it was a child’s ring with a bright red stone of no monetary value.  “This one?”

Hillary took a paper tissue from her handbag and dabbed at the tears flowing down her cheeks. “I would have recognised it anywhere, Tom, despite not setting eyes on it in over fifty years.”

 

Tom rose from his chair, as did Hillary from hers, and they embraced for a full minute. They looked around the café at the number of people who had stopped talking and were staring in their direction. Tom seized the moment. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is an extraordinary moment in my life, our lives, and I should like you all to share in it. This wonderful woman is my big sister, Hillary, whom I last saw around fifty years ago.”

Two young women at the next table clapped, slowly at first and then with more energy. A group of Italian students at the end of a school trip to London, killing time before their flight, cheered and bashed their cutlery noisily on their tables and soon the rest of the customers and some of the staff joined in. Tom and Hillary were surrounded by so many well-wishers demanding ‘selfies’ and wishing to shake their hands.

Tom leant forward and whispered into Hillary’s ear. “Shall I show them my birthmark and tell them how I got it?”

Hillary laughed. “No, Tom, let’s keep that secret between us.”