The
Golden
Anklet
BEVERLEY HANSFORD
Copyright © 2016 Beverley Hansford
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Edited by Helen Banks
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any persons
living or dead is purely coincidental. Names, locations and the events
described are for the use of the story and there is no intention to describe
actual places or people.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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This book is dedicated
To all those people like Jane
who seek the truth
and have to brave challenges
along the way.
Contents
Cover
By the same Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
By the same Author
‘Julie’
A captivating novel
*
‘With Rucksack and Bus Pass’
Walking the Thames Path
*
‘Roots in Three Counties’
Family history
*
‘A Touch of Autumn Gold’
A novel for the young in heart
Chapter 1
Tim Bostock felt the rear wheels of his taxi slide slightly as he made the sharp turn into Station Road. He scolded himself; he should have remembered that this part of the road could be slippery at certain times, and tonight there was already an inch of fresh snow on the road.
He gave a quick glance at the interior mirror to see if his passenger had noticed anything, but she still sat quietly with her briefcase resting on her knees. ‘Will you take me to the railway station? I want to get the train back to London,’ had been her request at the start of the journey, but since then she had been quiet, seemingly not wanting to engage in conversation, though she had responded politely and in a pleasant manner to the occasional comment he had made during the short ride.
It had been her remark about wishing to get back to London that had made him hurry. He knew the last train to London from Tatting Green was around 11.30pm, and the clock on the dashboard was fast approaching that time. He had not intended to do another journey this evening. He was tired after being up since four this morning, but when the phone call had come through from Angus Pike, Tim knew he could not refuse. Angus Pike was an artist who lived in the nearby village of Tatting Green. He had a reputation among the other residents of the village for being both rude and irritable, but for Tim he was a good customer. Hardly a week went by without a request to take him somewhere, usually to the station. On top of that there were the frequent calls to transport various young women to and from the station, all models the artist appeared to employ to pose for his paintings. At first Tim had assumed his current passenger must be one of them, but he had quickly changed his mind: she was too smartly dressed, in a neat, dark business suit and high heels. On top of that the briefcase she carried didn’t fit in; perhaps she was a solicitor or something similar, he wondered.
Tim pulled up outside the station entrance. ‘Here we are,’ he announced.
His passenger immediately sprang into action and quickly opened her door. She stepped out and came round to his window. Tim lowered it.
‘How much do I owe you?’ she asked.
‘Five pounds, please,’ he replied.
She rummaged in her purse, produced a five-pound note and some small change and handed it to him. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said, with a pleasant smile.
‘Thank you.’ He was prompted to add, ‘I think I hear the train now.’
‘Oh, no! I don’t want to miss it. Good night. Thank you.’
And with those few words she was gone, hurrying towards the wicket gate that opened onto a path leading down to the station platform.
‘Good night,’ Tim called after her and then closed his window. He watched her disappear from view and then waited a few minutes. He wanted to be sure she caught the train. Tatting Green was a lonely station these days. Few trains stopped there and most of the station’s business was at peak times, serving commuters travelling the twenty-five-mile journey to and from London, but many people preferred to drive to the town of Tatting Cross three miles away, where there was a better train service. Tatting Green had only really come into existence when the railway line had been built, due to the insistence of the family who resided in nearby Tatting Hall. If the railway company wanted to buy some of their land for a railway line, then the railway company would have to provide a station for the family and villagers to use, and thus Tatting Green had come into being. The station had been quite busy in its first years, particularly after Tatting Hall was sold and a golf course was built on the land. Now all the golfers preferred to use their cars, so Tatting Green railway station had seen better days.
Satisfied that his mysterious late-night passenger was safely on the train, Tim put the taxi into gear and slowly drove off. Now for home, a hot drink and then bed, he thought.
*
But Tim Bostock was wrong. His passenger had not caught the train. As she hurried down to the platform, conscious that the train was already standing in the station, a stiletto failed
to get a grip on the icy surface. Her foot slipped, she tried to keep her balance, but she ended up sitting on the path; one shoe had come off and her briefcase had fallen from her grasp. She recovered quickly; grabbing the briefcase and stuffing her foot into her shoe, she continued as best she could down the slope. Just as she reached the level security of the platform, the train revved its engines and started to move.
‘Oh, no!’ Her exclamation was almost a wail of despair.
She watched helplessly as the lights of the train disappeared from view. The driver had not seen her desperate waving and the train had not dropped off any passengers. She was alone on the station platform.
Resigned to the fact that she had missed the train, she considered her options. Initially she considered hurrying back up the slope to see if the taxi was still there, but she thought that by now it would have gone. She turned to the small building that served as a waiting room and tiny ticket office. There was a timetable on the wall, but it was behind glass, and condensation and the poor light made it impossible to read. She peered into the tiny waiting room, but it was unlit and had an odd smell about it. Still, it was some sort of shelter, and she stood in the open doorway trying to decide what to do next. The snow was falling in quite large flakes now. Several times she had to brush them out of her hair. On top of that she shivered in her inadequate covering. The pleasantly warm March morning had prompted her to leave her coat at home. Now she regretted the decision. The sunshine had soon disappeared, to be replaced by dark clouds, and by about teatime the snow had started to fall. It was winter having a last fling.
The sound of another train roused her from her thoughts. However, it was going in the other direction. She watched it stop on the opposite platform, wait a minute or two and then start to move out of the station. At first she thought no passengers had alighted, but then she realised that there were two, a man and a teenage girl. Both were walking over the bridge that connected the two platforms. The girl passed her quickly, almost running, with only a brief glance in her direction, but the man walked at a more leisurely pace.
She seized the opportunity and darted out in front of him. ‘Excuse me, do you know if there is another train to London tonight?’ Her voice had an anxious note to it.
The man quickly recovered from the surprise of her sudden appearance. He stopped and glanced at his watch. ‘No. The last train will have gone.’ He sounded concerned.
‘Oh, no! That must have been the one I just missed.’ In almost the same breath she asked, ‘Is there a taxi I can get somewhere?’
He responded immediately. The next instant he had his mobile phone in his hand. ‘I’ve got the number for the local taxi. I can try it for you,’ he suggested, and without waiting for her to reply he selected the number. He waited, the phone to his ear. After a minute or so he turned to her and spoke again. ‘Unfortunately, shut down for the night. Not available until tomorrow morning.’
She received the news glumly. ‘I expect that’s the one who brought me here. He said it was going to be his last run of the evening.’ The remark was almost made to herself.
Another thought struck her. ‘Is there a hotel nearby?’ she asked hopefully.
He thought for a few seconds. ‘Yes. There is one, but it’s about two miles away.’ He studied her to see how she would respond to this news.
She replied immediately. ‘Can you point me in the right direction? I’ll walk there.’
He admired her determination, but a glance at the high-heeled shoes that peeped out below her trousers highlighted the problems she would have. She must be cold as well, without a coat. He thought for a few seconds. He had to offer some sort of assistance.
‘Can I help? I only live about a quarter of a mile away and I‘ve got a car. I can run you there quite quickly.’
She was taken by surprise. Getting into a car with a strange man late at night was not without some concerns, but he did seem quite genuine.
‘But that’s putting you to a lot of trouble,’ she protested mildly.
He smiled at her. ‘I don’t like to see people stuck.’
She thought quickly. It was her only option. The prospect of walking two miles in the snow was not inviting. She had to take a chance – just for once.
‘It would be most helpful, if you don’t mind.’
‘Great. Let’s go, then.’
They retreated up the path from the station platform. She took the opportunity to study her benefactor. He was much younger than she had first thought. Now that he was closer to her she could see that he could not be much older than her own age of 27.
After a few minutes’ silence, he asked, ‘So what brings you to Tatting Green?’
‘Oh, I had to interview Angus Pike, the artist. Do you know him?’ She turned to him as she spoke.
He smiled. ‘I don’t know him personally, but I’ve seen him around. He’s quite a character and he has a reputation for being a bit eccentric.’
‘I had to interview him for a magazine I work for. We’re doing a feature on him.’ As she finished volunteering this last information she suddenly halted and turned to him. She held out her hand. ‘By the way, I’m Jane Carroll.’
His response was immediate. He grasped her hand firmly and smiled again. ‘Bob Harker,’ he replied.
They crossed over the small car park to the road.
‘Have you always lived in Tatting Green?’ asked Jane.
He shook his head. ‘Only since my divorce three years ago. I wanted somewhere to live and I knew the couple who were selling the house I live in now, so I bought it from them.’
‘It’s always nice to know the person you buy a house— Oops!’ Jane’s reply was cut short as her foot slipped on the snow-covered road. She almost fell again.
‘Can you manage? It is a bit slippery.’
‘Umm…’ Jane stopped walking. She looked down at the ground and then slipped off first one shoe and then the other. Standing barefoot, she made a face at the sudden cold.
Bob watched her with curiosity. ‘I say, are you sure you’ll be all right? Your feet will be freezing cold.’ His voice was full of concern.
Jane gave a little laugh. ‘Well, I may get cold feet or chilblains, but hopefully I won’t break an ankle or a leg,’ she replied breezily, adding for good measure, ‘I’ve been on my bottom once already this evening.’
They continued walking and chatting. As they neared some houses, Bob announced, ‘Here we are. This is me.’
Jane followed the wave of his hand and spied a pair of semi-detached houses, each with a short drive off the road.
Bob turned into the drive of the first house. ‘I’ll just get my car keys,’ he announced.
Jane waited on the drive while he went into the house. While he was unlocking the garage door, she dusted the snow off her feet and slipped on her shoes again, glad of their comfort.
Bob reversed the small car out and waited for her to get in.
As they moved off, it was Jane who spoke first. ‘I really am most grateful to you for helping me out.’
He turned to her and grinned for a second. ‘Well, Tatting Green station waiting room is hardly the Ritz.’
‘At least it’s stopped snowing now,’ observed Jane, as they drove along the country road, the car headlights illuminating the fallen snow.
‘The weather forecast is for it to do that,’ replied Bob, ‘and clearing by the morning.’
She gave a little laugh. ‘Well, at least that’s something to look forward to. The cold snap certainly caught me out. If I’d known it was going to suddenly get colder, I’d have worn something warmer.’ She glanced down at her clothes.
Bob smiled and nodded. He had almost been taken in by the sunny morning himself, but as things turned out he had been glad he had worn his trusty anorak. He had felt a bit sorry for Jane as they walked to his house. She had looked really cold. The thought prompted him to turn up the heater. ‘I’m afraid my car is a bit old and the heater doesn’t work very well,’ he obse
rved.
‘I wish I’d used my car now,’ lamented Jane. ‘I could have been tucked up in bed by now.’
‘Where do you live?’ asked Bob.
‘Near the river, at Kew,’ she replied.
He was just about to point out that driving that distance might have been difficult this evening, but they had now reached the main road and the hotel neon sign was already in sight.
‘Here we are. This is the place I had in mind,’ he announced.
‘It looks super.’ Jane felt relieved at the sight of the hotel.
Bob stopped the car almost at the hotel entrance. He kept the engine running. ‘I’ll just wait to make sure you get a room OK.’
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