Free The Last Dance by Fiona McIntosh Page A

announced that passengers were required to close their windows to prevent smoke getting in as they were about to enter a long cutting with two tunnels. Stella wondered if she should obey the instructions as she was seated next to the window but one of the men in her compartment nodded to her that he would take care of this and gallantly ensured all the windows were sealed.
    The world outside her carriage suddenly went dark as the train was gobbled up by a tunnel and Stella could see herself reflected in the window as dull black walls imprisoned them and black smoke presumably billowed between her and the scorched bricks. Suddenly all the sounds of the steam-belching snake that carried them from city to city were magnified and the dull light of the train made reading more difficult. Her fellow passengers seemed to rouse from their books or slumber, going by the change of mood, and Stella was struck, as she returned to stare at her reflection, by how changed she appeared in this strange low light. She couldn’t pinpoint why, but she just knew she looked different – sadder, somehow – despite the fresh feeling of being unburdened.
    There was the briefest of respites, a few glorious moments of release as they were belched out of the first part of the cutting before they were plunged into darkness again as the second tunnel – longer this time – swallowed them.
    By the time they emerged a minute later the light drizzle had miraculously stopped and achingly bright sunshine caused Stella to flinch at the sharpness. It was as though they had all just crossed some magical threshold and on this side the world was warm and painted from a sparkling palette. Even her tweedy companion opposite felt the sudden change in temperature as clouds parted and welcomed them into the area known as the garden of England, and he snorted himself awake.
    The scenery had changed to verdant, with London’s tapestry of grey replaced by a brilliant green with flashes of spring flowers and yellow tractors. The guard was announcing that they would now be making stops at stations with charming names like Knockholt and Sevenoaks.
    One more tunnel and they were descending joyfully through countryside so lush that Stella was sure she had forgotten just how green rural England was after so long moving through London’s drab streets. She noticed they were crossing another bridge and presumed this was to move across the River Medway that she had read about.
    She eventually felt the train slow to a gentle pace as its rhythmic puffing sound lengthened and deepened. They were making their approach into Tunbridge Wells. A whistle blew distantly and a long sigh of steam was expelled as the carriage groaned and wheezed to a halt.
    Doors began to open up and down the train that was painted the colour of rich brown-sage with glossy black frames and wheels. Stella nodded a silent smiling farewell at her tweedy friend who had eased down the window to push his arm through and open the door from the outside. He gestured for Stella to go first and as she stepped onto the Royal Tunbridge Wells platform one, she was engulfed by the hiss and billow of steam while the stationmaster and his team of men moved up and down the train helping people off, removing sacks of mail, special parcels and reloading whatever had to go onto Hastings.
    Stella was immediately struck by the freshness of the air, entirely convinced she could smell grass, the scent of freesia . . . even taste the ocean that reminded her of visiting Cornwall once with her family. It felt instantly intoxicating. She was anticipating being met and scanned the entrance to the station. No one looked likely, but she wasn’t worried. Right now it felt so empowering to have left London far behind. Stella took a moment to breathe in that bright air as she regarded the beauty of the station building with its even red-brick façade and cream paintwork around the many small-paned windows. Its dignified appearance