My first instinct was to run away but it would take more than that for me to be fully free . . .
BY JANE CORRY
I learn to fly on the day I walk out of my old life and into the deep end. Well, I start to, anyway. Perhaps I should explain. I’ve always wanted to live by the sea, but my first husband insisted we have to be near London for his work. It turns out that there are other reasons.
When the truth comes out, my first instinct is to run. After all, our daughter has grown up and left home.
So I catch a bus to Waterloo station with a suitcase in each hand, leaving everything else behind. It feels surprisingly liberating.
“Where do you want to go?” asks the lady at the ticket office.
“To the sea,” I say.
“But which station?”
“Can you choose for me?”
She looks at me as if I am bonkers.
“My marriage has just ended,” I say.
A flash of “I’ve been there, too” passes across her face.
“How about Penzance? Mind you, it’s a long way off.”
Perfect.
The six-hour train journey gives me time to reflect. Tall towers give way to suburbia, followed by fields.
Then my phone rings.
“Mum!” says my daughter. “Where on earth are you?”
“I’m not sure,” I reply, feeling a strange shot of power. After nearly thirty years, I’m finally in charge of my own destination. “I’ll let you know my address when I find somewhere.”
“But . . .” she says, then we’re cut off.
“You don’t get reception around here,” comments a woman opposite.
Her tone is friendly rather than nosy.
“By the way, the tourist centre at Penzance might be able to find you somewhere to stay.”
“How do you know I’m going to Penzance?” I ask.
She smiles.
“I was behind you at the ticket office.”
I wouldn’t make a very good spy, would I? If I’d looked more carefully, I might have found out about my husband much earlier.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I know we’re pulling into a station and the sea is running in a straight line next to the train.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” says the woman, getting up. “This is Penzance, by the way. It’s the end of the line.”
I notice my friendly fellow passenger has a stick and is hobbling to the doors.
“May I help you?” I ask.
“No thanks, love. I can manage. We all can, if we tell ourselves that.”
She disappears round a corner.
The blast of fresh air hi
