Mrs McCarthy hated travelling by train.
Noise, dirt, far too many people, and goodness knows, she always had far too much luggage.
Today was no different, as she collided her carpet bag, shopping bags, handbag and hat box (containing her prize winning cake, which she had collected from the WI conference) against every passenger she met in the ridiculously narrow corridor as she shuffled along sideways, like an overburdened crab, attempting to find a deserted carriage.
Three from the end she found one inhabited only by a younger male with his head bowed, engrossed in a hefty volume of a novel. There was a chance that the next carriage might be empty completely, but given the amount of times she'd dropped the handbag already Mrs McCarthy didn't want to risk it. Besides, even if someone lifted the handbag there was nothing anyone could do about it - Kembleford station had suffered greatly for the past year (actually it had been August, a year and two months now) since Inspector Sullivan's departure. No less than three detetives had warmed his seat in the recess, and they had all been, to put it kindly, inadequate. One had, in fact, been so hopelessly inadequate that he had now abandoned the forces of law and order altogether and now resided on a farm in Higher Hambleston, creating exotic creations (mostly yoghurt) from some scraggy goats he'd found somewhere.
Still, at least Father Brown and the sergeant could fill the breach for a while. She'd heard the newest candidate was due any day, and though hope was fast waning in the capablilites of all police on earth, there was still a chance that the next man might not be utterly useless. A slim one, but still a chance. Goodness, what they wouldn't do to have Valentine back.
Deciding finally upon this carriage, she and the baggage barrelled in, ignoring her new companion for the moment in favour of organising the menagerie of travelling gear she had with her, before lifting the lid of the hat box a fraction to check that the cake had survived. She had promised Sid a slice, and although she knew he wouldn't mind if it was squashed, she did prefer presenting him with something that had not clearly been sat on by an oblivious architect bearing a copy of The Times.
And then, as she raised her carpet bag to her chest and looked up at the distant luggage rack, did she remember that train travel was really designed for tall men.
She started trying to lob the carpet bag into the rack when her cabin mate moved, took the bag from her gently with a "Let me, please."
An oddly familiar voice, she thought, as she turned to view her helper. She let out a startled noise.
"Why - Inspector Sullivan." She stated, taking an involuntary step backwards, partly from the shock, partly from the train moving off.
"Hello Mrs McCarthy." He chuckled, successfully securing the bag and sitting back down. ''I thought it might have been you. You haven't changed at all.''
She gasped again. It had been over a year since she'd last laid eyes on the young inspector on the day of DC Albert's funeral, and they hadn't been on the best of terms. Yet now the man was cordially smiling at her with warmth normally reserved for old friends.
She knew she hadn't changed much (in her opinion, her appearance had nowhere left to go) but he had. Grey was clouding his sleek black hair, and it was parted a little differently. His suit was new, a darker blue, verging in navy, with a thicker coat folded neatly on the chair beside him. The suit was as well cut as it always was, and through this Mrs McCarthy realised that he was thin - very thin, gaunt even. His cheeks were hollower and his eyes - through bright and alert, shining like new pennies - were beset with creases. He looked like a man struggling forward after a bad illness.
Mrs McCarthy said none of this, instead opting for a bubbly outpouring; ''And don't you like well! Fancy bumping into you like this, where are you headed? And how have you been getting on, in that new job of yours?''
Sullivan bit his lip, and clasped his hand around his knee. ''I'm headed back to Kembleford actually.'' He said. Now that the revelation was finally out, the belt around his chest loosened and he breathed again.
''Oh, that's lovely, that's just lonely.'' The parish secretary remarked, ''Did you fancy a little holiday?''
''No - this is more permanent.'' Sullivan admitted rather awkwardly, forcing himself to look at Mrs McCarthy and unconsciously rocking to meet the rythymn of the train. ''I applied for my old job back. I'll be back in charge of the station.''
The patriotic Kemblefordian in Mrs McCarthy lept for joy.
''Oh praise be!'' She cried, clapping her hands, ''I can't tell you what a bad time we've had with inspectors since you left. Cases unsolved, idleness, disruption, corruption - oh, I know I speak for the whole village when I tell you how wonderful it will be to have you back again. A good stoic man to be relied upon.''
Sullivan stared at her in bewilderment. The praise, though not unwelcome, was as unexpected as Mrs McCarthy suddenly sprouting wings and flying away. She continued on.
''Now, wait 'til Sergeant Goodfellow hears about this, the poor man has been tearing his hair out since you left, I'd say he's aged twenty years trying to keep everyone in line. Though it hasn't been too busy recently, you know how crime rates tend to drop in the winter-''
''They don't in London.'' Sullivan interjected weakly.
''Well London's loss is our gain, I can tell you that.'' Mrs McCarthy declared proudly. ''Though I must confess I am a little confused as to why you want to come back?''
He knew the question was coming, but that didn't make it any easier. Still, he was determined to tell one person and be done with it. He was done running from it all.
''I- um - London just... wasn't for me.'' He confessed, ''To be perfectly honest I didn't realise what the job entailed until I was there. Found myself missing Kembleford a lot.''
Which was true. Every spare second was spent dreaming of Kembleford. Any daydream that fitted into his alarmingly tight schedule swapped the messy cubicle polluted by other men's ciggarette smoke for the neat, airy Kembleford office, and the squalid, manky police flat (with a shared bathroom) left him with one wistful recollection of the gloriously quiet little cottage before he collapsed for that evening. Funnily enough, he'd been thinking about the view from the cottage bedroom window that morning, before dropping the cup and scrabbling catch a grip on the slippery porcelain of the sink with his wet hands.
Mrs McCarthy was nodding in a way that signified she understood, though he knew she didn't.
''I do think that once you're used to the country, you'll never go back to a town.'' She declared.
''Nasty, crowded unhealthy places. Surprised you haven't been run down or killed off from some vile diesease they have with all that dirt. Especially what you might pick up on a crime scene.''
The burning desire to talk reignited within Sullivan, and Mrs McCarthy had left him with a golden oppurtunity.
"To be perfectly honest with you, I haven't been that overly well." He confessed, ''So I am looking forward to fresh air and open spaces and all that.''
"Oh." Mrs McCarthy had purposely avoided commenting on the Inspector's weight loss, funny colour and abundance of suddenly grey hair. "I am sorry to hear that. I hear there's a lot of bugs going around London, not to mention bed bugs."
Sullivan crossed his legs again and shuffled his paper. "Well... " He hesitated, before continuing, "I actually had a rather lengthy stint in hospital."
"Oh good heavens,'' The irishwoman exclaimed, hurridely blessing herself. ''You poor man, what was it? A virus?''
''No.''
''An accident?"
"... Of sorts."
"Jesus Mary and Joseph - was it a car accident? An attack?" Mrs M truly looked very concerned, and wasn't going to stop until she got a definitive answer.
Sullivan stopped debating with himself. This was the formiddable Mrs McCarthy he was talking to - she'd find out somehow. It really would be best to hear it from him, before the other gossips got hold of it and distorted it.
''Do you mind - it's just that... I haven't really told many people about it yet.'' He said, ''So, if you don't mind-''
''I won't tell a soul.'' The older woman swore. Sullivan had a feeling this statement was about as concrete as jelly but then again, the loyal secretary had often clammed up when prodded about Sid Carter (or even Father Brown) being involved in a case. He trusted her.
"I had a breakdown." He stated, surprised at how easy it was to say.
The old woman's face clouded in confusion. "I'm afraid I don't exactly follow."
"A nervous breakdown."
Her eyebrows shot up. Her face burned with mortification. She obviously had a great deal to say, but all she could manage was an inconclusive, "Oh."
Sullivan held his knee again, his leg now bouncing. ''The job wasn't what I thought it was going to be at all. It was so unlike anything I'd done before and, well, I hated it. I just hated it. Too many people, too many jobs, too many cases so you couldn't focus on any at once, too many -''
He shook his head briskly.
''Doesn't matter now. It just wasn't for me and I was wise enough to leave it before I got any worse. By the way, DCI Valentine sends his regards.''
Mrs McCarthy's head reeled at this very sudden shift in the conversation.
''Sorry - what?''
''DCI Valentine, he worked with me a few times. We used to chat about Kembleford and things like that.''
Headaches, insomnia and how to stop taking different pills, that was another, mostly one sided conversation they had as well. Valentine had been the one to suggest trying to go on being a DI, as opposed to packing it all in and applying for a clerk post in a legal firm. He'd been the one to suggest a nice spell in some pretty, sleepy little village (though his spell in Kembleford had been anything but sleepy, but fulfilling) where he could be in charge. He had a lot to thank Valentine for.
''Oh,'' Mrs McCarthy was blushing, ''How lovely to know that he still talks about us after all those years. He came for a few visits, too.''
''He's planning another one too,'' Sullivan blurted out, ''Sometime in January.''
''Ach, that's lovely!'' Mrs McCarthy beamed, ''I'm sure it will be nice for the two of you to catch up as well. Did you work very closely together?''
Sullivan shrugged. ''Everyone seemed to do their own thing.'' He said, ''But he did look out for me, took me under his wing. He was the one that found - ''
''Found?'' Mrs McCarthy demanded.
Sullivan bit his lip again. ''I was washing dishes, and I don't really know what happened. Think it was a dizzy spell - I'd started getting them, and absent moments, and I wasn't sleeping very well. I'm not really sure what happened but - I ended up on the floor, and I just couldn't get up again.'' He furrrowed his brow, trying to remember the exact circumstances of Valentine's arrival. It was all a blur, really. The cup, then falling, the blood sticky on his forehead and the tiles strange and uncomfortable, watching the cockroach that scuttled in and out of his line of vision.
That had been all he'd seen; brown cockoach on black and white tiles.
The next consecutive memory was the nurse hooking him up to a drip of some kind, and his eyelids being to heavy to hold open.
Mrs McCarthy was staring at him in dismay.
"You poor soul, you must have worked yourself half to death. Are you sure you're ready to go straight back to work?" She asked.
"Absolutely."
She fixed him with another quizzical stare.
"Really."
He nodded. "Valentine came to visit me when I was in hospital, and - that was it. He was my only visitor. And I know I haven't friends in Kembleford but I always felt like I was doing something there, making a difference, even if it was just tracking down a stolen tractor. Everything was pointless in London - I was just another man at another desk. I didn't hold much value at all. I know I've never been a terrific detective but still."
"That's diabolical." Mrs McCarthy said breathless with fury, "How could - that's just scandalous."
Sullivan shrugged. "That's how it is."
"It's not like that in Kembleford, I hope."
Sullivan laughed. Mrs McCarthy suddenly realised she'd never heard the man laugh before. Despite his haggard appearances, there was genuine joy in his laugh, and a softer, happier look.
"It most certainly is not, Mrs McCarthy." He said. "That's why I'm going back."
She breathed out again, leaning back against the seat. The train had stopped, and many were disembarking. Two more stops until Kembleford. Sulliavn picked up his book again but didn't seem content to read it.
"Nearly there now." He remarked, rocking slightly backwards and forward. He was restless, and somewhat excited. He hadn't been half as eager to go to London, which was once home, as he was to go back to that Catholic hovel that he had hated so.
And how he had hated it! The constant interference, the remoteness, the dirt, the animals, the people.
Oh, he couldn't wait to go back. Perhaps it just took a spell of total misery to show what work really did feel like.
Kembleford Station was work; enough complex cases to keep any man busy, but with half the pressure, twice the space, and a kind sergeant always bringing him tea.
He hadn't even realised how much those things meant, how inherently good they were.
Not until he was lying on the peaceful ward, feeling a strange sensation on his face that turned out to be that sunlight he'd forgotten existed when he suddenly realised, completely out of the blue, that no one had made him a cup of tea for the last year. Not one.
He didn't think of himself as important enough to warrant constant attention, but that day something snapped. He summoned the nurse and when Valentine arrived two evenings later, Sullivan handed him his resignation letter. His face was set in steely determination and he would not be swayed.
Valentine was thrilled; he was going to try and persuade this course of action anyway.
When Sullivan finally regained the power to sit up, Valentine sat beside him on the hospital bench and gently told him that his replacement had arrived the morning after his letter. Sullivan laughed spitefully. He laughed until he coughed hard enough to shake his skeletal frame.
Jobs weren't hard to come by, but he was willing to wait. He had enough set by to get him marginally better digs, but he didn't have to stay in them long. He'd only been discharged for three days when Valentine came across an appeal for a transfer to Kembleford. He'd accepted it without even reading it, fearing that the new blot on his record would prevent him from going.
It didn't. It was fate.
And now here he was, talking to Mrs McCarthy of all people, on the train home.
He would stay this time - settle down, plant the garden, be content. The itchiness was well and truly gone off his feet, replaced by an ache of longing for familiar paths.
He was sure most of Kembleford that he saw was through rose tinted glasses, but he knew he'd made the right choice. When Valentine had bade him farewell the day before, he'd seen tears of envy in the man's eyes. But still, he had a feeling the ancient inspector in Hambleston was slowly losing his grip on his kingdom, and they'd soon want new blood.
He could feel a thrill building. Hard work? Yes. Backward community? Yes. Completely overbearing and intensely irritating Catholic priest? Oh yes.
He couldn't wait.
And Mrs McCarthy, the insatiable gossip who he'd despised for her judgmental, loose lipped nature, sitting opposite him surveying him with a maternal air, the first of many friendly faces.
"You'll have to come for dinner, at the presbytery - yes, come tonight, I should be able to get a hold of a roast -" She suddenly declared.
"Oh, there's no need for that!" He protested feebly.
"Nonsense! You'll have nothing in for your tea, and we can't send you on your first day without a proper meal in your stomach!" She wouldn't take no for an answer, he knew she wouldn't. "You need feeding up, pronto." She set her chin with an air of finality, that's that.
"Fine." He chuckled. "Do you mind if I go home and get changed first?"
"Would six suit? No-" She shook her head, "Come at seven. I'll have scones ready by then."
The award winning strawberry scones. How could he forget. Sullivan burst out laughing.
"That's perfect," He wheezed, while Mrs McCarthy watched him in confusion, "Seven's perfect."