What happened at the Railway Hotel? (conclusion)

[Short story, Part II - Part I here]

I was elated – a sense of having found something, proof of something – but what? Who were they? They must have been the same people I'd been seen with at the Railway Hotel, The realisation came with a sudden, purgative jolt. I felt I must listen – open my mind and just listen. It was cold and draughty in the compartment. I tied my woollen scarf into a thick knot, pulled my hat down over my brow and settled into the corner by the window, ready to have a doze once the ticket inspector had passed through. I shouldn't really be feeling tired, but I was. I was falling ill, coming down with something, a cold or the 'flu. By the time the train had reached Brackley, the fever must have been high – I was shivering and feeling wretched. I felt myself dozing off, half an eye on what was going on outside.

I fancied a different world outside; oil-lit halts, milk churns, rectories, horse-drawn dogcarts in station forecourts; not today's world of BOAC 707s crossing the Atlantic, television shows and countless motor-cars parked outside neon-lit, plate-glass-windowed shop fronts. But out there in the passing countryside, my mind's eye could see quieter times half a century ago, before the Great War, well before I was born. The fever was altering my perception. I was forgetting about yesterday's strange happenings, and losing contact with reality. Quainton Road, Wendover, Great Missenden... villages passing by, repositories of our island nation's history; thatched roofs, garden gates, footpaths over the Chilterns; greys, browns, greens, moss-covered walls, dead leaves, damp. Cough. Shivering. Lousy. I drifted off into a fitful sleep, dreams of earliest childhood, the texture of reality - floorboards, carpets, wallpaper patterns, tiles in the nursery...

At Marylebone station I was woken up by a railwayman shaking my shoulder. "Wake up, sir! End of the line!" For a while, there was some discussion about whether I needed an ambulance. A first-aider was summoned, who found that I was running a fever of 102 degrees. I said I just needed to go home, and was helped into a taxi.

Back at Folyer Court, Winifred Atwell or Russ Conway hammered away at full volume on a television or wireless in the next-door flat. I changed into my pyjamas, crawled into a mercilessly cold bed, yearning for my Edwardian nursery. I was soon asleep. The fever turned the bed into an oven, I was sweating profusely and dreaming again, tight, circular, frustrating dreams from which there was no escape, minor problems exacerbating themselves in my mind, unable to break free from them unless I woke up, which I did frequently. I'd have preferred a terrifying nightmare to such annoying dreams.

Three days later I was well enough to go outside into the street, buy some groceries from Budgens and a newspaper from across the road. Recuperating at home, I went back over that day at Woodford Halse, that early-November Wednesday that had become obliterated from my memory. What did it mean? I really had no clue. Not even any speculative theories.

While I never let myself become obsessed by the event, it never went away. When an opportunity arose to return on a work visit to the motive power depot at Woodford Halse to discuss a few problems with a recently repaired signalling installation, I took it. 

I returned the following May, and quite a different atmosphere met me. I was not staying overnight; I'd be there and back in a day. My first port of call was the Railway Hotel, but to my surprise it was closed. The downstairs windows were boarded over and a large 'TO LET' board stood by the front gate. I asked a neighbour who was mowing his front lawn what had happened to the inn, saying I'd stayed there last November. I was told that after her divorce, Mrs Frobisher hadn't been able to make the place pay, so she emigrated to Canada. No, Australia. No – definitely, Canada. 

At the depot I talked through the technical problems with the engineers, but the word was that the yard, and the depot – and possibly even the whole line – would be closed within a few years. There was an air of resignation among the workers; morale was poor. 

Over tea, I casually remarked that I'd last been in Woodford Halse on the night of the meteor, hoping to jog some memories. It worked! Suddenly, the men sitting around the table perked up and struck up a more animated discussion. The consensus was that this had been something more than a shooting star. Why, the very next day a couple of RAF chaps in a staff car turned up at the depot with this American officer, and were clearly investigating an incident that was far more interesting than a lump of rock falling from space.

I listened to many different stories from that night, but I got the sense that the storytellers were either exaggerating somewhat, or else holding back what they knew. Clearly something extraordinary had occurred, but what? No one was able to offer a rational explanation. Before long, the talk turned to flying saucers. 

I returned to London that evening none the wiser, but on the train I met a nice young lady, on her way to a job interview with the LCC as a teacher. She was a petite woman in her mid-twenties, with short mousy hair and a ready smile. Her name was Philippa, she came from Rugby. We fell into a conversation with unusual ease – unusual for me, at least – I told her of my previous journey to Woodford Halse and of my strange meeting at the Railway Hotel. 

She was amazed by my story – because, as she said, the same thing had happened to her. Literally, the same thing. A Nordic-looking couple had stayed at her aunt's bed and breakfast at Priors Marston; they said they were on a canal holiday and wanted one night ashore to enjoy a hot bath and a proper cooked dinner. This was also last November; Phillipa was on half-term and helping out. Some details were identical: Philippa was no memory of the couple with whom she had gone for a walk with. And she had fallen ill with a high fever soon after they left. Apart from what her aunt had told her, she could remember nothing of the incident. 

Before we parted at Marylebone, we had a drink at the Globe; I bought Philippa a port and lemon, while I drank a light and bitter. We agreed to meet again – she got that job – we continued to meet, and within the year, we were married. We both said that fate had conspired to bring us together. 

In the spring of 1965, our twins were born. A boy and a girl. A mass of fair hair – though fair hair ran in neither family. Long babies, too. We  named them Lars and Lara on account of their Nordic appearance. Both have had remarkable careers. Neither ever married, nor had children. But Lars went on to devise some of the most cutting-edge IT solutions (including some highly classified computer-security systems), while Lara works in DNA research and her work has repeatedly been described as Nobel Prize material.

In our retirement in Mevagissey, Philippa and I have sometimes dared to ponder whether there is any connection between our children's contributions to science and that strange night in November 1960. Some intervention  that we could not begin to fathom? It is a possibility that we have never dared examine too closely. We have kept the thought to ourselves never mentioning it, even to our children.

This time three years ago:
Demand and inequality in the global economy

This time four years ago:
Sorry, takie mamy koleje

This time five years ago:
Visit to Warsaw's Jewish Cemetery

This time six years ago:
Under Rondo Dmowskiego 

This time seven years ago:
My Most favourite bridge

This time eight years ago:
Street lighting under the snow

This time nine years ago:
Ul. Poloneza - archival video before the S2 was built

This time ten years ago:
Aerial juxtaposition over Jeziorki