‘Catch some then, clever clogs. Bet you can’t’
‘I can.’ Lissa lifted the jam jar that had been hanging on a string about her neck and, still holding her dress with one hand, dipped it with the other into the gushing waters. The tiny fish fled. Not one was to be seen. The water that gushed into the jar was quite empty of life. ‘Oh.’ She sighed her disappointment.
‘You’re ignorant, Lissa Turner. All girls are ignorant. Can’t catch fish to save your life.’
She stopped caring about the sharp stones and swivelled about to splash him with a spray of the foaming water. ‘Yes I can!’
‘Here, give over,’ he protested and taking up a flat stone, tossed it carelessly into the beck, missing her bare feet by inches. The water splashed in great wet globs over her clean print frock and up into her face, making her gasp at its coldness.
‘Oh, you rat!’ But the imp of mischief in her could not resist retaliation, so she dipped her hands in the cold water and scooped up great washes of it. Though she aimed at the boy, laughing on the shore, she soaked herself more than him.
‘Nick, we could go for a swim. A real one. Why don’t we?’ She was breathless suddenly with the unexpectedness of her idea, eyes shining with excitement. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? The perfect way to celebrate a special day.
‘We can’t go for a swim.’ The boy sounded contemptuous, as if she was wrong in the head. ‘You know we’re not allowed to go alone up to the tarn.’
‘Oh, phooey.’
‘And our Daniel can’t swim yet.’
‘I can too,’ came a piping voice from some yards away but neither of them took any notice of the smaller boy, knee-deep in water and mud, engrossed in his hunt for wild creatures.
‘Anyroad, Miss Clever-Clogs is going out to tea.’ The older boy spoke with lilting mockery in his tone. ‘With the witch up at the big house.’
‘She’s not a witch,’ Lissa hotly protested, uncertainty in her voice.’ She’s my grandmother so how can she be a witch?’
Nick put on his superior expression.’ If she is, how come you’ve never been to see her before then?’
Lissa desperately searched her mind for a reason. Not for the world would she admit the truth, that her grandmother would have nothing to do with her. Any story was better than that. ‘She’s not been well.’
The boy grunted his disbelief and Lissa wished she could stamp her foot at him but the water hampered her.
‘If you want to know, she’s been waiting for my mother to come home. She couldn’t get here for my birthday but she’ll be here today.’
‘Huh! Rather you than me. The old bat’s a witch I tell you,’ Nick insisted. ‘And you’d best come out of that beck, before our Meg catches you.’
Lissa had been thinking exactly the same thing but she hated to be told so. ‘I’ll please myself what I do, Nick Turner.’
‘You’re just a girl, and as a boy and your cousin I’m responsible for you, like I am for our Daniel here. Anyway, your hopeless at fishing.’
Lissa was incensed. Though she‘d gladly slipped down to the beck at Nick’s suggestion, bringing her jam jar to catch a few minnows, that was only because she hated to be confined, even for a minute, while the adults chattered on about the Festival of Britain Tea Party in the village hall, how good Betty Hutton had been in ‘Annie Get Your Gun’ at the pictures last week, and other matters which were of no importance at all.
‘I’m three months older than you so how can you be responsible for me? Nor are you really my cousin, so there.’
The boy’s lip curled with superior mockery. ‘Huh, no one believes that old tale Aunty Meg tells about her finding you in a Liverpool orphanage.’
‘Believe what you like, it’s true.’ Lissa slapped more water at him. ‘I do know who my mother is though, so there. She’s flying all the way from Canada to see me. Today!’ The joy of it sang in her heart.
‘Meet your mother? Looking like that? Oh, aye, you will be popular.’
Lissa’s heart gave a little jump of fear. Oh, no, she couldn’t meet her looking a sight. Katherine was beautiful, everyone said so. For weeks Lissa had watched as the dress had been painstakingly stitched, anxiously waiting for the day when she could wear it. But, unable to resist Nick’s challenge, she’d ruined everything.
‘It’s all your fault,’ she cried, tears pricking the back of her eyes. ‘I can catch fish just as well as any boy.’
But Nick only laughed, quite without sympathy for her plight. She turned, meaning to get out of the stream, her movements as liquid and graceful as the swirling waters that washed about her white slender limbs, hair ribbons slipping loose in the wild tumble of glossy black curls. For all she was still a child, it was abundantly clear to anyone that Lissa Turner would grow into a beauty, one very much with a mind of her own.
‘Drat you.’ Lissa slapped at him again with the flat of her hand, then laughed out loud as he lost his footing, arms flailing round and round like a windmill in the wind, and almost in slow motion fell backwards into the water. Fortunately it was more wide than deep at this point and he was as much winded as wet. But for Nick, surprisingly angry.
‘Now you’ve done it,’ he shouted.
He looked so funny sitting there on the pebbles with his bony knees poking up out of the frothing water that Lissa laughed till the tears rolled down her cheeks. Then Nick joined in too while Daniel rolled on the grass and waved his feet in the air with delight.
Too late now to argue. Too late to complain she was in her best dress and she really mustn’t risk spoiling it. And Lissa desperately wanted to prove she was as good as him.
‘Keep still,’ she ordered. ‘Don’t frighten the fish away with your cackling. I’ll show you.’
She carefully kilted her skirts between her legs, tucking the hem into her waist band at the front, stuffing the trailing bits up the lace-trimmed elastic of her best knickers.
Then she waded slowly out into the fast-flowing stream, close to the bridge where there were fewer stones and the water spread out wide and deep and dark beneath a tunnel of greenery. As it came above her knees she stopped. For what seemed an age Lissa waited until the tiny minnows had grown used to the pale trunks of her legs and brushed against them with casual ease. Very slowly she bent down, holding the jar in the flow of the river. At first there was nothing and her heart fluttered with despair.
Then she saw it, a great fat black cloud of darting fish. In seconds her jar was crowded and she swooped it out of the water with a cry of triumph.
‘I’ve done it. See.’
Her delight was short lived, for the swift movement rocked a stone beneath her foot and the heavy water took instant advantage, pushing resolutely against her. Even as she struggled to find her balance Lissa knew herself lost. Holding the jar high in her hand to save her precious fish, she sat with infuriated dignity, almost up to her chin in the deep water.
Also by Freda Lightfoot as ebooks
Historical sagas
Lakeland Lily
The Bobbin Girls
The Favourite Child
Kitty Little
For All Our Tomorrows
Gracie’s Sin
Daisy’s Secret
Ruby McBride
Dancing on Deansgate
The Luckpenny Series:
Luckpenny Land
Storm Clouds Over Broombank
Wishing Water
Larkrigg Fell
Poorhouse Lane Series
The Girl from Poorhouse Lane
The Child from Nowhere
The Woman from Heartbreak House
Champion Street Market Series
Putting On The Style
Fools Fall In Love
That'll Be The Day
Candy Kisses
Who’s Sorry Now
Lonely Teardrops
Historical Romances
Madeiran Legacy
Whispering Shadows
Rhapsody Creek
; Proud Alliance
Outrageous Fortune
Contemporary
Trapped
Short Stories
A Sackful of Stories
Available in print and ebook
Historical sagas
House of Angels
Angels at War
The Promise
My Lady Deceiver
Biographical Historicals
Hostage Queen
Reluctant Queen
The Queen and the Courtesan
The Duchess of Drury Lane
About Freda Lightfoot
Born in Lancashire, Freda Lightfoot has been a teacher and bookseller. She lived for a number of years in the Lake District and in a mad moment tried her hand at the ‘good life’, kept sheep and hens, various orphaned cats and dogs, built drystone walls, planted a small wood and even learned how to make jam. She has now given up her thermals to build a house in an olive grove in Spain, where she produces her own olive oil and sits in the sun on the rare occasions when she isn’t writing. She’s published 40 novels including many bestselling family sagas and historical novels. To find out more about, visit her website and sign up for her new title alert, or join her on Facebook and Twitter where she loves to chat with readers.
http://www.fredalightfoot.co.uk/
http://www.fredalightfoot.blogspot.com/
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If you find any faults with this ebook please do contact the author so that it can be put right for future readers. mailto:[email protected]
Storm Clouds Over Broombank Page 26
