“That’s not what I expected. How lovely.”
“I doubt it’s been all roses for them, but you’d have to ask them that.”
“How?”
“With words…?” Vicky slowed and looked at her sideways. “Not asking usually causes more offence, you know. Like with me and the paganism. I hear a lot of talk from people behind my back, but I much prefer it when people ask me straight out. The Reverend Connor did. She came around to my house and we had a right good chat, and I respect her for that.”
“God, was she trying to convert you or something?”
“Not at all. She had a right to speak to me, because she only wanted to understand. And as the headmistress of the school, I have a duty to the kids to encourage them to explore their own spirituality, and she is part of that process herself.”
“I wish I’d had a headmistress like you at school.”
The path rose higher and got narrower as they went along. Helena was still heavy-boned and tired. It wasn’t just the fete, but all the long hours and stresses of the weeks leading up to the big day. Vicky was silent for a while as they went single-file and the trees seemed to be growing out of rocks that were almost becoming walls either side of them. The air was cold here, and the atmosphere darkened.
“You’re quite lost, aren’t you?” Vicky said from in front.
“Not really. I reckon I could find this again. It’s creepy though!”
“No, not geographically lost. Spiritually lost.”
Helena had to agree. “That’s why I came to the moot. I have a feeling something’s out there. Or a need for something to be out there. But I get frustrated that I don’t know what it is.”
“It is said that the seeker will be found when the time is right.”
“It’s also said that people get what they deserve, but that doesn’t explain children dying in wars or cancer or the government’s latest policies.”
They walked on in silence. Helena followed Vicky, feeling irritated by her own lack of faith, as if it was somehow her own fault. She was grumbling to herself, and looking at her feet to avoid stumbling, when she cannoned into Vicky and came to a stop. Vicky had one hand raised up in warning.
“The waterfall,” Vicky announced, superfluously.
The rock rose up before them, and cut right down the centre was a narrow, white race of water, plunging at least twenty feet to a small pool before disappearing off in a buried stream.
“Wow.”
“I’ll bring you back out here in winter. When it freezes, it looks amazing. Great hanging daggers of ice.”
They gazed at it for a little while, and Vicky shared out the cake and sausage rolls between them. “Should have brought a drink,” she said through a mouthful of pastry.
“My treat, I’ll buy you one as we pass the pub on the way back.”
“You’re on. Now that I’ve got you here,” Vicky continued, “and bribed you with cakes, tell me what happened last night. You’ve admitted that Richard carried you home. Then what?”
“Well, ahh, he carried me back to his place, actually.”
“What!” Vicky’s smile split into a delighted grin. “Oh my God, that’s even better than I had imagined. And then what?”
“We ate some chili. Drank some wine. He walked me home.”
Vicky’s eyebrows were threatening to disappear into her hairline as she goggled at Helena. “And then what?”
“Um. We talked a lot. And nothing happened. I mean, we’re going to see each other again. And he did, um…”
“I can’t believe you’ve gone all coy! What? Touch you? Kiss you? Whip out a massive cock and…”
“Vicky!”
“Sorry. Sorry. But come on, we’re women of the world and I need to know.”
“We kissed, and that was all.”
“Oh my God. You kissed. You kissed! Is it a secret? The kiss, the relationship, whatever…”
“It’s not a relationship,” Helena said in horror. “No, neither of us want that. We’re taking things very slowly and just getting to know each other.”
“That sounds like a relationship to me! Come on. Let’s get back to The White Hart. I need alcohol to process this.”
“It’s barely midday!”
“It’s Sunday, and we deserve it. Follow me!”
Helena trailed after Vicky who was positively bouncing along the path. She seemed genuinely delighted for Helena, and it made Helena smile.
As did her memories of the previous night, and the way he’d kissed her twice more, on the way back to her house, and as he was leaving her, standing on her doorstep and holding her hands like he hadn’t wanted to ever let go.
There were some feelings so warm and so private that no amount of alcohol was going to get her to spill the beans to her friend. She hugged the memory close and scampered to catch up with Vicky.
Chapter Eight
Even though Helena and Vicky had eaten cakes and pies while out on their walk, they found themselves possessed by food demons and ordered a bowl of cheesy chips once they settled at the bar in The White Hart. Helena regretted it as soon as they left the pub and began walking back into the village.
“I am just going to go home and curl up on the sofa, and watch terrible Sunday television all afternoon.”
“Me too.” Vicky came to a halt outside her house by the school. “And I shall think about all the marking and planning that I’m not doing, because it’s the holidays, and I can leave everything until the day before term starts.”
“Really?”
“No. But it’s nice to dream. Go on, enjoy your slobbing.”
“I will.”
Helena ambled on, taking her time, loaded down as she was with carbohydrates and lard.
The first thing she noticed when she walked into her house was a flashing answerphone message; her mother, enquiring after the fete. She apologised for not being able to attend. At the last minute, she had had another urgent appointment. Helena shook her head and deleted the message. She had known her mother wouldn’t come; she would have imagined acres of mud, terrible incomprehensible locals, and nowhere to sit down.
Her mobile was next to her landline. She’d left it behind and there was a winking green light at the top. She’d missed a call, and she knew it wouldn’t be from her mother. She stared at the phone without turning it on to see who it was, enjoying the moment of suspense. Okay, I admit it, she said crossly to herself. I hope it’s Richard and I really shouldn’t get carried away with all this. But I will be disappointed if it’s just some apparently-psychic marketing monkey trying to get me to claim for an accident I haven’t yet had.
It was Richard and she was almost embarrassed at the leap her stomach did when she saw he’d left a message.
“Hi Helena, it’s, uh, me. I mean, Richard. Just wondered if you were free this afternoon. It’s, uh, Sunday. In case you get this late. Anyway. Give me a call back when you get this message, please.”
She laughed aloud at his stumbling monologue. It wasn’t what she had expected from the usually-confident man, and she made a mental note to tease him about it later.
She stood by the telephone, clutching her mobile, looking at the sofa which was piled with cushions and inviting her to sink into its warm fuzzy depths. She still wanted to abandon herself to a hedonistic and slothful afternoon of absolutely no demands whatsoever.
And yet… Richard sounded as if he had plans. With her. Her tiredness was edged with curiosity and adrenaline.
Oh, sod it, she decided. I’ll sleep when I’m dead. She called him back.
* * *
Less than an hour later she was sitting in the passenger seat of his Landrover, and grinning from ear to ear. “I have never been in one of these before! I can’t believe how high up I am! It’s great. I feel like Lady Muck.”
“And never been to a farmers’ market either,” Richard said, shaking his head. “You’ve had such a sheltered life.”
Helena gazed around the Defender’s spartan
interior. She pulled the sun-visor down. “No mirror.”
Richard pointed to the central console. “Mirror? No bloody CD player.”
“God. This is basic.”
“You’re lucky this one has heating, to be honest. Sometimes, it even works, but it takes a few miles to get properly warmed up.”
“Remind me not to have a lift with you in winter.”
“You’ll be lucky. The doors stop working in cold weather. They have a worrying tendency to pop open.”
Helena squeezed her legs together and tried to inch away from the door handle by her side. “Am I going to be the only person at the market who isn’t wearing a flat cap?”
“There’s a spare one in the box.” He tapped the large central compartment between them.
“Oh. Thanks. I think I’ll pass.”
Signs for the market started to appear, and soon they were swinging into a half-full car park. Richard juddered to a noisy halt and Helena climbed down out of the Landrover with an unpractised air, her bum sticking out and her hands desperately looking for places to cling to. “This would not be the vehicle of choice when you’re in a skirt.”
“It would be fine for the watching crowd,” Richard said, finally offering her a hand as she got to the ground. She slapped it away and tossed her head back.
“Stop that. Anyway. So, lead on, show me the delights of this farmers’ extravaganza. There are not as many flat caps as I’d expected.”
“There will be black puddings, though.”
They walked into an open space bordered by the vast blank walls of an old mill, a rocky river, and the car park. It was oddly claustrophobic, if you tried to look up. There were stalls all around and laid down the middle, too, creating a corridor. It was remarkably similar to yesterday’s fete but without the strange music of the Rain-Shine Boys.
“Where are the sheep and all that?”
“It’s not that sort of market. What, were you expecting a livestock market?”
“Yes. Like I’ve seen on television, with old boys in their white coats, and someone standing on a platform gabbling as men in checkered shirts stand in a circle and twiddle their eyebrows and buy cows.”
“Ahh. Well, if you’re free next Tuesday, I can take you to one of those. You will definitely need a flat cap then, though.”
“I’m working.”
“It’s worth booking a day off for.”
She made a sceptical noise. “I’ll think about it.” She browsed along the stalls, her eye caught by an array of handmade soap. The stallholder launched into a spiel about the ethical, local, and general smugness of the product, and within moments Helena had bought a chunk of something purple that smelled strongly of marmalade.
“I could do all my Christmas shopping here,” she remarked as they moved on.
“It’s a bit early. Don’t tell me you’re one of those super-organised people who get it all done and wrapped by the end of October.”
“In my head, yes. I always intend to. The reality is different.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Mind you,” she said, as they stopped by a table of unusual preserves. “It’s part of the whole community thing. Encouraging people to buy local and support small businesses when they are shopping for Christmas, instead of piling off to the Trafford Centre and buying the same old tat that you can buy anywhere.”
“Trafford Centre? I’d rather stick a pitchfork in my face. Online, that’s the way to go.”
“And that’s why we need the broadband!”
“But what about the fast-food place where we all sit in our cars to do our online orders on their wireless? Have you thought about the effect on their business?”
“Oh, shut up.”
They laughed and walked on, and when Richard reached out and tucked her arm in his, she didn’t resist. She leaned against him, bare skin against bare skin as their hands intertwined, and everything felt sunny and rosy and right.
“What next with the project?” Richard asked as they sank onto a bench at the far end of the market.
“We total up what we’ve got, and start buying the materials, and carry on digging. I think we have to pay a surveyor to come out and mark up the next bit because it is too close to the road. We can’t take the risk of digging through existing cables or pipes or whatever. The more we look into it, the more technical it starts to get. And the more expensive.”
“I’ll ask around. I will know people.”
“Old boys’ network?”
“Something like that. I have lost touch with lots of my friends from University, to be honest. And up here, when I came back, I didn’t rejoin all the clubs and societies I used to be involved in.”
“Do you regret that, now?”
“Mm. I don’t know.”
“Are you basically not admitting that you might have been wrong?”
“Steady on!” His grip tightened on her hand, but he was smiling. “Yes, of course, but we’re not supposed to talk about that. I mean, I don’t know much about relationships, but we’re supposed to keep all that to ourselves and just second-guess each other, surely?”
“Why?” she shrugged. “It’s easier to be open.”
“You’re right.” He sighed. “You know, I think this just might work out.”
“Then why the big sigh?”
“Ha! Come on, we haven’t been down that other side of stalls yet. Ready?”
She stood up, slightly wobbly on her feet, and he steadied her with his arm. “Sorry. I’m just so knackered after everything.”
“Shit. It’s me that should be sorry. You should have said no about coming out this afternoon. I bet all you wanted to do was curl up on the sofa and sleep.”
“Pretty close! Yeah, but I also wanted to see you.”
He walked her slowly down past some stalls that appeared to sell twisted things in jars of vinegar. “There’s no hurry. I’m not going anywhere.”
She lapsed into silence and let that sentence settle in her head, taking on new meanings as they approached the Landrover and this time, he helped her up into the passenger seat with care and courtesy. He delivered her home and she was very nearly asleep as he unloaded her, packed her carefully onto her sofa in a nest of blankets, and crept out of the house.
* * *
“No, this is not what we agreed.” Helena waved the A5 flyer in the air, as if the man she was speaking to was in the office, not on the other end of the phone. “I sent the PDF to you on Monday, and you assured me that the batch of leaflets would be ready to collect at lunchtime today. Four working days. And a bit more.”
She paused. He was blathering something about an error in the copy, and how she must have called into the printers’ when only the work experience boy was there, and something about a lack of cyan.
“Stop,” she said firmly, channelling Vicky’s teacher-voice. “No. When I called into your place at midday, I spoke to a man called Ian, who told me quite clearly that the leaflets simply hadn’t been printed and wouldn’t get done until next week now. That’s unacceptable. We had planned to distribute them this weekend. I know you are open on Saturday mornings, and I expect to be able to collect them at ten tomorrow.”
The man protested it was half past five.
“I don’t care when you are supposed to close. We had an agreement and now you’ve ruined plans that we have made. We were relying on you for this.”
More excuses followed. Lack of staff, a hardware problem, perhaps her images were of an insufficient resolution.
“I highly doubt it. They were 600 DPI when I sent them to you so I hardly think they have mysteriously become a sixteen-colour bitmap in the intervening time. Yes I do know what I’m talking about so you can stop trying to bullshit me. If they are not ready by ten tomorrow I shall take my business elsewhere.”
More chatter.
“No, I shall not accept a discount or a free mouse mat or a box of promotional pens. This was your chance. Ten, tomorrow. Thank you.” She jabbed at he
r mobile and flung it onto the desk defiantly. Someone needs to make an app for when you want to slam a phone down, but you’re on a mobile. It’s just not the same.
“Wow. Aren’t you gorgeous when you’re angry?”
She jumped, startled to see that Richard was lounging in the doorway to the office, his arms folded. He was dressed in a filthy blue boiler suit, and his face appeared smeared with some kind of mud. He must have been with the sheep. She hoped it was mud.
“Don’t you start,” she threatened, her palms slippery with sweat from the adrenaline. She always stood up to make confrontational phone calls, but she still hated the process. It had been a difficult thing to learn but a few weeks working in credit control for a previous company had helped to thicken her skin somewhat.
“What? You’re all fiery. I was just saying I liked it. How nice you look when you’re being all defiant and pissed off.”
“Fuck off,” she said, and he laughed as if she had made a joke. Her heart hammered even more and she found she was clenching her fists, digging her nails into her palms.
“Go get em,” he said. “Problem with the printers, I take it.”
She forced herself to take a deep breath, steadying herself. She was so wound up, she wanted to scream. It wasn’t his fault, she told herself. He’s just trying to be nice. Ugh. She was surprised to hear a wobble in her voice as she said, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to take it out on you.”
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