by Emma Davies
Laura felt a sudden hard shove as something made contact with the middle of her arm and she was pushed roughly to one side, spinning around so that she crashed through the bush, landing sprawled on her back. She was vaguely aware of something hurtling past her and, as she flailed her arms around to try and slow her downward movement, an even bigger shape shot past, only metres from where she lay. She stared at the road in shock, her heart pounding, a sharp stinging in her arm from the thorns which had torn at her skin as she fell. Within moments a gentle wet nose poked at her as Boris came to her side, licking her face. She struggled into an upright position, chest still heaving, to see what had cannoned into her.
The cyclist was lying on his back too, his bike to one side, the front wheel buckled, the rear still spinning wildly. He’d obviously gone straight over the handlebars, and Laura flinched at the memory of doing this as a child. She got cautiously to her feet, but apart from the pain in her arm and a slight soreness in her backside, she was unhurt, more shocked than anything. She crept to the side of the prostrate figure, fervently hoping for no blood or broken bones, stopping dead when she saw him. She recognised his face instantly. Of all the people who could have crashed into her this afternoon, it would have to be Stephen bloody Henderson; arrogant pig. And what on earth was he wearing? She could feel the heat of her anger beginning to rise as she stood looking down at him. He might have really hurt her, careering about the countryside on a bike he clearly couldn’t control properly. If he wanted to look like an over-stuffed sausage in that ridiculous Lycra get-up that was up to him, but she certainly didn’t want to be involved in his mid-life crisis.
She was about to walk away when both his eyes suddenly shot open and he lurched upwards, looking about him wildly, his breath coming in short pants. He struggled to focus, eventually homing in on her face as his brain caught up with the rest of him.
‘Jesus, are you all right!’ he exclaimed, trying to get to his feet. ‘I could have killed you!’
Laura studied his face, unsure of what to say. In fact, she didn’t want to say anything at all. Stephen’s face was all screwed up, his jaw clenched. He certainly didn’t look like he was sorry.
‘I’m fine,’ she stated, beginning to look around for the bag she had dropped. There was no way she was hanging around for a minute longer than necessary. She spied it caught up in the branch of one of the bushes, and was about to retrieve it when she felt an arm tugging at hers. She wheeled around.
‘I said… what on earth were you doing just standing in the bushes like that? You’re lucky I saw you at all.’
He was shouting now, his face contorted.
‘I was picking sloes, not that it’s any of your business. What on earth were you doing riding that thing around when you clearly can’t control it? And… if I’m not much mistaken you were on the wrong side of the road.’
Stephen stared at her as if she had grown another head. ‘Me? I was out of control? Didn’t you see the bloody car going ninety miles an hour down the road? The one I swerved to avoid, the one that narrowly missed you? Are you blind or something?’
Laura bent down to retrieve her bag, picking up Boris’ lead which was trailing on the ground. She turned back to Stephen and looked him squarely in the eye.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m deaf.’ And then she walked away.
Chapter 3
Laura had only gone a matter of yards before she felt a sharp tug to her arm once more. Anger leapt into her throat. She turned swiftly.
‘Will you stop grabbing my arm,’ she snarled.
Stephen had the grace to step back slightly, looking momentarily abashed.
‘And before you ask the bleeding obvious, I can lip read, that’s how. So, I can ‘hear’ what you said, but no I didn’t hear the car tearing down the road, or you screeching across the road, or squealing your brakes or shouting, or any of those things that probably happened. Is that enough of an explanation for you, or do you need me to go on?’
Stephen stared at her. ‘No, that’s enough of an explanation,’ he said, and she could see that he was no longer shouting. ‘I had no idea, I’m sorry.’
‘What? Sorry for hurling me into the middle of a prickly bush or sorry because I’m deaf?’
There really was no answer to that, and Laura didn’t expect one. She glared at Stephen for one last moment and then turned her back on him once more, stomping off down the lane. There was no tug to her arm this time.
Behind her, Stephen gazed after the slender figure, still trying to catch his breath. God, if she was this beautiful when she was angry, imagine what she would look like when she smiled.
Laura made it home in near record time. Even Boris, sliding in through the door after her, flopped onto his bed in the corner of the kitchen with a reproachful eye.
‘And you can stop looking at me like that as well,’ she muttered, fetching the dog a bowl of water.
She managed to fill the kettle, set it to boil, and place the teabag into her cup before the tears came. She had done it again. What on earth was the matter with her? She had never been like this before David died.
She prodded the tea bag in her cup viciously. She didn’t really know what it was that made her act the way she did. Her walk had been lovely, the loaves she carried in her bag were fresh and fragrant, and she had enjoyed the balmy autumn air. On the face of it then she had been in a good mood, so why on earth had she felt the need to take Stephen apart the way she had? After all, despite the fact that she hadn’t wanted to listen to what he had to say, it sounded as if he had come to her rescue in a roundabout way; even if that had necessitated shoving her to the ground. Her memory of the events leading up to their encounter was patchy, but Stephen hadn’t fared too well himself. She could have offered some gratitude, or even a solicitous enquiry after his own health, but instead she had berated him for something which was obviously not his fault at all.
Anger seemed to come at her from nowhere these days, boiling up when she least expected it, and when it did, the resulting embarrassment only served to make her worse. Instead of apologising for her behaviour like any normal person, she cranked her abuse up a gear and then walked away; running back to the safety of her little cottage, to her warm kitchen, where she was alone and could ruminate on her shortcomings at length. Her anger scared her. Everything scared her, and today was another stark reminder of how vulnerable she was.
She took her tea to the table, wrapping her arms around Boris who had magically appeared at her side. The sloes were still in a bag by the sink where she had left them, but her impulse of earlier in the day had waned and she couldn’t be bothered to deal with them now. The dog’s fur was warm and comforting and it seemed easier simply to sit where she was for the time being and let herself be soothed.
It was some time before she moved again, reluctantly getting up to prepare the fruit. She made it a rule never to pick more than she needed, or to waste what she carried home. If nature had seen fit to provide such bountiful pickings then she was only allowed to pick, never plunder. This batch of sloes was destined for the freezer first, where it would sit for a couple of hours until covered with a layer of ice. So far the autumn had been warm and the first frosts of the year had yet to appear, so the sloes would benefit from their assisted freezing, releasing their juices and flavour into the alcohol she would steep them in much more readily as a result. It wasn’t until she was running water into the sink to give the fruit a good wash that she remembered the connection between Stephen and Freya.
Stephen’s journey home took much longer than Laura’s. Although he too had anger to fire his pace, he was considerably further from home than she was, and his bike might as well be left to rust in the hedgerow for all the use it was now. Walking was not the simple option it first appeared to be either, given that the only footwear he had with him were his cycling shoes complete with cleats.
When she had first stomped off, Stephen had watched Laura’s retreating back with a mixture of desire, shock,
amusement and burning anger. He was reeling himself with the force at which he had been thrown from his bike, but whichever way he looked at it he didn’t think his responses to her had warranted the bitter words she had flung at him. His shoulder was aching badly but as he watched her stalk away, getting smaller and smaller, he felt an odd emotion he hadn’t experienced for quite some time: compassion. He would have run after her were it not for his shoes, and even though he knew he would probably be attacked for his audacity; he had an overwhelming desire to explain, to sooth, to heal whatever had caused her to behave the way she had, and that wasn’t like him at all.
He pulled his mobile from his pocket and peered at it closely; thankfully it seemed no worse for having had his bodily weight thrown upon it. He dialled his brother’s number and waited for Sam to pick up. It rang for a while before it was answered.
‘Hi Stephen.’ Freya sounded breathless. ‘Were you after Sam, only he’s a bit busy right now.’
Freya sounded like she was standing in the middle of football stadium. ‘What on earth is all that noise?’ asked Stephen.
He could hear Freya smile. ‘Thirty-two school children, all getting high on apple juice,’ she replied.
‘What?’ Stephen shouted.
‘Miss Kennedy’s class from the primary school,’ she explained. ‘Year six have been tending the school garden this term, so they get to come and press the apples from their tree. You would never believe how exciting it is… I’d forgotten what it’s like to be ten!’
Stephen groaned inwardly. He’d been banking on Sam effecting a swift rescue mission, but it sounded like they were up to their ears. He quickly explained his predicament.
‘Stephen, that’s awful! Did you see the car?’
‘Not clearly. A dark blue four-by-four I think, which could fit the description of any number of cars around here. I was too busy trying not to get killed to take any more notice than that. And the driver was lucky he didn’t end up wrapped around a tree to be honest.’
‘But it sounds as if you might have been. Are you sure you’re okay?’
Stephen grimaced. ‘I’ll live,’ he replied, circling his shoulder experimentally. ‘Bit sore in places but nothing serious. Sadly, the same can’t be said for my bike. I think the best course of action might be to put it out of its misery rather than let it suffer.’
Freya laughed. ‘Well at least you can still smile about it. Look if you can give me twenty minutes, I’ll be there. Where exactly are you?’
Sitting on the verge to wait for Freya had been a serious mistake. Stephen was now so stiff he wasn’t sure he could actually get up, and his shoulder throbbed painfully. He gave his bike a dirty look. This cycling lark was supposed to be a way of getting fit, not ending up feeling like he was a hundred and two. Perhaps some rigorous walking might suit him better, or even, if his knees could stand the strain, some gentle jogging. God forbid he should have to resort to sucking in his stomach in some fancy gym.
Stephen was still pondering the state of his girth, when Freya drew up. He levered himself off the ground through gritted teeth and hobbled over to join her.
‘Do you want to chuck the bike in the back?’ she called.
Stephen looked back. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Can’t we just leave it there?’
Freya stepped down from the pick-up. ‘No, we can’t,’ she said. ‘Go on, jump in, I’ll sort it out. You might feel differently in the morning.’ She gave him a big smile, but not before Stephen had seen her trying to stifle a giggle at the sight of him in Lycra. She didn’t know quite where to look.
‘So what exactly happened?’ she asked, once the bike was stowed and they were on their way.
Stephen recounted the afternoon’s events. ‘I couldn’t help it, Freya. She was standing right at the edge of the road but I didn’t spot her until I nearly mowed her down, she was almost completely hidden by the canopy of trees. What’s worse is that I dread to think what might have happened if I hadn’t shoved her out of the way. The car was travelling so fast, and fish tailing around the road, he could easily have taken her out, no problem at all.’
‘And she was deaf, you said?’
Stephen nodded. ‘Hmm, and beautiful.’ He sighed. ‘Possibly the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, but as first meetings go, it wasn’t what you’d call auspicious. She let me know in no uncertain terms what she thought of me.’
‘I bet she did,’ said Freya, prodding hard at Stephen’s arm with her free hand.
‘Ow!’ he protested. ‘What was that for?’
‘Just checking,’ she replied. ‘It would appear that you do have a soft spot after all.’
Stephen glared at her. ‘Very funny,’ he huffed. ‘She could have been seriously hurt.’
Freya was instantly contrite. ‘I know. I’m sorry, Stephen. I shouldn’t take the mickey. You should probably go to the police you know.’
‘And say what? I didn’t see the car well enough to make an identification. I’m fine, our mystery girl is fine, and that’s pretty much all there is to it.’
Freya thought for a minute. ‘Yes, I suppose. There ought to be something we can do though. It doesn’t seem right that something so potentially serious is just ignored.’
Stephen stared through the windscreen at the road ahead, lost in his own thoughts for a moment. When he eventually answered, his voice had a soft almost wistful tone to it. ‘Well there is one thing I’m going to do,’ he said. ‘And that’s find her… whoever she is.’
Chapter 4
Laura was up early the next morning. She had checked her diary before she went to bed the previous evening and would have to be out early if she was to get all her deliveries made before she visited the churchyard. In the dark days immediately after David’s death, her neighbours, Stan, Millie and Blanche had been her lifeline. They were just as cantankerous as she was in many ways and her grief-stricken protestations that she didn’t need to eat or drink had fallen on deaf ears. She had been practically force-fed chicken soup, beef stew and shepherd’s pie, and although Laura had fought them almost every step of the way, in the end she had been grateful for their kindly ministrations and their present arrangements had grown from there.
All three of her neighbours were somewhere between the ages of sixty-five and eighty, with Blanche, Laura suspected, being the eldest. She had never liked to ask their ages, as all three were fiercely independent and as sprightly as someone half their age and, unlikely though the friendships were, they were firm.
Stan lived the closest to her, although still a good half mile away; a keen vegetable grower with a very sweet tooth and an intense fondness for her chocolate coated boozy damsons. Three doors down from him was where Millie lived. She was the youngest of the trio and a stalwart member of the WI. Her cakes were to die for, although alas her jam was not, and so in return for her sweet treats, Laura left Millie with plain labelled jars of apple and ginger or raspberry jam. So what if on occasion she passed them off as her own; Millie’s secrets were safe with her. Blanche lived in the next house, with her motley collection of chickens that had all been rescued from some place or another. With Blanche’s tender care they laid the biggest eggs Laura had ever seen and, as Blanche liked nothing more than a drop of sloe gin each evening, purely for medicinal purposes of course, the trade was a steady one.
Laura was well aware that these arrangements allowed her to stay outside the real world for much of the time, but she was also able to keep a watchful eye over her friends and, in an age that often felt unkind and uncaring to Laura, it helped to assuage her guilt over the darker aspects of her own character. Hiding from the world was not the answer of course, but life was certainly much easier this way.
It took Laura nearly an hour-and-a-half to make the round trip this morning despite the fact that Blanche wasn’t in. Her friends were early risers like her, and it was nice to share a cup of tea with them, talking about their plans for the day and their love of the coming season. She returned home laden with r
unner beans, some courgettes, and a honey cake. With her bounty deposited safely in the kitchen, Laura was finally ready to set out for the churchyard. She slipped down the path to one of the sheds at the end of her garden to collect her tools and a garland she had made a couple of days earlier. The conkers in it were gleaming like newly polished mahogany and she smiled to see them. Mr and Mrs Roberts were going to love them too.
‘Morning, Dad,’ called Freya. ‘I hope you don’t mind me visiting two days in a row, although actually…’ she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘… it isn’t you I’ve come to see at all, sorry.’
She perched on the little stool she had brought with her for the days when the grave didn’t need tending and she just wanted to sit and chat.
‘Sam thinks I’m barmy of course, but then, no offense Dad, he’s a bloke, so what does he know? To be fair he’s been pretty good with all the other wedding arrangements, but you know him as well as I do, and he hasn’t got a creative bone in his body has he? I know exactly how I want my bouquet and the other arrangements to look and, as I was leaving here yesterday, I saw the most beautiful wreath.’ She sighed, looking around her once more. ‘Even though it pains me to say it, it was much better than anything I could make, and I know that whoever did would be the perfect person to help with the wedding. Unfortunately I don’t know who that is.’
She cocked her head to one side as if listening. ‘So you need to help me out here, Dad, because I’m pretty much lying in wait to see if I can spot whoever made the wreath, and if you don’t talk to me I’m going to look a complete loon.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘Yeah, I know. Thanks for the obvious witty response.’ Her head whipped around as she heard the lych gate creak open, but it was only the wind; she probably hadn’t fastened it properly.
A tiny robin swooped in front of her, a small worm in its mouth, and she followed the path of its flight, watching as it disappeared behind a rather ornate memorial at the far end of the churchyard. She smiled, turning back to speak to her father once more, before looking up again to where the robin had flown. I wonder, she thought.