by Barker, Ashe
The scenery stretching out before me is absolutely breathtaking. Stunning. I have never seen any place lovelier. Or more austere. My mental image of the Brontë moors didn’t remotely do justice to the real thing. As far as I can see, in every direction, lies unbroken, undulating glorious moorland. The colours are vibrant, sparkling, still wet from the previous night’s downpour. The near to middle distance is a glittering kaleidoscope of reds, purples, olives, browns, greens and golds as the heather and bracken, grassland and wildflowers blend into one, seeming to move and rotate, still glittering and shiny from the dampness in the air, catching and reflecting the morning sunlight. In the farther distance are soft pale greys, darker smokiness and pale blue smudges of wispy mist circling the higher peaks, a variegated canvas of softly muted beauty. My eye is caught by the glint of light reflecting off water in the bottom of the valley over to my right—a glittering, dark, deep grey, the surface rippling gently in the slight breeze. A lake, perhaps, or maybe a reservoir.
I remember the strong impression of height and distance, and of wide, open vastness surrounding me as Miranda chugged on and up through the inky blackness and driving rain last night. That was no illusion and the sense of limitless space overwhelms me now, as the bright daylight washes over the expansive wildness before me. Even though all this beauty—the colours and textures of this grand and timeless landscape—was invisible to me, I recognised its aura last night. I felt the essence of it all around me then, unseen, and I am drenched in it again now as I open the window and breathe deeply, let it pour in, filling my senses.
It is irresistible, timeless and yet constantly changing as the light and shadows shift, as clouds flit across the sky, interrupting the sunlight as they pass, then releasing it back to fall across the moorland once more in dazzling rays. A hazy rainbow starts to appear across the clouds, coming into sharper focus before my eyes as the light refracts through the rainwater still hanging there in the air. Nature’s mysteries and wild beauty combining to wrap around my soul. And I am lost.
The confusion and uncertainty I felt a few moments ago evaporate in an instant. This is home. My home, and come what may I am not giving it up now. I am staying. I know it. I recognise it even though I have never been here before, and I know it knows me.
My light-bulb moment is broken by deep, booming barking starting up somewhere a way off to my left. A suitable bark to match a dog the size of a sideboard. Leaning out of the window and straining my neck, I try to peer around the side of the house to see what has set Barney off. I can just make out his huge shape bounding uphill through the bracken about half a mile away. He is followed by a small, skinny little girl in a bright red, shiny coat and blue wellies, her waist-length, straight, dark hair loose behind her. She runs to keep up. Every few yards the dog stops, turns to wait, sometimes rushes back at her to bounce at her side, then the two go on together, leaping and striding through the wet bracken.
Opening the window, I shiver in the sudden damp chill from the outside air, and can just hear Rosie’s voice carrying across the distance. Laughing, she is calling to Barney to wait for her as she battles on in his slipstream, thigh-deep in the moorland undergrowth, wellies flashing.
I watch them until they disappear over the brow of the nearest hill, then turn and head for the en suite shower. Driven by a sudden rush of energy and exhilaration, I want to be down there with them, running across the moor, soaking up my glorious first morning in this glorious place.
Clutching my still-damp clothes from last night’s adventures, I make my way back downstairs and through the house towards the kitchen. I need to stick my stuff in the washing machine if possible, and hopefully be able to get it dry enough to wear again soon. Apart from my soggy bundle and my sleeping T-shirt, the only other clothes I have with me are what I am now wearing—a faded blue denim miniskirt and opaque black tights, topped off with another of my trademark plain black, loose-fitting T-shirts.
Although I did my best with the towel I found in the en suite in my room, my hair is still wet from my shower and streaming wildly down my back in dripping tendrils. I have long since learnt not to go near it with a hairdryer. That just makes the frizz worse. A three-foot, bright orange halo—so not a good look. My black Toms are silent on the hardwood floors as I pad along hopefully, in the direction of Mrs Richardson’s kitchen and laundry facilities. I smell coffee, and just possibly a whiff of bacon. And I suddenly realise I am ravenous again.
Standing in the open kitchen doorway, I glance around, expecting to see the trim, efficient figure of my friend and saviour from last night. No such luck. Unless she’s tucked away in a cupboard somewhere, the only person in the kitchen is Mr Darke. His chair’s angled at the table, one ankle draped over his knee as he idly sips the cup of coffee in his right hand whilst his eyes flick between the stack of papers spread out in front of him and a tablet computer, which he taps occasionally with his left middle finger.
I wait. Perhaps Mrs Richardson is somewhere nearby—maybe she’ll appear along the corridor behind me, or come in from outside…
He doesn’t move apart from to lift his cup, and once to pick up the ballpoint by his left hand and jot a note on one of the sheets. So, he’s left-handed…
I turn to creep away, not wanting to disturb his work, and I can hardly ask him about doing my washing.
“Morning, Miss Byrne. You hungry?” His voice stops me in my tracks. “There’s bacon in the bottom of the oven if you want some.”
Spinning back, I see that he has turned and is watching me intently as I stand there in the doorway, clutching my dirty washing with my stomach growling. I feel like a rabbit caught in headlights, and I have no idea at all why. All he’s done is offer me breakfast.
“I… Yes, please. Bacon will be fine, lovely…” I move into the room as he stands, then strolls past me as he heads for the fridge.
“Do you want an egg with that? Bread? Toast?” He has opened the fridge and is looking back at me, one eyebrow raised. “Juice?” He lifts a carton of fresh orange and shakes it, and I nod gratefully when I hear the friendly splashing inside it.
He is casually dressed this morning, but still absolutely gorgeous in black denim jeans and a grey polo shirt, and he is barefoot. He has nice feet, clean, the toes even and straight and toenails neatly clipped short. In contrast, his hair is messy, finger-combed, his just-out-of-bed look seeming inappropriately intimate as we face each other across the kitchen table.
“I was looking for Mrs Richardson…” I begin. “I have some washing and I wondered if—”
“Grace is out. She had some stuff to do in Keighley and took advantage of me being here to look after Rosie while she’s gone. She’ll be back by teatime, maybe earlier. Washing machine’s there.” He angles his head towards a cupboard door next to the sink.
Crouching, I open the cupboard to find a washing machine discreetly hidden behind it, so I open the door quickly and ram my gear in. “Is there any washing powder?”
“Search me—not my department. Have a rummage in the cupboard under the sink. Grace keeps most things there.”
As there is obviously no further help forthcoming, I root around under the sink and find a plastic container of non-bio liquid. Pouring a capful into the dispenser, I stare blankly at the machine, wondering how to turn it on. A few twists of the dial and random presses of buttons and suddenly it whirs into action. Victorious, I stand and turn back to face Mr Darke, who is still stationed by the open fridge.
“Egg? To go with the bacon?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Fried or scrambled? I do fried best…”
“Fried is fine. I can do it, though—I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“No trouble. You sit down, drink your juice. Do you always wander around with your hair dripping everywhere?”
Caught off guard by the sudden change of topic, I pat my wet, tangled mane nervously. “I’m sorry. I forgot to bring a hairdryer.” Liar, you don’t even own a hairdryer
and you certainly never waste time messing with your hair. Feeling self-conscious and scruffy—again—I feel the need to explain, reassure him that I am not always such a mess. “I usually just tie it back. I probably should get it cut, though.”
After lighting the gas under a frying pan already on the hob, he deftly breaks an egg into it, then uses a spatula to flick the oil over the egg as he tilts the pan from side to side. “Hard or runny?”
“Oh, I prefer it hard, please.”
“Good choice,” he murmurs, glancing back at me, and I suspect he’s not thinking of fried eggs at all now.
Butterflies explode into life somewhere down below my stomach and I feel a new, strange sensation, something clenching and releasing. Something wet. My nipples start to harden, and I know he notices. He studies my breasts under my T-shirt with a light smile just curling the corner of his mouth, as though he knows exactly what effect his presence and sensual innuendo are having on me.
I curse myself for not wearing a bra—again. I don’t usually need to, as my breasts are so tiny that no one can tell anyway, and I am just more comfortable without. But he can tell. He misses nothing as I sit there, inexplicably and very obviously aroused. I grab my glass of juice, using the movement as a reason to turn away from him.
Moments later he is back in front of me, placing a plate with a fried egg—yolk hard, of course—and three rashers of bacon on the table. He places a knife and fork beside the plate. Picking up his cup, he strolls over to the percolator on the worktop to refill it. “Do you want coffee?” he calls over his shoulder, just as the first mouthful of bacon goes in.
Struggling to answer with my mouth full—all I need now is a massive asthmatic choking fit and he really will be convinced I am a total muppet—I mumble an affirmative.
“How do you like it?”
Are we still on coffee? I’m not sure with this man.
After swallowing the bacon, I manage a more coherent response. “Fairly weak, please. White, with no sugar.”
He comes back with two cups and sits opposite me, then pushes one cup across the table. And he resumes his work. Totally ignoring me, he turns his attention to his papers, makes notes in the margin, glances occasionally at his iPad and sips his coffee—strong and black, I notice. Grateful not to be the object of his scrutiny for a while, I concentrate on eating, and within minutes my plate is clear.
“Do you want anything else?” His polite enquiry as soon as I have finished suggests he was not ignoring me after all, just not looking at me.
“No, I’m fine, thanks.”
“More coffee?” He stands and heads back over to the worktop.
“No, no. Really, I’m fine.”
I hear a drawer slide open, then close again, and suddenly he is behind me. I yelp, startled to feel his hands on my hair, sliding over and through its length.
“What are you doing?” I start to rise, trying instinctively to pull away at the same time as I realise he has a towel in his hands and is gently squeezing my wet ringlets, soaking the moisture into the rough, fluffy fabric.
He ignores my struggles, and with one hand on my shoulder he gently shoves me back onto the chair. “Can’t have you catching your death,” he murmurs, “we have other plans for you. Hold still.”
I realise I must have started to wriggle under his hands, overwhelmed by the intimacy of being touched. No one ever touches me, not even my mother.
I can’t bear being touched. It makes me feel…vulnerable, not in control. I don’t know how to handle it, how to react. All my life I have had to struggle with this, my debilitating awkwardness around other people and social situations, which is part of my ‘condition’. Being me, I have read all about this little aversion of mine and I know it is common enough, but that doesn’t make it any easier to live with. Over the years I have become adept at avoiding just this sort of situation—never getting too close, stepping aside. But Mr Darke caught me by surprise and has me trapped.
With no way of escaping short of making an unholy scene—the sort of scene that will definitely get me sacked—I have to find a way to get through it. Endure it. Every nerve ending goes onto red alert. I sit stiffly, panic barely suppressed, ready to leap to my feet and run the first chance I get.
Either he doesn’t notice my shocked reaction or he pretends not to, since he continues to stroke my hair, rubbing my scalp gently but firmly through the towel. For the next few moments neither of us speaks, and as the seconds tick by I become used to the feel of his hands on me. Gradually I calm down, starting to relax slightly as my brain manages to get the upper hand in my internal struggle and I tell myself I’m safe. I actually start to believe it might be true as he continues to massage my head and scalp with gentle fingers.
Even more amazingly, I realise I might even like this feeling. Sort of. It’s completely alien to me, and I know the slightest thing could shatter my newfound composure, but the fact is that I’m here, for the first time in my life, being touched and not jerking away. No longer wanting to. My nipples are once more standing at attention and wetness is gathering between my legs. Christ Almighty!
“Do you always touch your employees like this,” I manage to whisper, at last finding my voice and sufficient wits to form a coherent sentence.
“Only the ones who are very wet…” he murmurs in response, and I know he is at it again—making suggestive comments to rattle me.
It works faultlessly—he is so good at this, and how could he tell that his gentle fingers are having such an effect on me? As well as the warm moisture dampening my underwear, I can feel heat rising up my neck and my face as his meaning sinks in. I know I am bright red and completely tongue-tied, and I am glad I don’t have to look at him or make further conversation. So I sit still, concentrate on breathing in and out and let the massage unwind me, feeling the tension slip away.
The contented silence between us lengthens until suddenly the door flies open and Rosie bursts through it, followed by her big, furry black and brown shadow. And two more, smaller black and white ones. Border collies, as far as I can tell. The kitchen is full of dogs and a laughing child.
They are not alone. A tall, blond man follows them all in, his Doc Martens heavy on the stone flags under his feet. About the same height as Nathan Darke but broader in the shoulders, he is good-looking in an outdoorsy sort of way. As well as his industrial-standard boots, he is dressed in work jeans and a waxed Barbour jacket, open to reveal a purple and green checked shirt underneath. After tossing a bunch of car keys on the table, and placing a carton of half a dozen eggs down rather more carefully, he stands in the middle of the kitchen looking at the pair of us with obvious amusement—me sitting at the table, Mr Darke behind me, his hands in my hair.
“Daddy, I found Tom. He’s got eggs, and he wants you. Hello, Miss Byrne. You’re up. I’ll get my violin after I feed Tracy and Beaker.”
Presumably thinking no further comment necessary, the little whirlwind shoots out of the room, Barney and the two border collies on her heels, leaving the three of us to get acquainted.
“Hi there, city boy.” I detect a slight Scottish burr as our visitor smiles, making himself at home, strolling over to the table and reaching for Nathan’s iPad. “How do you manage to get online right out here? It’s all I can do to pick up emails. And what brings you home mid-week, anyway?” Without waiting for an answer, he turns to me, holding out his hand, his smile broad and welcoming. “I’m Tom. I farm across the valley. I guess you must be the violin teacher Rosie’s so excited about.”
“Er, yes. Pleased to meet you…Tom.” I struggle to my feet, take the outstretched hand and shake it, not yet thinking straight and still quivering from Nathan’s fingers in my hair.
“Eva Byrne, meet Thomas Shore.” Nathan steps in to make the introductions, still holding the towel and smiling slightly into my face as his eyes meet mine, knowing, aware of the moment we just shared. “Tom runs Greystones Farm, about two miles across the tarn from here. And yes, Eva is going to
tutor Rosie in the violin over the summer.”
“Nice to meet you, Eva. We need a pretty face around here to make up for Nathan’s scowling mug.” Tom gestures towards Mr Darke with his head, all the while continuing to smile broadly at me—a smile that’s genuine, open, welcoming.
I smile back at Tom and feel I might be making another friend—an ally, even, who knows how to put the lofty Mr Darke in his place. That’s two friends in two days, three if you count Rosie. And a dog. A world record for me. I’m getting good at this.
“Thank you, Worzel Gummidge.” Mr Darke wrinkles his nose. “Are you tramping mud in? Or worse—what’s that smell?”
Startled by his rudeness, though I can’t think why since he said much worse to me last night, I look from one to the other, wondering what to say. I needn’t have worried—clearly this sort of banter is how they deal with each other and both are grinning.
“Fuck off, a bit of dirt never hurt anyone. Is that my bacon I can smell?” Without further ceremony, Tom starts over to the cooker, then opens it to find a couple of rashers still in there. He picks both rashers up, juggling them from hand to hand to cool them, then starts nibbling. “Ah, yes, excellent. I do grow a mean pig. Any coffee going, city boy?”
He looks expectantly at Nathan, who mutters something about “ill-mannered, greedy bloody neighbours” as he rummages in a cupboard for another cup. He places the coffee on the table along with a sugar bowl and a spoon. He obviously knows how Tom takes it.
“You found some fertilised eggs, then?” Mr Darke nods at the egg box.
“Yup.” Tom nods over his coffee cup. “Should be. If our Mortimer has had any say in it, anyway. I’ll help Rosie slip them under her chicken before I go.”
Eggs? Chicken? Mortimer?