They both looked at me in alarm. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, love?’ asked Bert. ‘You need to take it easy at this stage, you know.’
‘I think so. Whoops, maybe not.’ I looked at Mike in alarm. ‘That was definitely a twinge …’
And that was the other reason we couldn’t go on holiday. I still had four weeks to go but as the doctor had said, it was probably best not to travel too far in my condition. Our beautiful baby girl was born that night. And as I held her in my arms, with Mike close to me on the hospital bed, I felt as though I had made a momentous journey in life. We’d been waiting, you see, a very long time for this baby – another reason for not taking any chances.
‘Everything seems fine to me,’ said the young doctor who was making routine checks. ‘In fact, I can probably discharge you before too long.’
Mike and I smiled at each other. We both knew exactly what the other was thinking.
‘I can’t wait to get back,’ I said.
‘I agree,’ said Mike, kissing the top of my head.
When you’ve gone as far as we have, there really is no place like home.
Breaking Through
Gill Sanderson
It was the time of day when Freya Storm enjoyed Lord’s Chase best. First thing on a summer’s morning, just as the rising sun cleared the mist shrouding the fir trees. Ghostly, but magic. The Chase folded itself round her, made her feel secure. She doubted if there was another person for miles. She needed this solitude.
It had been called the Lord’s Chase for the past six hundred years, but the lords and their hounds had long since disappeared along with the villages and tiny uphill farms. Regimented fir trees now cloaked most of the valley. Here and there, however, there were signs amongst the trees of a life now gone. Paths, fragments of walls, plants clinging to forgotten pockets of garden. That was what Freya was here for today.
Ahead of her, the trunk of a long dead oak lay across the path, uncleared by the foresters. She scrambled over it and stopped, as entranced as she had been yesterday when she’d found this ruin of an ancient cottage. It had no roof or windows, but she could still see sandstone walls, the chimney – now clad in greenery – the outline of a garden. Yesterday the light had been wrong for a photo, but now, with the sun behind her, this would make the perfect front cover for her guide. She crouched, levelled her camera and … what was that noise?
One of the delights of walking through the woods this early was the dawn chorus. But this was no bird song. It was rhythmic, something between a gasp and a sob. And it was getting louder.
There was a local story of a running ghost. A fifteenth-century farm worker who had taken an injured deer from the Chase for his starving children. He had been hunted through the Chase for three hours, pursued by dogs and huntsmen until he ran into a swamp and died. The lord said it was the best day of hunting he’d had all season.
Freya listened to the noise now and felt just a touch of fear.
A man appeared on the other side of the fallen tree, dressed in dark running vest and shorts, a small rucksack strapped high on his back. He was tall, muscular, gleaming with sweat, and panting heavily. ‘Damn,’ he grunted, pushing off extra hard with his next step in order to vault the tree.
Freya straightened up in relief. It was just a lone jogger. ‘Good morning,’ she said. She hadn’t even realised that the camera was still in her hands, poised as if to shoot.
‘No, you don’t,’ he snarled, lunging towards her.
Involuntarily, Freya took a step backwards. She tripped and the camera flew from her hands, smashing against the cottage wall. ‘My camera!’
The man swerved back to the path again. He wasn’t even going to stop! ‘Hey!’ she yelled. ‘You just broke my camera.’
‘No, you broke your camera,’ he called back. ‘You were careless and you dropped it.’
A surge of anger pulsed through Freya. ‘I needed that photograph,’ she shouted, charging after him. ‘My deadline is tomorrow.’
She was level with him now, close enough to see the bleakness in his eyes. ‘I have no time for reporters. Get away from me and keep out of these woods.’
‘I’m a historian, you stupid man! I write countryside guides. I wanted an early-morning picture of the ruined cottage for my latest one due in tomorrow.’
He slowed. ‘You’re not a reporter? Not working for one of the evil red-tops?’
‘No. Why are you so angry? You don’t own the Chase.’
A pause. Then, ‘I’m sorry. I overreacted.’
Freya was bewildered. Just like that, he’d become a different person. The anger in his voice had been replaced by defeat. No one should look like that. ‘We all make mistakes,’ she said gruffly, slowing to a walk. And he was right, she should have had the wrist strap on.
‘Don’t we just,’ he muttered. ‘What sort of countryside guides?’
Was he being conciliatory or did he really want to know? ‘Short pamphlets – all the fascinating little bits that I find out when I’m researching for my proper books, but which aren’t suitable for the finished volume. Or sometimes I make condensed tasters to persuade people to buy the big version. I take photographs, draw maps, have the guides printed, and then they go into local shops. I also sell them at talks – history groups, Women’s Institute, and so on.’
‘What kind of titles?’ He was sounding genuinely interested.
‘Anything and everything. My last was a history of Skirlethby Church. Before that it was children’s games in the Eden valley.’
‘And you make a living out of them?’
She didn’t blame him for sounding sceptical. ‘You’d be surprised. It all adds up, especially in a tourist district. I need it, to be honest. The commissions on the big books aren’t what you might call generous.’
‘I might be able to help you with the photo. I need to check first. What’s your phone number?’
She handed him one of her cards.
‘You live in the gate lodge?’
‘I’m renting it. The owners of Lord’s Chase have commissioned me to write a history of the estate, but the cottage photo was for an ongoing Secret Places booklet.’
‘Sounds interesting. I’ll be in touch –’ he checked her card ‘– Freya.’ As he reached to put it in his rucksack, a long white scar on his upper arm and shoulder was briefly visible where his vest gaped. His muscles bunched, ready to resume his run.
‘Wait – what’s your name?’
‘Matt Temple,’ he said as he accelerated away.
Freya made her way out of the forest, her mind full of the encounter. Why had he got so angry so quickly? He’d been quite normal later. She frowned. And why had he been running so hard? He was lean and fit, no need to push himself. And yet there had been a look of focused determination on his face when he’d first come into view.
A stream ran beside the path – probably the reason the old cottages had been built here. She stooped, cupped her hands, and drank. Fast-flowing water was usually safe – and this water tasted wonderful. Matt should have had some, he’d looked hot enough to need it. It occurred to Freya that it had been a long while since she’d thought so much about a living, breathing man rather than a historical figure. Not since Patrick had … her mind shied away. Not since then.
Ex-Lieutenant Matt Temple pounded between the trees, building up his pace. He was upset at being disturbed by Freya, more upset at having leapt to a mistaken conclusion. A too-quick decision again. When would he learn?
At least it was quiet now. He preferred the loneliness of the Chase to companionship. It had unbalanced him when he’d realised he was talking to Freya just as he would have done in the old days. She was interesting. Out of the ordinary. No, that was a dangerous way to think.
He moved faster, pushing himself to get to that post-exhaustion place where nothing mattered but the pain in his limbs and chest. Through running, he earned release – the pain in his lungs and legs took away the pain in his spirit. And, for a whi
le it took away memories. It took him away from people. He didn’t need people.
Back at the lodge, Freya checked her material for Secret Places (6): Eden Valley. This was a popular series. Whether people actually went and found the places in the booklets, she didn’t know. Perhaps they just liked to think that they could. She’d have to use yesterday’s photo of the cottage in the text, and the picture she’d previously had in mind for the cover. It was a shame. The ruined cottage would have been so much better. A last read through for any silly mistakes and then it was ready to go in.
Her mobile phone rang. Freya didn’t recognise the caller’s number. ‘Freya Storm,’ she said. ‘Can I help you?’
A woman’s voice, brusque. ‘Other way around, I think. My name’s Nicola Larson. Matt Temple tells me you need an early-morning photo taken in the Lord’s Chase forest. We’ll pick you up at half past five. You bring the coffee.’
‘I – thank you, but –’
‘And I’ll want to see examples of your guides for style.’
The phone went dead. Freya stared at it in astonishment. She jumped when it rang again in her hand. It was the same number as before. ‘Hello,’ she said warily.
‘Freya, it’s Matt. Nicola forgot to ask whether the main gates to the Lord’s Chase would be open.’
‘I’ve got a pass card. This is going to sound very ungrateful, but your friend Nicola has got a good camera, hasn’t she? It’s for the front cover, you see.’
Amusement rippled through Matt’s voice. ‘Don’t worry about that. More to the point is have you got good coffee?’
‘Jamaica Blue. Indulgent, but I like it.’
He repeated this aloud. Freya heard a woman’s voice give a short reply. ‘Nic says Jamaica Blue isn’t an indulgence, it’s a necessity of life. See you tomorrow, Freya.’
For the second time, the phone went dead. Freya put it on the desk. Why had Matt been so amused at her question? She typed ‘Nicola Larson’ into Google …
When Freya opened the front door next morning, Matt stood on the step and a Land Rover was parked outside with its engine running. A woman was in the passenger seat. ‘You don’t want to come in first, then?’ she asked.
‘We’d prefer not to. Nic’s recovering from an abdominal operation so she doesn’t want to be out too long.’
Nicola Larson was an interesting looking woman. Probably in her fifties: but she moved her hands swiftly and decisively like someone much younger. She was dressed in well-used outdoor clothes and had a bush hat pulled tight on her head. There was an air about her that said this was not a woman to be messed with.
‘This is very kind of you,’ said Freya as she clambered into the back seat. ‘I’ve got samples of the guidebooks for you.’ She passed across the most recent four.
‘Thank you.’ Nicola leafed through, studying the pictures intently. ‘You’ve got a good eye. Have you had professional training?’
‘A ten-week evening course at a local college called “Making Pictures Work for You”.’
‘You evidently learn fast.’
‘Pass card?’ asked Matt.
Freya gave it to him and the gates slowly opened. He and Nicola seemed easy in each other’s company. She wondered what the relationship was. ‘I looked you up,’ she said abruptly to Nicola. ‘You’re a war photographer. You’ve been in Iraq and Afghanistan. Is this photo going to cost me much?’
‘Did the article also say that my husband was killed out there? This is a favour for Matt. He and Guy were in the same unit. We’ve been keeping each other sane.’
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’ Freya was horrified at her lack of tact.
‘It’s life. Who is doing the photos for your Lord’s Chase history? I could do with a nice commission.’
It was an education being in the Chase with Nicola. She walked silently, carefully, her eyes flicking from a sparrowhawk high in the sky to the slotted spoor of a deer in the mud, pointing out half a dozen things that Freya had missed.
‘That’s astonishing,’ said Freya. ‘How do you see so much in just a glance?’
‘When every movement could be a man carrying a gun, it tends to focus the mind,’ she said, grinning. Matt helped her over the tree. ‘Is this the view you want? I can see what you mean. With the sun behind us, it’ll be a great picture. Like I said, you’ve got the eye.’
There was a rapid clicking as Nicola took the vast number of shots that professional photographers always seemed to feel necessary.
‘Thank you,’ said Freya when they’d finished. ‘It will be way better than mine would have been. Is it possible for me to have a digital version please, to send to the printer?’
‘Sure.’ The older woman suddenly looked a little grey and held her hand to her stomach. ‘If Matt drops me off first I can email it to you by the time you get home.’
Freya’s eyes widened as Matt made a tetchy sound in his throat and scooped the older woman up in his arms. ‘I was worried this might be too much for you,’ he said as he carried her back towards where they’d left the Land Rover.
‘Says the man who never listens to medical advice,’ retorted Nicola.
Freya hurried after them, desperately curious. How to square this irritable care with his surge of anger yesterday?
Nicola refused to be fussed over, so Matt simply saw her in before running Freya home.
‘Thank you again,’ she said. She saw the pamphlets on the front seat. ‘Will Nicola still want these?’
‘I’ll ask.’ He turned them over in his hands. ‘Why Skirlethby church, particularly?’
‘It’s my home village. I could write the guide standing on my head. So when the car needed emergency surgery, it was a quick cash injection. I didn’t even have to go over there – I had the photos already.’
His eyes sharpened. ‘That’s only five miles away. Why are you paying rent on the lodge, if you’re so hard up?’
For a moment Freya felt as if she’d stepped into quicksand. She heard her own heart beat. ‘I – I – I can’t live at home at the moment.’
‘Sorry, ignore me. You don’t have to explain.’
‘It’s not a secret,’ she said slowly. ‘My long-term boyfriend broke it to me earlier this year that he was moving in down the road with someone else. I just – couldn’t take the looks, you know? And the supportive voices. And the pity.’
‘With you there,’ said Matt, almost inaudibly.
‘So when this job came up, I grabbed it.’
‘How long-term had it been?’
‘Since we were at school. We survived university, me being away on research trips, him being away on contracts … Patrick said it had simply gone on for too long.’
‘What a prat. How can it be too long if you love someone? Nic and Guy were married for thirty years – she misses him every day and loves him still.’
Freya swallowed. This was too painful. ‘He said there were no sparks any more. I do wish him and Lucy well – I just can’t cope with my friends right now. Not until after the wedding.’
The emailed photograph arrived and was perfect. Freya rang Nicola to thank her and ask how she was.
‘Easier now. I’m not supposed to walk too much – or to drive at all.’ She chuckled. ‘Or carry shopping, or wield a vacuum cleaner, so I’m keeping Matt beautifully busy.’
Freya moistened her lips. ‘Is that important?’ she asked.
Nicola’s tone flattened. ‘Two years ago Matt was a front-line soldier in Afghanistan. His platoon was ambushed, most of his men killed. He was badly injured but got a medal for rescuing three of them under fire. The papers called him a hero and kept following him. Matt hated it because he still thinks the massacre was due to a mistake on his part. His brain was hurt worse than his body. He’s suffering from PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder. He pushes himself physically to calm himself mentally. He doesn’t want to meet or see anyone. And he really hates psychiatrists.’
‘Oh, how dreadful. The poor man.’ Freya felt appalled tha
t such torture was going on in Matt’s mind. Then she remembered something. ‘You said your husband had died out there. He wasn’t …?’
Nicola gave a short laugh. ‘No. That was later. I returned here just when Matt was discharged from hospital. Guy had been worried about him. I was too. So I offered him a home for as long as it took.’
Freya delivered her guide and settled down to rough out another section of the Lord’s Chase history. The mansion had been used as a military hospital in both the first and second world wars. Hopefully she’d be able to trace some descendents of injured servicemen with stories or old photographs.
She was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Matt, grim faced. ‘You left your pass card for the gates in my car,’ he said. ‘And Nic says she doesn’t use this camera any more, so you can have it. It’s old, but a fairly simple digital.’
‘That’s wonderful! I must thank her. I – I should tell you that she told me your story.’
‘I know,’ growled Matt. ‘We’ve had words. I don’t want to talk about it – and I don’t want any interference.’
‘No danger of that from me!’ Freya was hurt. She’d come as close to emptying her heart to him over Patrick as she had to anyone, and she’d thought it had been understood between them that they were both loners, shying away from contact and ‘help’.
For the next couple of days she only saw him in the distance, pounding along as if trying to force himself into exhaustion. Despite being cross still, she ached for the pain inside him. But she’d resolved not to interfere and she had plenty of work on hand to distract her. Which is why it was particularly annoying on Thursday morning to turn the key in her ignition and be met with a complete lack of firing engine.
Matt was waiting to take Nic to hospital for a regular check up when the phone rang.
An agitated voice sounded in his ear. ‘This is Freya Storm. Look, I’m really sorry to bother you but I’ve got a couple of interviews set up for this morning and my wretched car’s died. I suppose you couldn’t possibly give me a lift?’
‘I can’t, sorry. I’m taking Nic to the hospital in town.’
Holiday Fling Page 3