A Winter’s Tale by Trisha Ashley

exterior of the VW was painted in time-faded psychedelic flowers, just as it was when my mother drove it, but I had made the interior over to my own tastes. Now, it was more like an old-fashioned gypsy caravan than a camper—deep, glowing colours, brightened with lace and patchwork and painted tables, ingenious shelves and cupboards, all sparklingly clean and smelling of roses.
There was a place in it for every item that was essential to me, so I felt as reassured as a snail in its shell once I was driving down to Lancashire, even though I was nervous about actually arriving .
But after all, if I got cold feet, I could always just get in my van and vanish again, couldn’t I? Though come to think of it, that’s what my mother always did, and that’s really not a pattern I want to repeat.
It’s a long way from Northumberland to west Lancashire, especially when you don’t drive at much more than forty miles an hour, and since my heater wasn’t working very well my fingers were frozen to the wheel most of the time. But the autumn colours were very pretty coming over the Pennines, and I noticed that, as I dropped back down towards Brough, all the bushes were covered with scarletberries—supposed to be a sure sign of a hard winter to follow.
I made one overnight stop soon after that, near a village with a wonderful bakery, and then set out early next morning on the final leg.
It was just as well that Mr Hobbs had given me directions to Winter’s End, for I was lost as soon as I took the Ormskirk turn off the motorway and then drove into a maze of small, hedged lanes. And although as I reached the large village of Sticklepond everything looked vaguely familiar (except that the general shop had turned into a Spar and the village school into a house), I don’t think I would have easily found the right narrow road leading off the green.
I paused to consult the Post-it note I’d attached to the dashboard: ‘Half a mile up Neat’s Bank take the first right turn into a private road, by the white sign to Winter’s End. Fifty yards along it, you will see a car park on your left and the main entrance gates to your right…’
The tarmacked road had a ridge of grass growing up the middle and the walls seemed to be closing in on me. Surely they couldn’t get coaches up there?
I slowed right down and, sure enough, here was the sign and an arrow—but set back into a sort of clipped niche in the hedge so as to be almost invisible unless you were opposite it. I’d overshot a bit, so I reversed slightly and started to turn—then slammed the brakes on to avoid the tall man who leaped athletically down from the bank right in front of me and then stood there, blocking my way.
The engine stalled, and while we stared at each other through the windscreen a bird dropped a long series of sweet, high notes like smooth pebbles into the pool of silence.
The tall man had eyes the cool green of good jade, deeply set in a bony, tanned face with a cleft chin, a straight noseand an uncompromising mouth. His floppy, raven-black hair looked as if he’d impatiently pushed it straight back from his face with both hands and his brows were drawn together in a fierce scowl.
If he wasn’t exactly handsome he was certainly striking, and I had a nagging feeling that I’d seen him somewhere before… especially that scowl. A warning dream perhaps, half-forgotten?
Since he showed no sign of moving I reluctantly wound down the side window and, leaning out, said politely, ‘Excuse me, do you think you could let me past?’
‘No way,’ he said belligerently, folding his arms across a broad chest clad in disintegrating layers of jumpers, each hole showing a tantalising glimpse of the other strata beneath. ‘And you can go right back and tell the rest of them that they’re not welcome here. This is private property.’
‘The rest of them? Who?’ I asked, tearing my eyes away from counting woolly layers with some difficulty.
‘The other New-Age