Run, Mummy, Run by Cathy Glass Page B

fitted so perfectly and completely into her life, it was as though he had always been there.
    ‘Your house must look beautiful at Christmas,’ Mark said, brushing off the dirt from yet another find. ‘I confess, I haven’t put up decorations in recent years, there didn’t seem much point.’
    ‘And is there one now?’ Aisha teased, sure of his response.
    ‘Oh, without doubt. But I’m glad I’m coming to your house just the same. It will be a proper family Christmas. My first in ages.’
    He put his arm around her shoulders, and drawing her to him, kissed her lightly on the cheek. He often did this – in the street, out shopping, meeting her from work, and when they were alone. It was a little statement of affection that said they were together, a couple, and she was his.
    ‘Our Christmases are very quiet,’ Aisha said, glancing up, a little concerned. ‘I hope it’s not too quiet for you. There’s just my parents and a few friends who drop by. I’ll make sure we have some decent wine in for you though. No one else drinks.’
    Mark laughed good-humouredly and gently squeezed her shoulder. ‘Never mind the wine. I’ll be with you, that’s what counts. It will be my best Christmas ever, decent wine or not.’
    He dropped his arm from her shoulders as they left the edge of the field, and then climbed over the stile into the wood. Mark led the way along the narrow, untrodden path, for only he knew where they were going. It had been his suggestion that they came here, when Aisha had told him of her proposed outing, and had asked him if he would like to join her.
    ‘I know just the place,’ he said, matching her enthusiasm. ‘Plenty of pine trees and very few people. It’s quite a walk as I remember, you can only take the car so far. It’s well off the beaten track.’
    Aisha said she didn’t mind a walk, in fact she enjoyed one. And going somewhere different would make it all the more exciting, particularly as this year it was with him.
    ‘Now if I’m right,’ Mark called over his shoulder as they continued in single file, ‘there’s a stream just up here. My brother and I used to play there for hours as boys. He fell in once and I got a right bollocking, being the eldest.’
    ‘Don’t worry, I won’t fall in,’ she laughed.
    ‘Good. I don’t want a telling-off from your mother. I’m still trying to impress her.’
    Further up, the trees thinned out and a makeshift wooden bridge appeared. ‘I was right!’ Mark cried, stopping. ‘It hasn’t changed at all in all these years! Now, do be careful and use the rail. I’ll go first; if it takes my weight, it will certainly take yours.’
    Aisha waited as Mark took hold of the gnarled branch that acted as a handrail and tentatively tested the planks of wood with his foot, then started gingerly across. ‘It’s OK,’ he called. ‘But mind how you go.’
    She followed, running her hand along the rough wooden rail. She looked down into the small gully only a few feet below and saw the trickle of a stream running at the bottom. Even if the bridge were to give way, she thought, and they fell in, they wouldn’t do themselves much damage. They were like children really, alone in the countryside and imagining an awfully big adventure.
    ‘Your brother couldn’t have got very wet falling in that,’ she called, laughing.
    ‘No, it’s deeper further up. I’ll show you in a moment.’
    On the other side of the bridge, the bank rose sharply and was heavily overgrown. Thick, brown, waist-height briars protruded menacingly from the undergrowth. Mark went ahead, forging a path, holding back the vines so they didn’t spring up and scratch her. It cleared again at the top and Aisha heard the sudden rush of water, unseen and close by. Mark took her arm and led her slowly to the edge of the clearing and they looked down. She gasped in awe and steadied herself against him, for what had been a trickle of a stream beneath the bridge was now a rushing waterfall