Perhaps you do. But that option isn’t open to me.
* * *
As Guy strode out of the pub, the sun sneaked out of hiding. He followed the steep and narrow road by the side of the building. Beyond the fell gate, the road became a rough cart track, running alongside the deep gill of Church Beck. Rain had swelled the stream and below the old stone miners’ bridge the crash of the waterfall was louder than he remembered. Light skipped on the cascade.
The sun scurried back behind a dark cloud as he surveyed the broad plain. How bleak was his valley. Heaps of spoil from the quarries reared up beyond the trickling stream. On the right, a row of old labourers’ cottages; above them the red-grey Yewdale Fells. The whitewashed buildings, once occupied by officials of the mining companies, were now given up to a hostel and a centre for mountaineers. Ahead, the fells towered above patches of wilderness. Their names drifted back to mind. Raven Tor, on the left, and further on, splitting two troughs of land, Kernal Crag and Tongue Brow.
Men had quarried here since Roman times and the fell-sides bore the wounds to prove it. Coppermines Valley fascinated him, every pockmarked inch. He imagined explosions echoing around the fells when gunpowder blasted a fresh tunnel or shot-hole. Megan had complained he was superficial, thinking of his taste for little luxuries, but she was mistaken, as usual. He liked to look beneath the surface of things, every now and then. He’d trade a dozen pretty Buttermeres, a score of jam-packed Amblesides, for the moody desolation of this acned valley.
Even on a February afternoon, a few diehard walkers were out and about. Not wanting company, he zigzagged away from recognised pathways and through the bracken. His boots struck a fragment of rusty track on which mine wagons once trundled and he stopped to rub his aching calves. Christ, he was out of condition. Once he’d roamed the fells for hours without so much as tweaking a muscle. How many times had he scrambled over these ice-smoothed rocks and the scree, clambering along the hidden trails leading to the blackness of Levens Water?
Blobs of rain spattered his jacket. He stumbled on the slippery ground and realised he was out of practice at drinking strong beer. His throat was sore, his head buzzing. It had drizzled that afternoon ten years ago. He could see the stone cairn where he had met Emma Bestwick for the one and only time.
In his mind, he pictured her, a tall, solidly built woman encased in a wax jacket. Fine strands of hair escaped from her hood; in other circumstances he might have caressed them. The long pull up the old track had left her short of breath and she didn’t speak when he apologised for bringing her out on such a miserable day. Until he saw her approaching, he’d feared she wouldn’t come. She was taking a risk, meeting a man she didn’t know in such a quiet spot. Nobody else was in sight. Perhaps beneath the quiet exterior she had a wild and reckless streak. Of course she understood his insistence on secrecy. When he offered his hand, she didn’t respond,but her tense half-smile never flickered as he explained what he believed she ought, in all conscience, to do. For five minutes he convinced himself that he could persuade her to change her mind and make everything all right.
‘Sorry.’
Her voice was as sharp as a shard of glass. He’d miscalculated, this woman was determined not to compromise. She was immune to reason, let alone charm. He’d taken such pains to be sympathetic. OK, there was something in it for him, but he wasn’t simply doing this for his own selfish ends. For once in his life he was playing the Good Samaritan and repaying past kindness. She ought to meet him half way, surely that wasn’t too much to ask?
‘But if …’
‘I promised to listen, it was the least I could do. But I’ve made my decision. There’s no going back.’
‘If you’ll only …’
‘No more, please. Arguing will only
* * *
As Guy strode out of the pub, the sun sneaked out of hiding. He followed the steep and narrow road by the side of the building. Beyond the fell gate, the road became a rough cart track, running alongside the deep gill of Church Beck. Rain had swelled the stream and below the old stone miners’ bridge the crash of the waterfall was louder than he remembered. Light skipped on the cascade.
The sun scurried back behind a dark cloud as he surveyed the broad plain. How bleak was his valley. Heaps of spoil from the quarries reared up beyond the trickling stream. On the right, a row of old labourers’ cottages; above them the red-grey Yewdale Fells. The whitewashed buildings, once occupied by officials of the mining companies, were now given up to a hostel and a centre for mountaineers. Ahead, the fells towered above patches of wilderness. Their names drifted back to mind. Raven Tor, on the left, and further on, splitting two troughs of land, Kernal Crag and Tongue Brow.
Men had quarried here since Roman times and the fell-sides bore the wounds to prove it. Coppermines Valley fascinated him, every pockmarked inch. He imagined explosions echoing around the fells when gunpowder blasted a fresh tunnel or shot-hole. Megan had complained he was superficial, thinking of his taste for little luxuries, but she was mistaken, as usual. He liked to look beneath the surface of things, every now and then. He’d trade a dozen pretty Buttermeres, a score of jam-packed Amblesides, for the moody desolation of this acned valley.
Even on a February afternoon, a few diehard walkers were out and about. Not wanting company, he zigzagged away from recognised pathways and through the bracken. His boots struck a fragment of rusty track on which mine wagons once trundled and he stopped to rub his aching calves. Christ, he was out of condition. Once he’d roamed the fells for hours without so much as tweaking a muscle. How many times had he scrambled over these ice-smoothed rocks and the scree, clambering along the hidden trails leading to the blackness of Levens Water?
Blobs of rain spattered his jacket. He stumbled on the slippery ground and realised he was out of practice at drinking strong beer. His throat was sore, his head buzzing. It had drizzled that afternoon ten years ago. He could see the stone cairn where he had met Emma Bestwick for the one and only time.
In his mind, he pictured her, a tall, solidly built woman encased in a wax jacket. Fine strands of hair escaped from her hood; in other circumstances he might have caressed them. The long pull up the old track had left her short of breath and she didn’t speak when he apologised for bringing her out on such a miserable day. Until he saw her approaching, he’d feared she wouldn’t come. She was taking a risk, meeting a man she didn’t know in such a quiet spot. Nobody else was in sight. Perhaps beneath the quiet exterior she had a wild and reckless streak. Of course she understood his insistence on secrecy. When he offered his hand, she didn’t respond,but her tense half-smile never flickered as he explained what he believed she ought, in all conscience, to do. For five minutes he convinced himself that he could persuade her to change her mind and make everything all right.
‘Sorry.’
Her voice was as sharp as a shard of glass. He’d miscalculated, this woman was determined not to compromise. She was immune to reason, let alone charm. He’d taken such pains to be sympathetic. OK, there was something in it for him, but he wasn’t simply doing this for his own selfish ends. For once in his life he was playing the Good Samaritan and repaying past kindness. She ought to meet him half way, surely that wasn’t too much to ask?
‘But if …’
‘I promised to listen, it was the least I could do. But I’ve made my decision. There’s no going back.’
‘If you’ll only …’
‘No more, please. Arguing will only
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