that doesn’t quite add up. Would they? Was there a clue?’
And looking back, with the benefit of hindsight, she could see that there might have been: one clue, one crack in the otherwise unblemished china. A fine line of repair where the glue had been applied too liberally, and had set prominent over the join. So had she been more worldly-wise, she might have looked more closely, and then asked how it had been broken in the first place. But the clue, if it was one, came immediately before Mark proposed, and you don’t question the man who’s just asked you to marry him. Of course you don’t, not if you’re as much in love as Aisha was.
Chapter Eight
It was a clear, cold day in late October, when the autumn sun shone through the trees and sent little shafts of sunlight onto the hard earth. Hand in hand, Aisha and Mark made their way along the edge of the field, stopping every so often to pick up pine cones. They examined them, discarded the mildewed ones and, keeping only the best, dropped them into the carrier bag that swung from Aisha’s arm. A little childish rivalry had developed between them, a competition to see who could discover the biggest, the most perfect pine cone: the one that would be used in the centrepiece on their dinner table on Christmas Day.
Aisha had collected pine cones every year for as long as she could remember, spending an afternoon foraging in the countryside with her parents. Once they had collected enough cones, they would return home for her mother’s piping hot dhal, which she’d prepared the night before and said would ‘warm their bones’. After they’d eaten, Aisha would carefully wash the pine cones and spread them on newspaper to dry in the airing cupboard. Once dry, they were put away until December, when she painted them silver and gold, and used them as Christmas decorations, fresh ones every year.
Only this year, Aisha wasn’t doing it with her parents. She was doing it with Mark, who had 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 in a steep and narrow gully.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she cried. ‘Absolutely beautiful! And to think I’ve lived not far from here all these years and didn’t know it existed.’
‘Not many people do,’ he said. ‘Which is why it’s remained so unspoiled.’
She stood beside him, gazing down into the clear pure water as it crashed between the narrow banks before bouncing into a whirlpool and disappearing underground. It looked so fresh and pure she could almost taste the droplets rising in the fine spray. The steady hypnotic flow was so constant and unfaltering it seemed as if there was no movement at all.
‘My brother and I used to make little boats out of sticks and leaves,’ Mark said, after a moment. ‘We would drop them here, at the top, and see whose survived the longest. It kept us amused for hours.’
‘And who won?’ Aisha asked, happy at the shared memory.
‘Me, of course,’ he laughed. ‘I was the eldest. It had to be me!’
Mark bent down and picked up a large leaf and, curling up the edges so it looked like a small boat, dropped it into the torrent. Aisha linked his arm and they watched together as the makeshift boat rose high on the current of spray, twisting and turning, holding its own, before being sucked into the water and disappearing into the whirlpool at the bottom.
‘Oh well, you can’t win them all,’ he shrugged, straightening.
Aisha continued looking down, gazing into the swirling pool and hoping against the odds that their little boat might yet reappear. But there was no sign
