On the news at night there were photographs of parched dry fields and parks, of empty streams, and city streets with melting tarmac, and hard blue skies.
A small plopping sound from the stream caused her to open her eyes and focus on the fish jumping out of the water to catch flies. It was a fair-sized trout, and the sight of it made her smile, remembering childhood fishing trips with her father and brother.
Her parents were in Canada now, visiting John and Heather and their twin sons…which was why Sally’s invitation had been such a godsend.
Sarah had always got on well with her cousin. Sally was her senior by three years and there had always been a bond between them. She had been chief bridesmaid at Sally and Ross’s wedding two years ago, although it had been over a year since she had last seen them.
The shock Sally had tried to hide when she had met her from the train had been quickly followed by her cousin’s verbally expressed concern over her loss of weight and the tension dulling her skin and her eyes.
When she had first arrived no one seeing them together would ever have believed that she was the younger, Sarah acknowledged, but now, as she gave in to her body’s demand for rest and relaxation and tried to put aside her mental and emotional guilt at being so self-indulgent, she was slowly starting to regain some of the weight she had lost so that her five-foot frame looked more slender than gaunt, and her skin had begun to lose its city pallor and strain. That was the trouble with being a redhead: at times of emotional, physical or mental upset one’s skin did tend to reflect those stresses and become so pale in contrast to one’s hair that the effect was over-dramatic.
How the days she had spent outside had given her a warm peachy glow, and Ross had jokingly remarked over dinner the previous night, and Sally had commented as she was coming out this morning, that she was once again starting to look like the stunning sexy redhead who had generated so much male curiosity and comment at the wedding.
Sarah had pulled a face and grimaced at her. She personally would never have described herself as either sexy or stunning. She moved, trying not to recall the problems she had had when she had first entered teaching and some of her male colleagues, and even the older male pupils, had refused to take her seriously because of her looks. It was the combination of red hair and startlingly intense green eyes, plus the high cheekbones and pointed chin she had inherited from her mother, that was responsible for the unintentional sensuality of her looks.
In her teens those looks had caused her endless problems, often antagonising her own sex and making it difficult for her to make friends, and equally often leading the boys she met to assume that she was far more sexually aware and adventurous than was actually the case.
At university she had found that the best way to deal with the problem was to adopt a firm no-nonsense manner in such direct contrast to her looks that it immediately made it obvious that she was at university for the serious business of studying and obtaining her degree and not to have a good time.
By the time she had left university and started her first job she had learned to tuck her long hair into a neat chignon, and to play down her facial features by wearing only a minimum of makeup. She always chose sensible, sturdy clothes, suppressing her own unruly and dangerous urge to wear something more feminine and appealing.
Sally had grimaced with distaste when she had met her from the train, immediately condemning the beige shirtwaister dress she was wearing as unbelievably frumpy and sexless.
Sarah had started to point out that, as a teacher, the last thing she wanted was to be regarded as sexually provocative, but she had been too exhausted, too drained, to bother. Just as she had been unable to find the energy to resist when Sally had dragged her off to Ludlow and ruthlessly insisted on replacing almost everything in the sparse wardrobe she had brought with her.
Which was why today she was dressed in a skimpy halter-necked white top and a pair of cut-off denim jeans, her bare feet thrust into a pair of trainers, her hair caught up on top of her head in an untidy pony-tail to keep it off the back of her neck.
This heatwave was so enervating. It was an effort to think, never mind to move, or was it more because she was so exhausted that it seemed so much simpler to let others direct the course of her life, to simply give in and let herself go with the flow?
Behind her, upstream, a small creature disturbed by the passage of someone along the path made a noise that set the birds off in sharp shrill cries of warning.
Immediately Sarah felt her own muscles tense in response. This path was so quiet that she had almost begun to think of it as her own private retreat. As she drew herself further into the protection of the willow’s overhanging branches she hoped that whoever was coming towards her would walk past her without stopping to chat.
It was a new experience for her, this reluctance to involve herself with anyone. A result, perhaps, of the lecture she had received from her superiors when they had warned her that her over-involvement with her pupils was detrimental to her career.
She closed her eyes, determinedly blotting out the sound of someone approaching her hiding-place, but it was impossible to ignore the timid and very youthful voice that said uncertainly and very anxiously, ‘Excuse me, but is this the right way to Ludlow?’
Unwillingly she opened her eyes.
A child…a boy, no more than six years old at most, was standing watching her. He was fair-haired and blue-eyed, a little too thin for his age and with an anxiety about him that her senses quickly registered and recognised.
Even while she was telling herself that, whoever he was and whatever he was doing here all on his own on this remote country footpath, it was nothing to do with her, and that all she had to do was to answer his question and set him on his way, another part of her, that compassionate, caring, womanly part of her that had already caused her so many problems was wondering who he was, and why he was here, so very, very much alone, and so very, very young.
As she sat up and studied him she fibbed, ‘I don’t really know, but I’ve got a map somewhere here with me…if you’d like to come and sit down for a moment I’ll have a look at it.’
That was true at any rate, she did have a map, and she also had the very generous lunch that Mrs Beattie, Sally’s wonderful daily, had packed up for her that morning.
Reluctantly the child took a step towards her, looking backwards over his shoulder as he did so. Now there was fear in his eyes as well as tension.
What was he running away from? Sarah wondered as she deliberately, very slowly opened the rucksack beside her, and equally deliberately, with nonchalant casualness, removed a can of soft drink and some sandwiches. The child was betraying his youth by his very lack of preparation for his odyssey. His clothes, too, seemed to have been chosen without much regard for their practicality—a pair of heavy jeans, a T-shirt, and on his feet what looked like a pair of baseball boots. The jeans were far too hot and heavy for this weather and they were also too big for him. His T-shirt and his boots, though, were obviously expensive, which ruled out the jeans having been bought with extra growing-room…which seemed to suggest that whoever had bought them had not really been sure of his size.
A tiny frown touched her forehead as Sarah deliberately took her time over extricating the map from the rucksack.
Pretending to be unaware of his tension and the anxious way he kept on looking back in the direction he had just come, she patted the ground beside her, and said easily, ‘Come and sit down. I’m afraid I’m not very good with maps, so it may take me quite a while to find
