I did not wake again until Norah came in with my early-morning tea, and as she drew back the curtains the sunlight streamed into the room. She turned to me with a smile. ‘It’s a beautiful day, my lady.’ I smiled back, drowsy from the comfort of a good night’s sleep. ‘Such nice weather for your day out with your friend.’ My friend? Of course, I was going out today – I was going to walk on the breezy hills with Ben Holden. Not a friend, exactly – more a comrade – yes, that was the word; we had been comrades together. Ben would escort me, steady and patient and undemanding, and Emmie, cheerful Emmie – how lucky it was a Saturday, she would be able to come with us too. And I would listen gladly to their strong accents and clumsy grammar and occasional dropped aitches: I had had enough of clever, sophisticated people who tied my tongue in knots – and humiliated me. And when I got back to Hatton this evening Rory and his painted mistress would be gone.
I thrust the thought of them away and ordered, ‘My tweeds, please, Norah. I shall be going walking. And just bring me a tray with toast after you’ve run my bath – that’s all I need.’
But when I came back from the bathroom the sun was still shining and my tweeds looked sober and dull. I would dress up more smartly today. I sat planning my costume as I ate my toast, and it was good to be thinking of something frivolous again. I became almost excited, like a young girl once more – just like Emmie must be in Clegg Street at this very moment, thinking of her afternoon with her beau. I laughed, and said to her in my mind, ‘Emmie, you must share your beau with me today!’ Emmie was loving and generous; she would not mind, just for today. Between us we would make Ben proud to be our escort, because Emmie would have fine clothes to wear too – Letty’s clothes. How lucky that my sister had ‘rationalized’ her wardrobe in Paris: Emmie’s plump figure would never have been able to squeeze into any of my old frocks. And thinking of what Letty had bought in Paris reminded me – if I wanted to be truly frivolous today then there were those absurd garments she had brought back for me to wear. I felt a little spurt of rivalry with Emmie – Emmie who was so young and who saw me as a woman past thirty. I would show her: in one of Letty’s flimsy chemises no one could class me as middle-aged!
I found them tucked into the back of my underwear drawer, and my hand touched the pink one first, so I picked it up and shook it out and felt very daring as I dropped my nightgown and wrap to the floor and slipped the smooth satin over my bare breasts. I buttoned up the narrow flap but the satin strip swung so loose and low that the soft damp warmth between my thighs was free and open. I stepped back, and as I moved, the satin lightly brushed my skin, and then fell away again. Excitement rippled through me – I would be a Parisienne today. Recklessly I reached for the black lace garters and pushed my suspender belt to the back of the drawer – and the touch of it reminded me of Conan; it was Conan whose skilful hands had removed my last corset – I had never worn one again since that night in his rooms. The hot blood flowed into my cheeks and I was giddy with the memory of his lean male face above mine, of his warm lips and probing, darting tongue. My whole body flushed hot and heavy in longing for him – then there was a tap at the door; it was Norah, come back to do my hair. I called hastily that I was not ready yet, and pulled the sheer silk stockings up my legs and slipped the black lace garters on to hold them in place. I did not want my maid to see me in my scanty underwear so I ran to the wardrobe and took out the costume I had decided on: a dark brown cashmere dress with a matching jacket trimmed with tan – it would go with my tan calf brogues. I did not really like wearing brogues, but I supposed I would have to today, and being my brogues they were lightweight leather, with a definite heel. I would look smart, even if we were only walking ‘on tops’.
I went to my dressing table and sat down and called Norah in. While the curling tongs were heating up she put away my discarded tweeds, then with deft fingers combed and coiled and teased out my fine hair until it was soft and full around my face. Finally she gently positioned a small tan toque far back on my head, and I was ready.
‘You look lovely, my lady – I do hope you enjoy your day out. Are you going far?’
‘Thank you, Norah. Not too far – only to Ainsclough.’ But as I spoke that name the memories came crowding in on me: I remembered the concert before the war – and my brothers, so young and carefree – and my singing, singing of Gerald’s love. I battled with the memories, and forced them back into their cage – for this one day I would escape. But the face that looked back at me from under its fine hairstyle and smart hat was shadowed and drawn – Emmie was right, I was young no longer. I felt suddenly very foolish in my black lace garters and scanty Parisian underwear – but there was no time to change, the car was at the door, and besides, no one would ever know that I was wearing it.
As I sat on the train to Manchester I told myself again that for this one day I would escape, and live only in the present. I caught my connection easily at Victoria, and relaxed in my seat as we rattled northwards – but at the great yellow-brick cavern of Bolton the memories attacked me again, and I had to suppress them ruthlessly to prevent weeping at the memory of the mother with her child, on that terrible morning – but no, I would not remember. I forced myself to stare out of the window and study the high square mills with their towering chimneys, the grimy gasworks, and the crowded rows of soot- blackened terraces.
It became easier as we ran into open country, because these were not the lush green pastures of Cheshire – this was a different landscape, with its rough tussocky fields and low grey walls. The wayside stations were built of square-hewn stone now and they looked like nursery toys. Far below me a wide sheet of water shone in the sunlight as the train clattered on, ducking under small stone bridges and panting up the steady climb into the hills.
Soon I would be walking on those hills with Ben and Emmie – bright sweet Emmie with her bubbling voice that dropped from time to time into words quite unfamiliar to my ear. She would amuse Ben and leave me free to be quiet – but then I thought, it does not matter anyway, Ben does not expect me to entertain him – I can speak or not as I choose. While for Emmie my presence is enough – to her I was a heroine – ‘He said as you saved his life!’ – and I wanted that simple uncomplicated admiration today: I needed it.
I watched the grubby sheep feeding in the fields, and saw how the trees had bent before the wind, and noticed the way the small stone cottages took shelter in the hollows of the hills. I too would take refuge in these hills today, and escape for a little while. Suddenly we ran into a tunnel and as I travelled through the dark heart of the hill it seemed as though I were shedding my old life, like a snake shedding its skin. I had left it behind on the other side of the tunnel – I knew inside me that I would have to put it on again when I returned this evening, but for the moment I had escaped and become another person. Who should she be, this new Helena?
And I knew the answer at once – for she was going to meet a man: a sturdy, well-set-up man who was a native of this foreign town, a man who had invited her to spend the day with him. But he was a working man, so she would have to be a working girl – a mill girl from one of those big square buildings in Bolton, a mill girl going on a Saturday afternoon to meet her sweetheart. And then I could be young and silly again and pretend to be in love. And no one would ever know – Ben Holden would never guess – to him I would always be ‘Lady Helena’: but secretly I would play my part. I would pretend that my satin chemise was a petticoat of cheap artificial silk, that my fine cashmere jacket was a knitted woollen shawl, and my shoes – I held out my foot, shod in its expensive leather – why, I would walk as though I were wearing Emmie’s best black-buttoned boots. And as I imagined my different self we came out of the tunnel into a deep rugged cutting, and I looked around and smiled, and shifted my shoulders to get the feel of my new skin.
Now black terraces huddled close to the railway line, crammed into the narrow valley and clinging tightly to the steep sides where the hills rose up. Today I would walk between those small houses, and up those steep streets, hanging on the strong arm of my sweetheart – a man with a good steady job, – on the footplate even – while I, I was only a poor mill girl. I laughed softly to myself as the train slowed down for Ainsclough.
I looked out at the platform eagerly, just as a little mill girl would have done – and he was there, waiting at the barrier. He was talking to the ticket inspector, but all the time his eyes were scanning the carriages, searching for me. I felt a surge of triumph as I saw his smile of satisfaction; I had given no pleasure to anyone these past weeks – but he, he was pleased that I had come today.
I jumped down from the compartment and almost ran to meet him. ‘Good morning, Ben.’
‘Morning, Lady Helena.’
His large hand was warm as I shook it. The sun was shining and I was a new person, in a foreign country, so as I smiled back at him I slipped my hand through his arm. I felt his start of surprise, and laughed a little to myself – he did not know that I was his mill girl sweetheart; he only saw a lady in fine cashmere, but I knew better. We passed through the barrier and on to the ramp sloping away from it, and I held his arm tightly and leant against him as he strode down.
As we came out of the ticket office he suggested a cup of tea. I smiled again, ‘That would be lovely, Ben.’
He looked pleased, but he spoke rather diffidently. ‘I always go to Bert’s, he’s very clean – but there’s tea rooms down t’other end of Blackburn Street, if you’d rather – they’re more classy like.’
I did not want him diffident; a man such as he was would not be hesitant in the company of his little mill girl. ‘Whatever you think best, Ben – you decide.’ And as I spoke I felt myself sway against him.
‘Right, we’ll go to Bert’s.’ I clung to him submissively as we began to walk down the steep street.
He pointed out the library: ‘Opened in 1908, copper dome and all, by Sir Andrew Carnegie ’isself.’ I gazed at the stone building, a pleasant enough design, but rather small and squat in comparison with what I was used to – but I was a mill girl today so I murmured, ‘It’s lovely, Ben,’ and he seemed satisfied.
‘I spend a fair amount of time there when I can – I like reading, ’specially politics and history.’
I knew he did; Robbie had told me. I thrust the memory to the back of my mind and sealed it in – I was a mill girl today. I remembered the other mill girl, the real mill girl, who would take my place when the fairy godmother waved her magic wand – I had borrowed her Prince Charming for the day, but I felt sure she would not mind. As we sat over our cups of tea in the small cafe I asked, ‘Isn’t Emmie coming with us today, Ben?’
He looked surprised. ‘No, Lady Helena – she’s still in weaving shed, hooter don’t go while half one. We’ll be well up on th’edge by then. She were right pleased with them clothes you sent – said I were to thank you again.’ He chuckled. ‘Prinking and preening herself for days, she were, an’ told me I mun take her to Co-op dance.’
‘Did you both enjoy it, Ben?’
‘No, I were lucky – I were booked two o’clock start that Saturday. I’m not a great one for dancing.’
‘Oh, poor Emmie!’
He shrugged. ‘She’s a bonny lass – there’s plenty of others ready to partner her. If you’ve finished your tea we’ll get started – I’ve got a bit of summat here for our dinner, so we’ll not go hungry.’ He hefted his knapsack on to his shoulder and stood up. As he came behind me to pull back my chair I sensed the warmth of his body, and moved towards him – he was so solid and strong. Outside the cafe he held out his arm, confident now that I would take it; compliantly I did so.
My chemise whispered as I walked up the sunlit street – the true unmistakable whisper of silk. I smiled to myself: I was a mill girl with a secret, a Cinderella in reverse – but midnight had yet to come, so I could enjoy my pretence a little longer. We threaded our way through the crowds and came out into a small square. Opposite stood an ornate tram shelter, with a pair of public conveniences under a small dome behind it, and I realized I had not thought to visit the cloakroom while still in Manchester. Normally I would have been embarrassed to make my needs known to this man, but today it was easy. I slid my hand from under his arm and glanced shyly at the green dome, then back at him. He flushed and stood still, and I crossed the square and went up the short path to the open door.
As I came out of the cubicle the woman emerged from her cubbyhole with a clean towel. I washed my hands carefully, then patted my hair in the mirror. My face was flushed and excited, my eyes large and bright – I was prettier as a mill girl. I smiled at my reflection, and smiled again in greeting to the man waiting outside. I reached out for his arm once more and he clamped my hand firmly to his side.
Almost at once the street began to rise steeply. ‘Best hang on to me tight, lass, in your fancy shoes.’ He had called me ‘lass’ – he was playing my game. In response I leant the full weight of my body on to his strong arm. A group of children playing in the street stopped as we passed and nudged each other, staring at us. I smiled to myself; they had not seen through my disguise – they thought I was a fine lady on the arm of a working man – but I knew better, for today.
The last part of the street was so steep I was amazed that houses had been built either side of it – surely the floor of one family’s home would be halfway up the wall of the next? It did look so odd. ‘You’ll have to anchor me, Ben – or I’ll slide right back down again to the bottom.’
‘You’ll not do that, not when I’ve got hold of you. Stand still a minute.’ As I stood still he came round behind me and gripped my elbows so that he could propel me up. ‘Up you go then, lass.’ I leant back a little, teasing, so that he had to use all his strength, and he half-lifted me up the last steep cobbles to the place where the street became a rough track and veered off to the left. He stood behind me, panting, still holding my elbows – and for a moment I swayed back against his broad chest and felt his warm breath tickle my ear. Then he let go of me and came round to take my arm again.
We walked on as the track swung up and round the curve of the hillside, and came to a place where the ground dropped sharply away beneath us. We were above the roofs of the last houses already, and he stopped so that we could look out over the valley. The drifts of smoke from the tall mill chimneys shifted and blurred and I exclaimed, ‘It makes me feel quite dizzy!’ I felt his arm drop mine and come instead quickly round my waist; he pulled me close against him.
I wanted to giggle as we stood there looking down over Ainsclough – we must look just like a pair of lovers! I knew I should break away and put him in his place, but I did not want to – I liked the warm strong male feel of him, it reminded me of someone, then I remembered – it was Conan he reminded me of, my cousin who held me close – but Conan was in China and… My past loomed up and threatened me and I thrust it down and pulled away and cried, ‘Come along, Ben – you’re too slow – you said we’d walk on the tops, and we’re nowhere near the tops yet.’
I began to run ahead and he followed me and came level, panting, and caught up my hand and drew it through his arm again. ‘You’d best hang on to me – track’s a bit rough for them dainty shoes of yours.’
I laughed, for he did not know what I was really wearing – I tried to tell him – ‘I should have borrowed Emmie’s clogs, Ben.’
He turned to smile at me. ‘Dress you in clogs and a shawl and you’d still walk like a duchess!’
I wanted to correct him, to cry out, ‘No, like a marchioness – I should have walked like a marchioness’ – but I bit back the retort – I must not remember, not today – let me at least have today free of memories. And the fresh breeze came up and blew my memory away, and I was a mill girl once more.
The track became steeper and the sun was warm, so he stopped and took off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, then reached out to retrieve my hand. But this time he did not draw it through his arm; instead he clasped it with his warm work-hardened palm, and drew it towards his side. And as he pulled me close to him I caught the sharp tang of his sweat and breathed it in.
Then suddenly we came out of the shelter of the lane and on to the open moor: all about us was high and light and empty. We paused, and I saw a thousand white flowers dancing in the breeze. I tugged him after me to the side of the track and bent down to look more closely – and saw that they were not flowers at all, but soft furry tufts. I picked one and held it soft against my cheek.
He looked down at me and smiled. ‘That’s cotton grass – I always think spring’s come when cotton grass is showing. And look here.’ He squatted down beside me and parted the mat of green leaves. ‘They’re like little fruits, but they’re not, not yet.’
I looked at the small round pink bells. ‘What are they, Ben?’
‘Whinberries – they make a lovely pie. When I was a youngster our mams’d send us out wi’ an old pail apiece to pick ’em. Took ages it did - and we ate as many as we picked. But me old dad were powerful fond of whinberry pie.’ He looked down at the small pink bells in silence for a moment, then he straightened up and pulled me to my feet. A skylark was singing high above us, and he pointed to the black dot it made against the blue sky; we watched it drop and there was silence – then another bird trilled out and we began to walk on, round the brown-green slope of the moor.
The path dropped down, into a sunken, rutted track, and I slowed as I picked my way over the tumbled stones. He eased his pace. ‘Take your time, Lady Helena.’ But when we turned the next corner the track dipped, and water filled it, right up to the earth bank on either side. We stopped and looked at it, and I glanced doubtfully down at my smart leather brogues. ‘Perhaps I could creep round the edge.’
He twisted round to push his jacket under the flap of his pack, then he held his arms out to me. ‘You mun be joking, lass – there’s no edge. No, best idea is for me to carry you over – you don’t weigh owt.’
For a moment I hesitated, then I remembered that I was a mill girl this afternoon and smiled my acceptance. His arm quickly encircled my waist. ‘Put your hand round me neck.’ His broad shoulders swung down as he gripped me firmly behind the knees and I was swinging up into the air; I clung to his shoulders and his eyes were very close to mine – I saw his mouth relax into a smile, then he was looking ahead as he strode forward carrying me easily and confidently over the water. His ear was very close to my eyes – I had never noticed before what well-shaped ears he had, delicately moulded and lying flat against his head. I felt warm and safe and drowsy. From long ago a loved voice told me: ‘Then he picked me up and carried me in, just like a baby.’ And like a baby I dropped my head on to his shoulder and closed my eyes. His boots were no longer splashing through water, his pace began to slow, then he came to a halt. I lay still in his arms. ‘I doubt I can carry you all way over tops.’ His voice was amused.
I opened my eyes; I could see the sheen of sweat on his face, and feel his heart beating against mine. He was breathing heavily. Slowly I began to unclasp my hands as he eased me gently to the ground. As I turned, his hand brushed my thigh; he pulled it back as if he had been stung – then our fingers came together again and we set off, walking side by side.
At the end of the sunken lane we began to climb up over the springy heather. He pulled me up the slope, and then it levelled off and the going became easier. He raised his free hand and pointed. ‘There’s a nice sheltered spot up along here. That’s where we’ll eat our butties.’
‘Our butties? What on earth are “butties”, Ben?’
He glanced round at me. ‘Them’s same as what’ud be called sandwiches, by folks of your class.’
‘Of your class’ – my class, which was so very different from his – because I was not really a mill girl at all. And as a cloud blotted out the bright sunlight I went suddenly cold, and my silly charade blew away with the strong breeze. Whatever was I doing – walking over these rough, alien moors hand in hand with a working man? I who last weekend had been strolling on the smooth green turf of Hatton, hearing the sharp crack of the croquet mallet and listening to the high-pitched, confident voices of my own kind – while above me on the terrace the liveried footmen silently laid out the shining silver tea service.
All at once I was terribly embarrassed, and I tugged hard to free the hand he held. He let me go, but turned to ask, ‘Is owt troubling you, Lady Helena?’
As he spoke he moved closer and to fend him off I replied quickly, ‘I was remembering last weekend, at Hatton – Mother had guests to stay.’
‘Oh. Ah.’ He drew back and I slipped my hand in my pocket; he did not reach for it again. And as he trudged steadily on in silence my embarrassment faded; he had taken my hand merely to help me over the rougher ground – there had been nothing odd in that. Now I could walk more easily, he was keeping his distance, as was right and proper. I stole a glance at his face, and he looked no different from the way he always had done: Ben Holden, my wartime comrade, who expected nothing from me.
My mind drifted back again, to my own world, and I found myself exclaiming bitterly, ‘I don’t like house parties, especially Saturday-to-Mondays. All those smart, clever people – I can never think of anything to say, and then they look at me as if they despise me.’
‘I reckon you say enough for me.’
‘Maybe, but you don’t expect much, do you, Ben?’ There was a pause before he replied. ‘No – happen I don’t.’ After a moment he added, ‘I didn’t think you’d be on train this morning.’
I told him the truth. ‘I came because Mother had guests staying to luncheon – and I couldn’t face them – I had to get away.’
He did not reply at first, then he said, ‘Well, you’re away now. We’re nearly at spot – it’s just over here.’ We came to the lip of a hollow; it was a small quarry, overgrown now, with just a few scattered boulders and a rock wall at one end. ‘Mind how you go.’ He held out his hand to help me, but I pretended not to see it, and he drew it back and clambered a short way down. Then he stopped, and looked back up at me as I picked my way over the loose stones, and I flushed under his intent gaze and lost my footing and almost fell; as I threw out my hand to balance myself he sprang back up and caught it hard in his. ‘You see – you can’t manage without me.’ His eyes looked full into mine and I teetered on my heels, and then swayed towards him. His face was very close now, and his fingers gripped so hard that they hurt. ‘Don’t worry lass, I’ll look after you.’ Then he seized my other hand in his, so that I could not break free, and backed carefully down over the stones, guiding me.
There was a short drop before we reached the bottom and he stopped on the edge of it. ‘I’ll have to jump you down here.’ He let go of my hands and sprang down, then reached up again for me. Obediently I held out my hands to him, but he did not keep them in his; instead he lifted them to his warm neck. ‘Hang on to me, there’s a good lass.’ As I twined my fingers together I felt his own large hands grip my waist inside my jacket, then slide up under my arms and hold me so tightly I could scarcely breathe. For a moment we stood locked together, then he swung me down to the springy turf at the bottom. But as he took his hands away they brushed my breasts and I broke free from him and ran to the rock face and stood with my back pressed against it, watching him.
He did not look at me as he swung his knapsack off his shoulders and set it down on one of the flat rocks. I watched him as he began to roll up his shirtsleeves, and saw the brown shadow of the hairs on his forearms, clear in the bright sunlight. I watched the thin cloth of his waistcoat pull tight over the strong muscles in his back as he bent over the knapsack and began to delve into it. My legs trembled, and my body shivered, and he looked up at me and said, ‘Best sit down in sun, lass, while I unpack.’ He gestured to a boulder fully in the warm sun. ‘That’n ’ll do. Sit yourself down there.’ He did not raise his voice but he was sure and confident, and I resented his power over me even as my unsteady legs obeyed him.
He was a very methodical unpacker. First he unfolded a rug and shook it out on a flat piece of grass near the rock face; next he spread out an old newspaper, and then he began to position each item he took out carefully on it: one knife, two enamel mugs, butter and cheese wrapped in greaseproof, and a loaf of bread. He was just as precise in his movements as the footmen at Hatton. And now I saw my weapon and so I pitched my voice very high and mocking and exclaimed, ‘Why, Ben, you’d make a perfect footman – serving tea on the terrace!’
His face went a dull red and I saw he was angry. He said flatly, ‘It’s not a job as ever appealed to me – I’m a skilled man meself,’ and as he glowered at me I became nervous, and anxious to propitiate him.
I leant forward and said quickly, ‘Oh, don’t take it amiss, Ben. Why, when I was a child I thought the world of our nursery footman – Jem was my hero.’ He still looked at me, his face angry, so I explained to him: ‘That governess – the French governess who locked me up with Mother’s furs – it was Jem who rescued me, and he threw the necktie on the floor and stamped on it, right on its head – and killed it for me.’
He asked slowly, ‘And what happened to this Jem – this footman?’ He stumbled over the last word, as if it hurt him to say it. ‘Is he still at your house?’
I turned my head and looked up to the open moors. ‘He went away, to the South African War – he was a reservist, you see – and he didn’t come back.’ My voice dropped as I remembered Ena, throwing her white apron up over her head as she fell on her knees beside the coal bucket. ‘He died of enteric. Our nursemaid loved him, and she cried and cried.’
He said softly, ‘Poor little lass,’ and for a moment I thought he meant me.
When he had finished laying out his tea table, he sat back on the rug and ordered, ‘Come here, lass, and sit on rug by me.’
Slowly I stood up and came towards him; I was breathing too quickly, as the strength of his body drew me to him – but I made myself sit on the very edge of the rug. But then he said, ‘You’re nearly off rug – come closer.’ And he sat quite still while I very slowly inched towards him, nearer and nearer, until I touched his bare arm. I felt the warmth of him and knew I should move away – but even as my mind told me to do that so my body had moved again, until my shoulder pressed against his. ‘That’s better, lass – we’ll keep each other warm, like.’ But it was already very warm in the bottom of the small quarry, and I could see the sweat glistening on his face. ‘You’re breathing so fast lass, you mun be thirsty – here, see what I’ve got for you.’ He pulled the knapsack to him and reached inside it. I heard the chink of glass and watched as he took out two bottles – one large and dark brown, the other smaller and a pale green. He bent forward and set them on the newspaper beside us. ‘There, you’ve got a choice.’ He flicked the green bottle with his fingertip. ‘This one’s ginger pop – Emmie likes that, she’s not much more’n a babby, see – but here’ – and his hand clasped the neck of the larger brown bottle – ‘I brought some beer – it’s more thirst-quenching like – an’ I reckoned with you being a grown woman, you might fancy a try of it. But if you want the babby’s drink –’
And his blue-grey eyes dared me, so that I reached forward recklessly and took the brown bottle from his hand, saying, ‘I’ll try the beer, Ben – it’ll make a change for me.’
‘Aye, happen it will.’ He took the bottle off me and his broad strong fingers jerked the opener and flicked the cap off, then he poured the shining brown liquid into one of the mugs until the pale crown of froth rose and spilled over the edge. He laughed and bent his head and licked the froth from the rim before handing the mug to me. Then he poured his own drink and raised it, ‘Your very good health, Lady Helena.’
‘And yours, Ben, and yours.’ I lifted the mug and swallowed. It tasted strong and bitter and strange, but I drank it all down. He handed me a thick cheese sandwich, and we sat and munched together; then he refilled my mug and I drank another draught of the alien brew.
It was warm in the sheltered hollow, and the humming of the bees in the whinberry bells lulled me to a soft drowsiness. My eyelids drooped, and he said, gently, ‘Lie down, lass – you’re tired. Take your hat off now, and use my jacket as a pillow.’ So I took off my smart toque as I watched him fold his jacket carefully for me, and leant forward so that he could put it behind my back. Then I slid down until I lay on the rug, with my head resting on the silky lining of his jacket. I gazed up into the blue sky and smelt the male scent of him and smiled. He bent over me saying, ‘I could do with a nap myself – I were on afore two this morning. Can I join you, lass?’ I smiled again as his warm body slid down beside me, and turned to press my head against his shoulder – and fell asleep.