ABIGAIL

She picked her way up into the woods behind the village, the slippery damp of the forest floor forcing her to grab on to gritty branches as she stepped over a carpet of leaves in absurd shoes. She thought of her mum in that moment, clutching her sides with laughter at her city girl let loose in the woods in thin leather heels and a cotton skirt that caught on every bramble and weed. It felt good to be alone, just her and the muted hush of the trees around her, the whole world tinged with greens and browns, the leaves curled and brittle on the branches. She thought of her sister back in the house darning socks on the sofa, Larry by her side, one arm protectively looped over her shoulders, seeming to shield her from other people.

The large house often felt too small for the three of them, the walls hemming her in, her sister glancing over at her, strained smiles, Larry padding into rooms, his footsteps soft, always there. Abigail had been making plans, writing to Mary about the work they could do, where they could stay as they saved up for that first boat crossing. It made her feel better to think ahead, to feel free of the house and village.

‘Hello there,’ a voice called, Richard’s face tilted up at her from the path below.

‘Hello,’ she replied, feeling her mouth stay open in an ‘O’ of surprise.

She patted her hair pointlessly, brushing away a spindly strand at the moment he appeared, red-cheeked and out of breath, his hands pushing down on his thighs as he made his way straight up the slope towards her. He wobbled at the end, which made her shoot out a hand to grab him. She felt his jumper tug away from her and she seized his arm with two hands.

‘Whoa,’ she said, her own shoes slipping on the ground so that for a brief second she thought they both might tumble back down the slope.

‘That wasn’t quite the entrance I’d planned.’ He laughed, putting his hands in his pockets and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

She was aware of the warmth of his jumper now her hand was empty, his flushed cheeks, his breath rising and falling with the sudden effort of running to catch up with her. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m following you,’ he said, his face a solemn mask.

She took a step back, her neck craned back too, and that prompted Richard to look horrified, both hands flying up.

‘I’m kidding, Abi,’ he said, frowning at her and lifting his eyebrows.

Abi. Her mum had called her Abi. She was distracted by the sound of it.

‘I’m actually meant to be getting Dad some castor oil and picking up mince for dinner, but I thought I’d head up here quickly and stop in at…’

His words faded away and it was Abigail’s turn to wonder whether he was acting strangely. ‘Yes, oh mysterious one,’ she teased, feeling like herself once again, feeling comfortable with Richard, who seemed to be able to laugh and cajole her out of any dark mood.

Richard tapped his lips with a finger before a slow smile crept across his face. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘But it’s a secret, you have to promise.’

‘I promise.’

‘How can I be sure?’

‘Because I give you my word.’

‘Is your word like rock?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Is it unbreakable?’

‘You can break rocks. Look…’ She puffed in mock-exasperation. ‘I won’t tell anyone – will that do?’

‘Hmm… That will do for now.’

‘Good.’ She hovered, making her eyes into slits. ‘You’re not a Russian spy, are you?’

His face erupted into a laugh; quick, sincere. It made her want to hear it all over again.

‘Come on then, I need to show you something,’ he said, reaching to take her hand and then pulling back at the last moment. ‘It’s up here.’

She followed behind him, noticed the mud clinging to the heels of his shoes, his corduroy trouser legs wearing thin at the bottom.

‘Nearly there,’ he said, throwing the comment over his shoulder.

Abigail moved on, chest tightening, legs burning, unused to climbing this quickly. Perhaps sensing she was falling behind, he slowed up, hands on his hips, looking out beyond the branches towards the sea.

She was grateful for it, joining him to catch her breath, looking at the small squares and shapes of blue in the gaps between the leaves, feeling her chest rise and fall.

They reached another corner in the path and he offered her his hand. ‘It’s just here, but be careful.’

He edged between two sagging fence posts, a useless thin bit of barbed wire holding nothing in or out, and perched on a flat rock that jutted out of the side of the hill. She joined him on the rock, looking down at a ledge just beneath them, hidden from the path. He dropped down, turned to help her, held her hips with both hands and lowered her down carefully, one hand reaching up to her face to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. Then he coughed and let go, avoiding her eyes and moving to sit on a moss-covered trunk lying on the ground.

Flushing, she joined him on the trunk, balancing herself on the edge, tucking her skirt underneath her. The scent of moss, damp and warm, seemed to swirl about her; the gentle chitter of insects hidden from view. She could still feel where he had put his hands on her. Ahead of them was a perfect, uninterrupted scene, the bluish bruise of the sea laid out before them, the tops of the trees beneath them so that when she peered down it made her feel dizzy with the height.

‘Is it dangerous?’ she asked, worried for a moment that they might both tumble down the cliff face.

‘No. I’ve come up here all my life.’

She licked her lips, feeling a patter of nervousness cross her chest, knowing it had nothing to do with the height and everything to do with his thigh being inches from hers. He twisted round to face her, she felt like someone had turned a gas lamp on her right side, a warmth that started in her left arm and seemed to course through her body steadily and surely. She felt the urge to lean in towards him, rest her head on his shoulder and then laughed at herself for being ridiculous. He was looking out over the water now.

She smiled then, following his gaze. ‘It’s amazing.’

‘It’s a good spot,’ he agreed, his eyes crinkling as he turned back to her. ‘My brother and I used to lean right over the edge and see who would quit first.’

Abigail thought back to the photograph on the mantelpiece, the boy in braces. ‘Your brother, is he…?’

He was shaking his head before she could finish. ‘El Alamein, ’42.’

She nodded once, knowing what that meant. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘So am I.’

He scuffed a hand along the trunk. ‘He was bloody brilliant, my brother. He was one of those people that everyone liked and wanted to be around, you know?’

She nodded slowly, thinking of her mum, of people crowding into their house during wartime ready for a cup of tea and a laugh, feeling at ease. She wanted to reach across and take his hand.

‘He was good at just about everything: it was my life’s mission to beat him at something. He used to make me try and catch golf balls in a fishing net we used for crabbing. Dad shouted at him when one got me in the stomach.’ He started laughing at the memory, a brash, confident laugh, as if he was used to remembering the best times.

She imagined the two boys playing in a garden somewhere in the village below and grinned with him. ‘I’ve never had a brother, although I’m not sure I’d be keen on one that fired golf balls near my head.’

‘It’s still odd being just me, I forget a lot of the time, go in to tell him something, tease him about a girl, talk to him about Dad, but the room is empty and it still pulls me up short. Strange.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Abigail said, knowing this was so inadequate but not wanting him to clam up. She thought of the days after her mum died, how she’d assumed she was just upstairs or in the next-door room. All the times in the past few weeks she had wanted her there, her counsel, a gentle admonishment. Anything. She thought of her sister back in the drawing room, felt a surge of feeling that she should be there with her. She was lucky she had her left, hadn’t lost everything.

‘I seem to tell you more and more miserable things every time I see you.’

‘You are a joy to be around,’ she teased, nudging his side.

‘It’s what all the girls love about me.’

‘I’m sure.’ She laughed. ‘Irresistible.’

He leant back on his hands, looking out over the sea.

They settled into their own thoughts, watching a seagull hover in the wind, wings motionless, feathers ruffled in the breeze, before dipping out of sight.

‘Tell me more about Bristol,’ he said, craning his neck up to catch the sun on his face.

‘I miss it,’ she said after a moment, admitting it quietly. ‘Well, I miss certain things, I suppose. The size of the place, you get lost there, on a bicycle, anonymous; you can be anyone. I miss the people…’

‘People?’

‘Mary mostly.’ Abigail felt the guilt sitting in her stomach as she thought of Mary now, all alone. She would write again tonight; they had talked every day for years. ‘We were friends, more than friends really. She spent so much time in our house, Mum joked she might as well move in.’

‘Does she have family?’

Abigail shook her head, picturing Mary in the single room at the top of the stairs, underwear drying on a line over the fireplace. ‘She had me.’

They sat like that for a while, not talking, just looking out through the tops of the trees. She felt her heartbeat slow, a calm spread over her as they stayed there. Larry’s face didn’t seem as significant when she was with Richard; the hole left by her mum felt less painful. She felt a flicker of guilty confusion, thought of her plans to work, to leave the village. They were fading up here, her resolve melting into the leaves at her feet.

They’d been so quiet, Abigail squeaked when Richard clapped his hands together and announced, ‘I know where we should go.’