I am soaked to the skin. But the rain has stopped now, at least, and I have found a lane to walk along. My skirts are thick with wet mud from the fields I first ran through. The rain has got into my boots too, and they are rubbing on my heels. I will have to stop soon and find somewhere to rest.
But this lane seems to lead nowhere. It is just endless hedges and puddles. I walk fast, even though my heels are stinging and the soles of my feet are burning. I am impatient to get to where I am going. I just don’t know how to get there yet.
It came to me just after I had shouted my wish across the fields. It was as though the wind had heard my cry and blown the answer back to me. I have been here before, I thought, running across this countryside; running away from myself and a life I do not want. These could be the same fields I ran through before; these could be the same low, sparse hedges that snagged my skirts and the same mud that coated my boots. Except I know this isn’t the right place. I will find no barn to shelter in here and no welcome around a farmhouse table.
Where is everyone? I have not come across a soul yet. Anyone will do, a farmer, a traveller, a coach driver or a pedlar. Anyone who can point me in the direction of the Bristol Road. I tramp onwards, wincing with every step. There is a copse ahead and a fine sycamore with just a scattering of golden leaves left on its branches. I make my way towards it and see there is a bed of sod and fallen leaves covering its roots. I fall onto it gratefully and lean back against the flaking trunk. I close my eyes and allow my breaths to slow. I had not realised I was so tired.
I am cold now that I have stopped walking. I left the Abode in such a hurry that I have not even a shawl with me. I rub my arms briskly. I won’t stay here long. I have to get on. But I feel so heavy now; it is as though all the strength has seeped out of me and into the roots of the sycamore. Just a few more minutes. Just a few more minutes …
I am in my meadow. It is more beautiful than ever. The grass is so green it hurts my eyes. Every blade of it slides across my bare legs like the finest gossamer. The sky is hushed and peaceful and never-ending. I turn around and around. The meadow is empty. But there is somebody here with me. I know that for a certainty. I look again – to the very edges of where the grass meets the sky. Nothing. How odd, I think. Then I feel something; the tiniest of movements, a fluttering of life. I hold my breath. It is coming from inside me. Whoever is with me in the meadow is deep inside of me, and the strangest thing is, I am not frightened by it at all.
There is a rumble and a clattering. My eyes fly open. Cartwheels are splashing through puddles and mud. I jump to my feet. The cart rolls on down the lane and I chase after it. There is a thick blanket stretched over the top of an assortment of furniture. I can see table legs and chair backs and the doors of a worm-eaten cabinet. ‘Stop!’ I shout. I run as hard as I can with my skirts held up in one hand and the other hand waving in the air. ‘Stop!’
The cart slows and the tables and chairs knock together as the wheels jerk to a standstill. I dash to the front and crouched over the reins is a pock-marked old man buried in a weathered overcoat. Next to him is a woman with a scowl on her face and a battered bonnet on her head.
‘Whadda you want?’ barks the man. His eyes have barely any colour to them and they slide over me, taking in my muddy boots and the wet hair that is sticking to my face.
‘Please,’ I say. ‘I need to get to the Bristol Road. How far is it from here?’
‘Not too far,’ grunts the man. He is staring at me in a way that makes me want to run back the way I came.
‘Are you going that way yourself?’ I ask.
‘Yup,’ he says. He is not making this easy for me.
‘Could you … would you mind … could I please come with you? I could squeeze in the back there. I won’t damage anything, I promise.’
He screws his eyes up at me. ‘Can yer pay yer way?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I can’t. I have no money. I have nothing. But I would be so grateful if you would help me.’
‘No money, no ride,’ he says and he clicks his tongue at the horse and takes up the reins.
‘No! Wait. Please!’ I put my hand down the front of my bodice and pull out Papa’s gold locket.
The man’s eyes light up and he puts the reins back in his lap.
I unfasten the chain from around my neck and hold out the locket towards him. ‘Now will you take me to the Bristol Road?’
He nods and licks his lips. I push the locket into his outstretched hand. ‘One more thing,’ I say. ‘I need to go to the milestone on the Bristol Road. The one that reads Bridgwater, fifteen miles. Do you know it?’
Again, the man nods. He tucks Papa’s locket deep into his coat pocket. ‘Hop on, then,’ he says.
I find a space between a dusty wooden trunk and a three-legged stool. It is comfortable enough. I can just see over the back of the cart as the lane stretches further and further behind us and I know in my heart that this is the most important journey I will ever make. Thank you, Papa, I whisper. But I think he knows already, and he will be glad that his gift has helped me on my way.
I stand by the milestone on the Bristol Road. Bridgwater 15 is carved into its granite surface. There’s the track that runs beside it. And a way up the track, if I squint my eyes, I can see a feathery whisper of smoke rising from the chimney of the farmhouse in the distance. Although I am tired to the bone, there is a wonderful lightness inside me now and I barely feel the blisters on my heels as I hurry as fast as I can along the track.
I know they will not turn me away.
I think of the strange dream I had under the sycamore tree and I put my hand to my belly. A curious warmth seeps through my fingers. Could it be true? A new life? Someone for me to truly love forever?
If it is true, I am not frightened. Because I know that where we are going they will not turn us away.