Heather nodded. ‘When did that moment come for you?’
Margo considered silently for a while. ‘Put it down to one of the lessons of a failed marriage.’
Heather waited, but nothing else came. ‘Just that?’
‘Believe it or not, I was married to a policeman,’ Margo said as if that explained everything.
They sat there for a few more minutes, content to look out across the surface of the tarn to the hills rising beyond, neither of them noticing that Johnny had passed them and strode on ahead. In a while they heaved their packs on to their backs again, left the lake behind and started climbing the long hillside.
They weren’t in any particular hurry. The day was theirs and the mileage wasn’t great. They stopped often to soak up the view, struck by the grim determination of most of the other walkers they frequently met on the well-worn path. They went off the track on the side of Fountains Fell, climbing up to the little tarn below the stone worm casts that marked the old mine workings on the bleak summit. There they ate Mrs Marsh’s lunch then stretched out with their packs as pillows and went to sleep for an hour. The sunshine balanced the fresh breeze which blew across their faces with the soft scent of miles of heathery moor. When they woke they set off round the far shoulder of the Fell, bearing to the west and there ahead, an hour’s walk away, loomed the last obstacle of the day: the great rounded sphinx that was Pen-y-ghent, crouched across the valley, a double step in its edge showing where it wore its millstone grit cap on top of the limestone.
Margo sighed. ‘The Hill of the Winds. That’s what it means. Celtic. It’s quite reassuring,’ she said, ‘it gives you back a sense of scale – makes you realize we’re just ants.’
‘Dangerous ants,’ said Heather. ‘I’d back the mountain against us ants long term, but we’ll probably manage to do something pretty horrible to it along the way.’
‘Well, forget that for now. Just breathe in the air and listen to the peaceful sound of the—’
She was cut short by the sudden arrival of a phenomenon. A grey needle-nosed shape rushed silently into view from around the side of the hill, almost on their level, slanting round the contour with immense speed just over their heads. They had a microsecond to recognize the RAF roundels on its swept-back wings before they were assaulted by a battering crescendo of pure noise that seemed to shake the whole hillside, dwindling only gradually as the fighter ducked even lower to the ground behind them, leaving in its wake a paraffin-lamp smell of hydrocarbons being burnt at a fantastic rate.
‘Christ Al-bloody-mighty!’ Margo shouted. ‘What the hell do they think they’re doing? Why do they have to come and ruin everything?’
Heather couldn’t repress a grin. ‘The peaceful sound of what were you about to say?’
Margo snorted.
‘Have you heard what they do in America?’ she went on. ‘Sometimes, when you get an airbase near a town they put up signs saying “Don’t complain. The sound you hear is the sound of freedom.” Honest!’
‘More like the sound of someone setting fire to my tax contributions.’
‘You know what we just saw, don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘An ant on stilts with a megaphone.’
It was getting late in the afternoon when they finally struggled up the steep path of slippery earth and loose rock to the rounded top of Pen-y-ghent. Heather’s pack, its straps stiffened by a year of disuse, had started to chafe her shoulders and it made for heavy going up the gradient. She looked down at her feet as she climbed doggedly, taking it one step at a time. It was a relief when the slope abruptly slackened and an instant later she heard Margo say, ‘Well, look who we have here.’
Sitting on the stile that led over the stone wall ahead was Mr Johnny Kennedy, studying a map intently. He looked up at Margo’s voice.
‘Hello,’ he said with enthusiasm, ‘this is a nice surprise. Have you had a good day?’
‘I have,’ said Margo. ‘Poor Heather’s suffering a bit. She’s been having a bit of trouble with her pack.’
‘It’s nothing,’ said Heather, ‘it’s not far now anyway.’
‘Are you heading for Horton?’ he said, jumping down from the stile.
‘Yes.’
‘Me too. I’ll take your pack.’
‘What about yours?’ she said.
‘No problem. It’s very light. I can strap it on to yours.’
‘There’s no need really,’ she said.
‘It’s easy. My bergen’s got nothing much in it, I’d enjoy the extra bit of weight – helps the balance.’
She noticed the use of what sounded like an army term. ‘Well… it’s kind of you. If you don’t mind.’
‘Not a bit.’
It was downhill steeply for a while to the valley west of Pen-y-ghent, past the gaping mouth of Hunt Pot. They couldn’t easily walk together until they were down on the flat, which gave Heather plenty of time to study the man walking in front of her and wonder about him. Very athletic, clearly. Expensive gear and clothing.
They stopped to look at the pothole entrance.
‘Have you ever been down one?’ he asked.
‘No. Have you?’
‘Absolutely not. I can’t imagine anything worse. I could just about cope with crawling along through rock tunnels, it’s the idea of going through U-bends full of water and hoping you get to the other side before your breath runs out that gets me. Give me the clear blue sky any day – the sky and a few clouds to tear around.’
‘You fly?’
‘I’m a pilot. That’s what I do.’
Margo had been listening. ‘Not RAF, are you?’
He laughed. ‘Oh no. Commercial.’
‘Just as well. We nearly got blown off our feet by some cowboy practising flying below ground level.’
‘That Tornado? I saw it. No, I fly quiet little things, Cessnas, Pipers and stuff like that.’
‘Where are you from?’ Heather asked.
‘Nowhere much lately. I’ve been out in Australia for a few years. Just come back. I’ve borrowed a flat in London but I’m looking around for something to do.’
‘We’d better get on,’ said Margo, ‘we don’t want the Morray to give our rooms away.’
‘The Morray Arms? Are you staying there too?’ he said with pleasure in his voice. ‘So am I.’
‘Twice in two nights. Well, there’s a surprise,’ said Heather.
‘One thing though…’ he dropped his voice and put on a look of acute worry.
‘What?’
‘Do they go in for… you know…’
‘No, I don’t. What?’
‘Cats.’
Heather and Margo burst out laughing and the gap between them and their new companion shrank.
‘No,’ Heather said, ‘no cats.’
‘Not even pictures of cats?’
‘No.’
‘Cat decorations on the plates?’
‘Absolutely not. I think there might be a real cat though.’
‘A real cat? Oh, that’s all right.’
The pub welcomed them with comfortable rooms and hot baths. Heather and Margo opened the interconnecting door between their rooms and found they could talk while lying in their baths.
‘Have you changed your mind?’ Margo called.
‘About?’
‘About him not being your type.’
‘Oh, do stop it. No, I haven’t. He’s a posh pilot with a sports car. I shouldn’t think we’ve got any common ground at all. Probably votes Conservative, eats red meat twice a day, plays polo and has loads of girlfriends who go to flower-arranging classes.’