“Come on, Evelyn! You ha’n’t got all day to waste chatting to your cousins!”
Evelyn laughed and called back that Daphne was a cheeky so-and-so. They walked on amid more laughter. Daffodils were out and the wind blew straight down the lane off the hill and tipped the flowers right to the ground, turning their leaves inside out and parting the shiny new grass like a comb.
Soon they left the road and struck out on a level track that led first between fields and then up into the hills. The track wound along beside a wide rushing stream, and as they went closer the hills loomed at them and seemed to close in. After a mile or so the stream and the track diverged. The track swerved deeply and suddenly they came across, around a long curve and nestling into the lower reaches of the hill, the last thing Evelyn had expected to see. It was a large house, built of red brick with a steep slate roof and a grand porch, with all manner of elaborate turrets and tall windows and high gables. A stunted windbreak of trees and clusters of thick evergreen shrubs surrounded it. Though it was too solid to be magical or even romantic, the house had a storybook quality, and though well maintained, it looked shut up and forlorn.
“That’s Overdale,” Paul said a little grimly.“Overdale Lodge. Bloody eyesore.”
“Who lives there?” Evelyn asked.
“Nobody,”Paul said.“Not any more. It was just for shooting parties, for rich folks coming out from Manchester. All that’s long gone now so it’s shut up. It was them Braddocks as had it built, must be nigh on forty, fifty year ago. You know, the family as owns Braddock Mills.”
“Seems a shame, a grand place like that and nobody stopping there no more,” Evelyn murmured.
“Well, times has changed,” Paul grunted.“Built in Braddock Senior’s day, before the War. Godfrey Braddock the son, he owns Braddock Mills now. He’s still rolling in money, I daresay.”
“Eh, it’s grand enough. All right for some,” Daphne said. “Mind you, I wouldn’t fancy it. Bet it’s freezing, imagine trying to heat a place that size!”
“Aye, and it’s a flaming long way to fetch in t’coal!” Evelyn said, laughing.
On they went, up Kinder Bank. The going was steadily uphill and Evelyn got more and more winded. She couldn’t find the breath for walking as well as chatting with her companions, and it was single file in places, anyway. She fell behind and began to feel lonely, walking with her eyes on the fuzzy outlines of their backs, not hearing what they were talking about and too tired to call for them to wait. Most people, including her, stayed on the path, though some were fanning out across the slope, Paul among them. It must have been tougher going up there, off the path. People were using their sticks and trudging along slantwise, bending into the hillside.
There were streams to cross, or the same one several times; several little channels of water ran through the tussocks of moor grass and over the path. Evelyn managed it fine to begin with. She had on her stout shoes, not long resoled, and also, acting on Paul’s advice, she had put on a thick pair of socks. But there was a lot of wet and mud to be gone through, and Evelyn had a sudden memory of her Big Day and her green mock-croc shoes, which she had not thought about for weeks. They were still like new in a box under the bed, as she hadn’t had them on again. They wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in this!
She struggled on, her feet damp but not soaked through. She was far too hot now, what with the walking and carrying the basket, never mind Daphne’s extra cardigan. Sweat was running all down her body and her eyes and nose were pouring, too. She must look a sight, she was sure, so in a way she was pleased the others had gone ahead. She wished she had slacks on, like some of the real walking girls. They had proper boots, too. Expensive they looked, the slacks, and flattering; the girls looked very comfortable in them. Best of all, they didn’t have the worry of the wind blowing their skirts up, because Evelyn had that to manage on top of all her other woes, keeping one hand free to hold her skirt firmly against her legs, for modesty’s sake. But then, she thought, even if she had had the money for them, there wouldn’t be a pair of slacks she could get into, not at the stage she was at now.
Now and then when she stopped for a rest the wind felt colder, and it was lovely for a moment, feeling the sweat dry off on her skin, but after a few minutes the wind would start to bite. If she didn’t keep moving she got chilled to the bone, and she was getting so tired. The wind was cutting right through her jerkin and freezing her legs. The others were too far ahead for her to shout and tell them she was heading back down and she didn’t want to make a fuss by having them fret that she had got lost. Anyway, she was carrying half the picnic. She gave herself a talking-to and moved on.
She caught up with the others by the sheep gate at the top of the dam. There was shelter out of the wind if you tucked in under White Brow, with the reservoir stretching away to your right, so that was a blessing. Daphne, Paul, and Evelyn found themselves a spot not far off the path with some flat stones for them to sit on and one on which they could set up the stove. Paul got it lit after several attempts. Evelyn was heartily glad to stop. After a while she could breathe more easily and she could even say, by the time she had a hot brew warming her hands and was munching on a sandwich, that she was enjoying herself again.
They ate and drank gratefully. Sometimes the sun came out strong and warm on their faces and raised the flat, reedy smell of grass and rocks. Evelyn could hear birds, miles above them it seemed. The other two were going on and on about the view and passing the binoculars between them, but she was more interested in the sky, lying back on the blanket and sensing the vastness of it above her and all that lovely emptiness. The wind was high and gusting, and though she didn’t feel it in the shelter of the Brow she could hear it, a high-up rushing like a faraway waterfall, washing and washing the air clean, sweeping grey and white plumes of cloud over the sun as if it was chasing swirls of dust out of the corners of the sky.
Maybe it was because of the baby and all the extra weight, or maybe it was simple fatigue, but when they were packed up and ready to move off Evelyn had stiffened up so much she could hardly stand straight.
“Oh, wait, let’s not go yet!” she said, rubbing her back, trying to make light of it.
Daphne understood. “Oh, all right, let’s have another ciggie,” she said, passing round her packet while Evelyn sank back onto the ground.
“I should’ve brought a hip flask,” Paul said, clicking his tongue. “A nip in you would do the trick.”
Evelyn immediately thought of Stan. Was he up here on the hill, too, taking nips from a flask? Would he be content with just nips?
Now, down below them on the path, folk were filing through the sheep gate and on up to William Clough. It was boggy either side of the path, so everybody slowed up and went through single file, and Evelyn thought to herself that even though it was too far away for her to make out faces, she would know Stan if she saw him. He always had on his red scarf these days and he was a big, tall devil. What with that and his way of stooping so his head poked forward, she’d know him even from that distance.
She explained to Daphne and Paul that she would only hold them up if she went any further. They were content enough to go on without her once she had reassured them that she would be fine on her own. All she knew, she told them, was that she couldn’t go back into that wind stinging her eyes the way it did. She would stop here and mind the picnic things. They would get on faster with nothing to carry, and if Paul left her enough matches she would have tea waiting for them when they got back.