Chapter 1

Natalie Reynolds was not precisely ugly, or a failure, but at that moment, she felt both. Her kindest friends might describe her as 'homely', while less kind individuals were wont to liken her to the horses of which she was so fond. In appearance, she was tall (five foot ten), with dark brown (not quite black) straight hair. Her hair was glossy, but otherwise undistinguished. Her features might be described as 'strong', and her figure as 'spare' and to be sure, though she had curves, they were not particularly evident. None of her friends, and she had more than a few of both genders, had ever shown the slightest romantic interest in her. This would not normally have been a problem to her; she had been resigned from an early age to spinsterhood (which did not prevent her from devouring romantic fiction and even, on occasion eroticae).

On this occasion, however, she was on her way home, having been in effect dismissed her post as an account manager for a small, but well known merchant bank. The loss of the second most significant account at the bank was not precisely her fault. The causes were much more complex than that, but involved Bank policy, and one of the individuals involved in the latest mistake, while subordinate to Natalie, was a nephew of the CEO. Nepotism is alive and well at Marchant and Sons, Merchant Bankers. Her own line manager was apologetic, but could not do much. In fact, he'd stuck his own neck out in authorising a very generous severance package, and had promised a glowing reference when she needed it. But she still felt ugly, and a failure.

Not even her classic, carefully rebuilt Mark 2 Ford Cortina, with the hot 2 litre engine and the "E" model interior, could melt her unhappiness as she piloted it round the curves of the A616 towards Sheffield.

Normally, she would have been reluctant to stop to pick up a hitchhiker, especially one clad in black motorcycling waterproofs which looked, to say the least, grubby. But some impulse made her pull in just past the figure sitting disconsolately on an elderly Norton motorcycle. Possibly because the number plate indicated it was at least ten years older than her beloved Cortina...

Charles Newton was really fed up. The classic Model 18 Norton had misfired approaching the M1, and died completely as he crossed the motorway. He coasted the last few yards to the layby on the other side of the roundabout. He heaved the machine onto its stand and lifted the seat to extract the tool kit. But the space was as empty as a politician's promise. No plug spanner, no spare plug. Nothing. So he sat on the seat, facing the road, and half heartedly stuck a thumb out as cars approached.

Then, a beautifully restored Ford Cortina pulled in, in front of him and stopped. He jumped off the bike and walked over to the driver's window. He saw ... a woman, with long, dark brown, glossy hair and the most captivating eyes he'd ever encountered.

"Got a problem?" she asked.

"Fouled plug, I think ... and my tool kit and spares are on my bench at home."

"Where do you live?"

"Sheffield ... Netheredge Road."

"No kidding ... I'm on my way to Edgehill Road, just round the corner. Give you a lift?"

"I'd appreciate it. I'll just get out of this oversuit, though, I wouldn't want to mark your upholstery!"

"I'd appreciate it!" and they both laughed.

It's only about ten miles from that motorway junction to the centre of Sheffield, but the road is quite narrow, busy and passes through Renishaw and Mosborough before reaching the outskirts of the city proper, so it can take up to an hour to cover. In this case, it took them just over half an hour, but it seemed much less, somehow; involved as they were in the relative merits (and idiosyncrasies) of their two vehicles. He exited the vehicle reluctantly on arrival, but before he could shut the door, she asked him how he was getting back to his bike.

"I'll beg a lift from a mate. Shouldn't be a problem."
"I'll wait and take you back, if you like."

He sat back down in the car. "That's very kind of you, but it's a lot of trouble..."

"I'd like to."

"Well ... I can't refuse ... it's really very generous of you ... but I'll accept on one condition."

"And that is?"

"You have dinner with me the next evening you're free."

"Oh ... I think I'd like that. As it happens I have nothing in my diary..." she snorted quietly, "so I'm free tonight, if that's possible?"

"That's great! In which case we'd better get moving!"

The return to the bike was quicker, the replacement of the plug took only moments, and the bike was once more back in action. It happens there is a restaurant on the downhill stretch into Renishaw, just a mile or so further along; Giovanni's. He suggested stopping there as it was already getting late; he had (of necessity) respectable shoes and a jacket in a pack; Natalie, being dressed for work, might have wanted to dress up, however she was not used to formal dates and wasn't sure if this constituted one, so she thought she'd be ok.

It was a much better end to the day than she'd expected. The food was good, they shared a half-bottle of wine as they both had to drive, and they talked, and talked, in fact it's just as well the restaurant wasn't really busy, as they occupied a table much longer than would really be justified by even a leisurely meal. In fact, they only realised as they stood to leave that it was getting on for 10 o'clock.

In the car-park, they stood, irresolute for a moment. "better say goodnight here, then," suggested Charles, rather awkwardly. She nodded. He took a step forward. "Thank you; for the help ... and your company this evening." Then he kissed her. She had no experience to fall back on as to how she should respond. She didn't know, in fact, how, or if, she even wanted to respond until their lips touched. It was pretty innocuous, as kisses go; no tongues, no passion, no heat ... but something changed for both of them.

"I don't really want the evening to end," he said huskily. She just shook her head and met his eyes. He went on, "Are you doing anything tomorrow?"

She cleared her throat; "Er, when did you have in mind?"

"Well, all day, actually ... if you're free."

She thought about her prospects; the pile of ironing (which was hardly vital as she wouldn't have a job to go to on Monday) and other house-work, weekend television ... Of course, she could always start reading War and Peace — she'd always meant to. What was to think about?

"Ok. But I'll drive, if you don't mind." She said shyly.

"Not at all; unless you've got a secret supply of motor-cycle gear, you'd not be very comfortable! Could you call for me sometime after nine?"

The following day, she drew the Cortina up in front of Charles' house on the dot of 9 a.m. She sat, for a few moments, wondering whether her precise punctuality was appropriate, but in the end decided to just be herself, climbed the steps to the front door, and rang the bell.

Charles opened the door a minute or so later, "Hey! Great! Come in a minute, will you? I can't remember where I left my binoculars. I've turned the house almost upside down..."

He showed her into the lounge, and told her to make herself comfortable for a few minutes. She looked around curiously. Not much in the way of ornaments (one or two pieces of distorted alloy she assumed (correctly) were broken pieces of motorbike. A few photographs, mostly of Charles with an attractive, auburn haired woman; one showing the same woman on her own. Odds and ends she recognised as being computer related — an external hard drive, several memory sticks; lots of books, widely ranging in character. Equally widely ranging music in CD and Vinyl form. A stacking hi-fi set up, but not an expensive one. A rather impressive computer in an alcove.

Charles came in; "sorry about that. I'm a bit careless about leaving things around, but I found what I wanted." He produced two pairs of binoculars, a compact pair and a bulky porro prism pair. "Take your choice?"

"Which ones do you usually use yourself?"

"Depends, but I prefer the porro prism pair unless I just want something to pop in a pocket."

"Then I'll take the small pair, please. Before we go, do you mind me asking ... who is the woman in the photos?"

She'd read stories in which 'a cloud passed over his face' but had just taken it as a literary artifice; but at that moment, she saw what that phrase expressed.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean..."

"No, don't apologise. In a way, that's why I leave the pictures there. It's my wife; my late wife, I should say. She died, oh, just over a year ago ... shall we go?"

Natalie had friends, as I said; one of the reasons being that she is strongly empathic and very good at projecting her care and concern for others; it's as though, for her, the person in front of her is the only person that matters. She took Charles' hand and squeezed it; he felt her loving concern flowing through the touch. Words would have just made the moment awkward, but just then, for him, the world was a better and happier place. He returned the squeeze, smiled at her, and gestured at the door.

Netheredge Road is steep and ends in a junction with a narrow road along a ridge (Brincliffe Edge) which leads, if you can negotiate the parked cars, traffic in the opposite direction and a nasty corner, to one of the main roads out of Sheffield. Sheffield is a compact city and there's only about five miles from the city centre to Whirlow on the outskirts. He directed her that way, and to a car park on a National Trust property called the Longshaw Estate; parking among trees, they strolled through woodland to open moor, and along a track towards the visitors' centre.

As they walked, Charles pointed out a green woodpecker, and they watched its dipping flight until it moved out of sight, then a buzzard circling lazily overhead. She appreciated the view across the moors, the outcroppings of rock, the Iron Age hill fort in the distance, and the quiet, rather desolate peace of the place.

The Visitors' Centre serves an excellent cup of coffee or tea and a range of light meals. They arrived in time for a mid-morning snack of cake and coffee, sat outside at a picnic bench and watched the many small birds making use of the feeders hanging in the trees nearby - Chaffinch, Blue Tit, Great Tit and on the ground, Robin, Dunnock and Blackbirds foraged and pecked.

"This is lovely!" commented Natalie. "Do you know I've never been here before?"

"I didn't know; but this is one of my favourite places," he commented, "and I'd like to share some more with you today."

They finished their snack and he led her along a different path, through rhododendrons, open ground and more trees, past a pond, across a road and down to the small river running, at that point, through open moorland. It seemed natural as they walked along the rough path, among scattered sheep to the river, for their hands to touch and their fingers to lightly link together. She wondered at her feelings; she felt so ... comfortable? Content? Both; with an admixture of nervousness?

He led her beside the river to a gate, then into the woodland proper. It's mixed woodland, but it's ancient woodland, almost undisturbed for centuries; Firs, tall and untidy looking, sessile oak, ancient, small, gnarled but radiating character. They walked together, happy to be pushed together by the narrow path. They had to scramble down to cross a tributary stream, and back up the other side; the path opened up so they walked, side by side, hands now firmly clasped. It's not far from top to bottom; the word 'gorge' seems to suggest something large ... grand, but Padley gorge is small and narrow ... and they weren't actually in the gorge; for much of its length there are no paths in the gorge ... there's no room. Rather they were walking in the woodland on the more-or-less level (but sloping downhill) land at the top of the gorge.

Near the bottom, she stopped and just stood. After a few moments, she said, quietly, "it's like stepping into Middle Earth ... I keep expecting to meet a party of elves singing among the trees, or maybe hobbits. Even the trees; there's such a sense of life and ... age ... in them, I wonder if maybe some of them are Ents!"

"Exactly!" He laughed, then, and added "that's just how I feel about it; but you're the first person I've met that's responded like that!"

They walked on and, emerging onto a narrow road, turned to cross a bridge over the railway line that links Sheffield and Manchester. On the other side, she saw a classic 'Victorian Railway Building'. The Grindleford Station Café is an institution among active outdoor folk in the Peak District. If you want delicate china, neat table-cloths, matching cutlery and fancy cuisine ... don't bother with the Grindleford Station Café. On the other hand, if you like your tea or coffee in mugs (pint or half pint) and large slabs of fruit-cake or enormous plates piled high with unpretentious but very tasty and satisfying food, if, when you've just walked five miles in chilly drizzle you like to enter a warm, welcoming room with an open fire burning in the grate, and you don't mind that the décor is shabby and the cutlery and crockery is a random collection, then you'll love the Grindleford Station Café. You'll meet climbers, in from the nearby crags, walkers from the moors and cyclists from anywhere within a fifty mile or so radius. You'll meet school parties, dog-walkers and families and while you might see the occasional scruffy Land Rover, you probably won't see many smart SUVs.

It was, perhaps, not the environment Natalie was used to eating in; but she felt instantly at home and happily tucked into a slab of meat-and-potato pie, mash and mushy peas, slathered with gravy. Somewhere between Longshore visitors' centre and the café, she'd stopped trying to analyse her feelings; she'd stopped wondering what she was doing, walking hand-in-hand with a man she'd only met the previous day. More to the point, she'd stopped agonising over being without a job for the first time in nearly twenty years; she was living 'in the moment', emotions fully engaged and wholly positive and her face wore a smile.

Charles watched her as they ate. Her smile transformed her face; only a completely insensitive, physical-perfection obsessional could have called her 'homely' at that point. She looked up, met his eyes ... and blushed. She dropped her gaze and concentrated on her meal until she was sure she had control of her voice.

"Tell me about yourself," she said "I'm having a lovely day, but I'm very aware I know almost nothing about you!"

"Well ... you know I'm a widower and I ride motorbikes. I'm thirty-nine years old and I'm a software engineer. I like a wide range of music, reading and I enjoy nature and the outdoors ... your turn!"

"Oh ... well, actually ... what's a software engineer?"

"Oh, no, no, no ... some other time. Short version, I fix computers when they stop working. I asked about you."

"Actually..." she looked so crestfallen he was about to let her off the hook, "until yesterday, when we met, I was an account manager for a small merchant bank. I've just been made redundant, but I'd rather not talk about that. I'm thirty-five and unattached and I like horses, reading, music and my Cortina," and I'm not going to add, unwanted and unloved, even if I do feel that way at the moment.

"Seems we've got a bit in common, then," he smiled, not adding and there's a lot going on for you that you're not happy about — more than losing your job — and I want to reach you. He stood and held out his hand for her — she smiled and took it in hers. They left the café, crossed the bridge over the railway ... but instead of returning the way they'd come, Charles led her across the river, past the old Mill house and further along the road and up hill. Turning right higher up they continued to climb until they entered the woods again, now following the path through the woods; instead of continuing the direct route to the top of the gorge, however, he led her off to the left and among the denser trees along a much narrower path.

Well among the trees now, he stopped, and pointed. "See the nest-box?"

She looked, and after a few moments, nodded.

"Keep and eye on that while we sit on this rock."

A little puzzled, she did as she was told. They sat for several minutes, during which the only thing that happened was that he put his arm around her shoulders. After a while, he whispered, "Look."

She had, in fact, taken her eyes off the nest box because she'd been thinking more about his arm about her and his proximity, but she duly looked and saw a slim, black and white bird perched on the box that suddenly moved and disappeared inside.

"Pied Flycatcher," he breathed, "they don't breed many places, but this is one of them. Use the glasses!"

They sat for perhaps half an hour, watching the black-and-white male and his somewhat drab brown wife popping in and out of the nest-box.

"You really only see them for a few weeks while they're feeding the young," he explained. "They're around longer, but once the nestlings have fledged, they're up in the canopy and almost impossible to see. In the autumn, they're off to Africa and we won't see them again until next year."

"They're really lovely," she breathed, "I've never really watched birds before."

"I never did until I met my wife," he said. She looked at him, but his eyes were looking at something a very long way away; "I suppose," he added slowly, "she left me something very precious."

She moved away slightly, turned and placed a hand each side of his face, and gently turned his face toward her, then leaned forward and touched her lips to his. It was the first time she had initiated a kiss with anyone except her family; as before when he had kissed her, there was no passion, no heat; their tongues didn't meet. There was, however, an exchange of emotion. She was aware of an enormous lake of sadness, he, of a vast well of accepting love.

"Tell me, what happened?"

"There's a sort of cancer ... choriocarcinoma ... only women can get it, and only if they are or have been recently pregnant. It's to do with the lining of the womb. Usually, it's curable — something like 95%, I think. Laura was pregnant, we were ecstatic, over the moon, but she miscarried. Then, well, we didn't expect ... obviously we were disappointed and upset. I thought she was just depressed, but the doctor sent her to Weston Park Hospital. They did everything they could, but ... she died."