Scrambling to her feet she turned back to the fire. ‘It occurs to me,’ she said, looking down into the flames, ‘from what you said, Rachel, that this is really all about a baby.’ She paused and turned round. ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’
The question had come out of the blue. Alex gasped. He turned to his wife, scanning her face.
She bit her lip. ‘I haven’t had a test, but I’ve been wondering – ’
‘Rachel’ Alex leaned forward and hugged her. ‘Oh my darling, that’s wonderful!’
‘But we hadn’t planned – ’
‘It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but that you’re safe.’
‘You mean it, Alex?’ Rachel clutched his hand. ‘You really don’t mind?’
‘Of course I don’t mind. Sweetheart, we’ll manage. We always have.’ He leaned forward and kissed her then he turned to Susie. ‘How did you know?’
Susie smiled and shrugged. ‘I guessed.’ There was a short silence, then she broke suddenly into giggles. ‘Sorry, but if we look for a rational explanation for any of this we won’t find it. You know my philosophy of life. I’ve always thought that we question too much. You can’t spend the rest of your lives worrying about something you will never ever be able to explain.’ She bent to throw some driftwood onto the fire. ‘Time for a hot drink. Then later I suggest Rachel goes to see the doctor so that at least you know that for sure.’
‘If I am pregnant and it’s a girl I want to call her Maddy.’ Rachel lay back frowning. She was staring into the distance. ‘You know what I think? I think this is my opportunity to put the past right. I – we’ve been given a second chance. But why?’ She turned to look at Susie by the fire. ‘Why me? Why Alex?’
Susie shook her head. ‘Why not? All that matters is that the three of us know that in our very ordinary lives in our very ordinary world a small miracle has happened and that you are happy about it.’
Rachel squeezed Alex’s hand. ‘OK?’ she whispered.
He nodded. ‘OK. When I think how I nearly lost you -’ He shuddered.
‘But you didn’t.’ Rachel smiled.
‘I think you’ve found each other,’ Susie put in quietly. ‘I think you’ve found each other after what is possibly a very long time!’
The Footpath
It was Doreen Oldfield who first realised there was a problem. A group of strangers was standing the other side of her garden fence staring along it towards the field. One of them held a map in his hand. He spotted her as she limped across her back garden towards them.
‘Excuse me,’ he called. ‘Where is the path?’
‘It’s up on the far side of the post office.’ Doreen stared beadily at them. She didn’t smile. She didn’t know them.
‘No.’ The man stabbed at the map with his forefinger. ‘It’s here. I’m standing on it.’
‘Why ask then?’ She glared at him.
‘Because it’s too overgrown to use, and I can’t see where it goes from here. According to the map it should go straight across the field.’
Doreen sighed. ‘Maps!’ she said in disgust. ‘You don’t want to pay any attention to them things. No one uses that path nowadays. It’s moved. It goes along the edge over there.’ She waved her arm vaguely. ‘Has done since they had the hedges out after the war. This one doesn’t exist any more.’
They did not listen. Before her outraged eyes the group set off. Forcing their way through the undergrowth, they headed out into the middle of the field, beating a way through the lush corn with their walking sticks.
It was the first hint of the war to come.
The footpath did indeed in theory run between Doreen’s cottage and the side garden at Copthorne’s. Bordered on one side by a magnificent laurel hedge and on the other by Doreen’s rickety picket fence with several slats missing it was now overgrown with brambles and nettles. Unpopular with people in the village and seldom if ever used by any but the local boys on their mountain bikes and the occasional horse rider, it had all but disappeared because of the broad pleasant track everyone liked much better a hundred yards up the road. That path was a popular route into the fields and woods. Dog walkers used it, and local people going for an afternoon stroll, and kids wanting to sneak into the old farm buildings behind Osbecks. Over the years the path had moved. It was as simple as that.
Joe Middleton was sitting at his breakfast spooning his cornflakes into his mouth several days later with his own copy of the very same map that the strangers had used spread out on the table in front of him. ‘The inspectors are right. The path has been deliberately blocked, here and here and here.’ He put down his spoon and reached for his fluorescent marker.
His wife Maureen sighed. ‘I think it’s a lovely walk just as it is, Joe. It hasn’t been blocked at all. One can walk the whole length of that path. It is just that it has been rerouted once or twice. But that’s nicer. One can see the birds and flowers in the hedges…’ She broke off almost guiltily as her husband gave an exasperated sigh.
‘We do not go for walks to see birds and flowers,’ he said firmly. ‘You know that. That is the whole point of joining the Association. We walk to make sure that rights of way are not being abused.’
‘Boring!’ She said it under her breath. There was no point in arguing with him. She knew that from long experience. No point at all.
As she expected once he had finished his breakfast he headed for the phone. ‘Footpath 29,’ he said urgently, into the mouthpiece. It was like a code word, signalling the start of the D-Day landings. ‘Your inspectors were right. I checked yesterday. There are four deliberate obstructions, two fields with unsprayed, unmarked paths, a great deal of untidiness and a village of yokels who couldn’t care less!’ There was a pause. Whoever was the other end of the line at headquarters in London was rustling a reciprocal map, trying to fold it open without spilling his cup of coffee or getting jam from his doughnut onto the paper. ‘Saturday? OK. Perfect. I’ll contact everyone on my list and you bring your team. And by the time you come I will have checked every path in the parish.’
Maureen could hear the eagerness in his voice and the excitement and, she had to admit this, the spite.
Slowly she began collecting the dishes and carrying them over to the sink. She knew exactly what would happen next. The group would descend on the selected footpath, they would walk it slowly and determinedly. They would scatter little yellow arrows, hammering them on other people’s gates and telegraph poles and trees, they would rip off private signs, destroy all
He was worried about that too. Embarrassed. ‘I have been too busy with other projects, Mo.’ He kept looking at the map and shaking his head. ‘How could I have missed it? This is my own village! Right on my patch. What must the Association think of me? I won’t be able to hold up my head when they come over.’ He sighed mournfully. Then he glanced at her. ‘You’ll be coming too, won’t you, Mo?’ He walked over to the sink to begin brushing his hiking boots even though he knew she hated him doing it over her cooking space. ‘I thought we could have cheese and pickle sandwiches this time. There isn’t a pub round here that I can recommend to the members. Not the sort of thing they’re used to, anyway.’
‘There’s a lovely pub, Joe.’ Maureen was indignant. ‘For goodness’ sake. These people are supposed to be coming out to enjoy the country, not replicate their posh London bistros!’ She knew it was a pointless comment. She had learned by now that enjoying the country was not actually on these people’s agenda at all. She heaved another deep sigh. ‘I’m not sure if I can come. I might go over and see the kids. I promised our Primrose I would.’ That would take her safely out of the loop for the whole day with a bit of luck. She glared down at the sink, now covered in a fine dust of dry earth. What she had said was tantamount to treason and she knew it, but she had also
