Girl in the Dark by Anna Lyndsey Read Free Book Online Page B

gravelled parking bay to the side of the road. I get out and look up to a sudden slice of brilliant white sky. The air prickles as I inhale, like sparkling water. Pete opens the boot and extracts his gear. “I’m glad I bought this lightweight tripod,” he says. “It’s much easier to lug about.”
    I sing him a chorus from Handel’s
Messiah,
with photographic words: “His yoke is easy and his tripod is light.”
    We cross the empty single-track road and set off down a sandy track whiskered with bright green grass. Across it is a low wooden bar, about knee height, to prevent the entry of motor vehicles. “Shall I leap?” I say to Pete. “I haven’t done anything like this since we did high jump at primary school, with poles and bamboo canes.”
    “Well, it’s up to you,” he says, “but try not to go flat on your face at the outset. That would be unfortunate.”
    “I’ll be prudent,” I say, stepping over the bar.
    The path snakes along as though at the bottom of a canyon, a pale sandy stripe mirroring a pale strip ofsky. The trees are huge and intensely individual—fat, gnarled, tan-leaved oaks, smooth columnar beeches with their peachy, biscuity foliage, golden birches and sweet chestnuts, the occasional sober-suited conifer, refusing to be drawn in. Leaves crunch under our feet; now and again there is a rustling off to the side as some creature passes on its way.
    “Now here’s a fine tree,” Pete says, as we come to a large beech set slightly back from the path, which thrusts one of its muscular grey limbs out sideways, exactly parallel to the ground. The limb runs straight for a couple of metres before curving upwards, creating a perfect seat.
    I plunge through ankle-deep leaves and settle myself on the accommodating arm. “This is great,” I say happily. “Just the right height.” It’s shady on the branch, under the multi-layered canopy. I unhook my mask and stuff it in the pocket of my coat. Pete sets up his camera on its tripod, then comes towards me and takes my hand.
    “You know I love you ever so much, don’t you?”
    My heart drops through my body, as though a hangman had kicked away its stool. Oh God, I think, why do men do this? Why do they organise a nice day out, take you to a beautiful place, tell you that they love you—then explain that for various subtle and complicated reasons, you also have to break up.
    I take a last breath of sparkling air, and brace myself against the tree.
    “Will you marry me?” he says.
    For a few moments I am completely stunned. I stareat him, round-eyed. Then a cascade of mad mixed-up thoughts bursts through my head, whirling in wild eddies, throwing off question marks like fine spray. I don’t know what to say. “Are you sure?” are the words that come to the front of my mind. For we have reached this point by such a bizarre and unpropitious route, there must be a million reasons why it cannot be a good idea. Yet maybe this is part of the true pattern of life—one of the unlooked-for consequences that arise from its ferocious twists and turns, a strange new compound formed inexplicably inside its crucible of pain.
    In my mind, planets collide, civilisations evolve and decay. Like petals of a giant flower, possible worlds unfold. In reality, only seconds pass. I still do not know what to say; in the end my mouth speaks for me; it says:
    “Yes.”

December 2005
    “I suppose I could retrain as a plumber,” I say doubtfully.
    “I’m not sure that would be a good idea,” says Pete. “You’d need to be able to lift a bath.”
    We are sitting at the table, replete with Sunday lunch, considering what kind of work I might be able to do, and attempting to think outside the box. The challenge is to find something that does not take place in modern office environments, does not involve spending too long out of doors, and does not require extended periods under fluorescent lights.
    “It’s got to be some sort of personal service,” I say,