An Old Flame

I was alone in the house when the bell rang, my parents were away for a week and I was relishing in my freedom, thankful I had not been strong-armed into going with them, an old caravan on a site on Flamborough Head had grown into a dreary duty since my sisters left home.

My first thought, that it was one of my sisters, I disregarded at once, neither had set foot in the house since they escaped and nothing, even the absence of our parents, was going to tempt them to visit, only my dad’s funeral was likely to break that particular spell.

I sneaked a look through the bay window and saw a young woman on the step, poised to press the bell again. Bing-ding-a-dong-Croak!’ The chime wheezed.

Since she was not carrying a sample case or a bible, I decided to risk it, shot the two chains and the lever arm, then the yale lock and the spiny key thing that wound a rod into the door surround. The door opened to late afternoon spring light, the woman was half turned away from me, watching Mrs Bright urging her wheeled shopping bag up the hill, dressed like it was mid-winter and grumbling constantly.

I was free to check out my caller, felt an instant stab of envy, on my Checkout Girl pay I shopped at Primark or TK Max, this woman wore the stuff I could only look at through the windows of River Island and H&M. Her shoes looked like genuine leather and her tight jeans had been ripped by an expert. Her top was something the Rhinestone cowboy might have rod out in, with leather strands and a bucket of Zirconium beads on soft pink leather. Taken with the broad beamed hat guarding against the early heatwave she conjured up an image of Doris Day in a Hollywood Western, about to launch into a heel tapping line dance routine. Except this girl had black hair, a long wing of it that glowed in the dipping sun and swung like a cape as she turned to face me.

‘Francis!’ I exclaimed, thought for a moment I would fall back into the hall in a dead faint, as it was my legs shook, and I had to snatch at the door frame to keep upright.

Her tanned face lit up, I mean just lit up, a radiant smile I had never forgotten curved her lips and they opened to say, ‘Catnip! Oh, it is so good to see you again!’

I struggled to breath. It really was her, my fairy big sister, my princess, my best, and usually only friend. Francis.

She always used to call me Catnip, to this day I have no idea why, I did not mind, whatever she wanted to call me was just fine by me. ‘So long, Catnip,’ was what she said to me when she left, ruffled my hair and walked out of my life, I had thought forever and cried for weeks.

‘Will you come in?’ I managed, backing carefully away to stop blocking the door. Francis looked beyond me, her smile fading quickly. ‘He is not in,’ I assured her. ‘They are both at the caravan.’

She hesitated, but then followed me, she glanced down at my bare arms, I hastily tugged down the rolled-up sleeves of my sweatshirt, too late, I knew she had seen the bruises. I found myself about to explain them away, clamped my jaw shut, this was Francis, I was not going to welcome her back by lying to her.

I squeezed past her to shoot the locks home, a frightening electricity passed between us as we rubbed against each other in the cramped hall, I bit my lip to spark pain and control myself, sure I was the only one who felt that shock. Rather than risk it again by squashing past her I indicated she should lead the way, followed her hesitant steps into the living room. She looked about and visibly shuddered, hugged herself. ‘Why are you still here, Catnip?’

I would not meet her eyes, pretended to take stock of the room, the Parlour my mother called it, a soulless crypt of order and cleanliness. ‘Nowhere else to go,’ I shrugged. Unable to bear the hostility of the room, the silent threat that it would tell, that I had let someone in while the master was away, that I had let HER in, the one who dared to defy him in his own castle, the banished one.

Without a word I passed through it and into the kitchen, Francis followed me, I snagged couple of beer bottles out of the fridge and took them out the back door, onto the patio, I set the bottles on the picnic table and she and I settled into the camp chairs, a length of immaculate lawn stretched away from us, then gave way to regimentally ordered rows of canes up which young plants scrambled.

Francis took off her hat and tossed it on the table, we were sheltered by a home-made veranda that served as a greenhouse in winter, it still was home to burgeoning tomato plants. I twisted the cap off one bottle and took a sip, ignoring the incessant nagging in my mind, ‘Where is your glass? Where is your coaster? Where do you think you are?’

Despite the fact the bottle was chilled to near ice Francis drained half of hers in one grateful long pull. She gasped in a very un-lady-like way and wiped her mouth with the back of her pink leather cuff. ‘You said you would save up, get your own place,’ she accused me bluntly. When I did not answer she pressed on. ‘He takes all your money, doesn’t he?’

‘It is board,’ I muttered in helpless defence. ‘I have to pay for my keep here.’

‘How much does he let you keep?’ She was relentless.

I ignored her question; she did not pursue it but changed tack. ‘You will die here, Catnip, maybe not literally, but you will die, what makes you you, it will be crushed and put into that compost bin over there. Your sisters got smart, they got out, you have to now.’

I looked beyond the ranks of runner beans and broad beans, to the fence that would have looked at home around Colditz, the new estate beyond it, new when they built it after the war, and above the patchwork pattern of roofs the loom of the moors. My sisters had had boyfriends, long term relationships nurtured in school, they had got jobs and taken my sisters away, married them, they lived in that maze of the estate now, each had two kids, their husbands drank together in the pub and did not beat the crap out of them when they came home. They each had a car and took their family on holiday, a static caravan in Skegness for one, a B&B in Blackpool for the other. They talked about a joint holiday in Spain… When the kids were older, when the economy perked up.

‘No Prince Charming in the wings?’ Francis asked softly, no mockery in her tone.

I shook my head, no Prince Charming, no, just an Elf Princess, and she went away.

We sat in silence, watching the shadows of the canes lengthen, I got another two bottles, brought out an old carrier bag to put the empties and the tops in.

‘Can you get time off?’ Francis asked.

I shrugged, I was owed holiday, plenty, I had not taken any, why would I? They kept reminding me if I did not claim it, I would lose it. I used to dream I would do what Francis did, drop out, go back-packing for a year, or maybe more, Thailand, Australia, wherever the trade winds took her. Where she went, I had no idea, she promised to write, but nothing ever came. All I needed was a trust fund like her grandfather left her, money for university, for airfare to travel, he had been an engineer on a tramp steamer after the Royal Navy discharged him after the war, a man who appreciated the joys of wandering the world.

‘I am on spring break,’ Francis said, tipping her bottle upside down to show me I was slacking. ‘I was planning on doing a week’s slow amble on the Pennine Way, why don’t you come with me?’

We hugged as she left, her hat was back on and it shadowed her eyes, I could not see them, she had always been taller than me and I looked up, trying to see them. When she left for Thailand, I had begged her to take me with her, and confessed what should never have been admitted to, small wonder she never wrote. Retreating back into my prison I wondered if this was her way of showing me forgiveness, a way back to how things had been. Could I do it? Had I the strength? Clearly, I had no pride, because I had eagerly agreed to meet her.

The Pennine Way

If I slept I knew nothing of it, in the morning I was at work, and booked my holiday, after nagging me constantly to take my holiday my supervisor balked and said it was a bad time and too short notice, we discussed it, and I told her to shove the job, I was astonished, as I walked out, just how good I felt, how relieved to bin that soul destroying crap.

I sobered up in Smiths, the cold sudden realisation that Dad just might, literally, kill me, cheered up at the second thought he might throw me out instead. In Smiths I bought a guide to the Pennine Trail, hey, Hermoine had her library, I always relied on Smiths. I also bought a book of stamps; I intended to send postcards to my fucking bitch of a supervisor from any stops along the way.

In the high street charity shops, I found a backpack with a bellyband to take the weight off the shoulders, it smelt of mould but seemed sound, I also got a pair of used hiking boots and a poncho like thing lined with something like foil that promised to keep me alive on Everest. In Boots I bought a lavender posset, looked a bit like a pin cushion, I stuck it into the backpack, hoping it would combat the mould smell.

Francis had assured me she had “all the gear” which I assumed meant a tent, cooker and stuff, I needed a sleeping bag, but drew the line at a second hand one, heaven know whose bugs I would be sharing! Argos provided me with what was called a “mummy” bag, because it was the same shape of an Egyptian mummy. Gross, but cheap, light and guaranteed to keep my alive on Everest, apparently that is the industry standard for camping!

After that I was beaten, you cannot, repeat, cannot fit a weeks’ worth of essential clothes into a backpack, not even close. After fruitless attempts to jam it in I laid it all out on the bed, shook my head, this was impossible. I went for brutal decisions. Seven pairs of panties, okay? No less, God help me I had to be rescued from some mountain, and they cut my clothes off to find the injury, and instead discover knickers worn for three days! Better to die.

Socks, seven, feet walked on all day stink, no argument. Bras, okay, cut back to three sports bras, maybe I would get a chance to air them out a bit. Jeans, the real issue, bulky, but I had to wear something below the waist! With a real effort of will I resigned five pairs, leaving two, and added a couple of summer shorts. I then binned the three sweaters and four sweatshirts and left seven T shirts with a light Gillette in case it dropped cold. Hats, all out, except for a Two Para Falklands baseball cap, priceless, literally… Don’t ask because I will not tell.

The pile of rejected clothes now exceeded the waiting clothes, but still too much. Trainers, essential, one cannot live in boots alone, towels, okay, one, a small one, hairbrush, swap for comb, shampoo, go, there might not even be a shower, so likewise body wash, sponge, but toothbrush and paste, essential!

I just about managed to stuff it all into the pack and shut it, until I realised, I had forgotten the mummy sleeping bag, but thankfully the pack had dangling straps that neatly gathered it up. Eureka!

Fuck! The boots! Oh rats, I would wear the trainers and hang the boots off the bag until needed, Sherpa Catnip ready for Everest! I slung the pack onto my shoulders, shrieked and fell backwards, wallowing like a helpless turtle. How could it be so damned heavy?

I caught the bus back into town just before lunch, as I tottered down the aisle, laden under the backpack, the driver set off with a jerk and I fell into the disabled seat and tried to look like I had planned it.

At the Transport Interchange I swapped to the train, had their not been a lift I probably would never have made it to the platform, as it was I settled on the train with the back pack next to me, occupying another seat, had the train been busy I am not sure what I would have done, Arnold Schwarzenegger would have struggled to bench press it up to the luggage rack.

In Leeds I left the train, paid a pound for a trolley and thankfully heaved my pack onto it and trundled around the platform for Hebden Bridge, Francis was already there, lovely in cutoff jeans and a blouse tied up above her belly button, the brown leather hiking boots and white socks turned down above them just added to her glamour, she had swapped her cowboy hat for a dashing tan beret.

I spotted her as I rode a glass lift down to the platform, she was prowling the platform restlessly, but keeping close tabs on a bigger pack than mine, sitting on a bench, and she was well advised to do so, as there was a man sitting next to it, with a pack resting between his legs, watching her in a very predatory way.

Alarmed for her I tried to will the lift down faster. She looked infinitely desirable and horribly vulnerable. But as I rolled the trolley out of the lift she backed up and sat next to the guy and to my utter dismay put her hand in his lap and they linked hands and glanced up at the announcement board as it rippled with changes.

I was devastated that there was someone else in her life, but hardly surprised! I shook my head, nothing changed, look up wallflower in the Oxford English Dictionary and there is a full colour photo of me right there. If she suggested a club a guy drove us there and back, or else she picked one up in the club, sometimes a guy took us, and a different one brought us back. The only change here was back then the men were usually older, Francis picked them for their wallets, not their youth. This one looked our age, a slim young man in chinos and a lumberjack shirt open at the collar, his pale hair tied back in a little ponytail, even from a distance I could see his boots were top of the range and his big rucksack sported the Black Diamond label.

Great, just great, once more I was the third wheel, and probably Francis’ own personal chaperone in case her current wallet got too demanding.

Had I any sense I would back up and get back in the lift, leave them to it, I just knew nothing good was going to come of this. Well, no one ever accused me of sense, so I marched on, Francis turned, saw me and smiled, said something to the guy, he looked at me, he did not smile, in fact he did not look at all friendly, situation normal, Catnip all fucked over.

Francis got up to meet me, had a brief tug of war as the guy would not let go of her hand, she snatched free and then was hugging me and I forgot my anger and disappointment and hugged her back, taking gleeful pleasure from the angry frown on the guy’s face as he sullenly watched our greeting, I got the impression Francis was rubbing it in by making the hug more enthusiastic than appropriate, but that was just fine by me.

Francis broke the embrace, tugged my rucksack off the trolley without apparent effort and grabbed my hand, pulled me up to the guy. ‘Peter, this is Catnip, Catnip, say hi to Peter.’

‘Hi,’ I muttered. Peter’s scowl deepened.

‘Peter is at Uni with me,’ Francis said brightly, this was the first I had heard that she was back at school, of course it had always been the master plan. ‘He is a really useful friend to have.’

I had already figured that, useful to Francis meant someone to pick up the tab, has a car, liked to buy her nice things. I was not being judgemental, I just knew my princess. I also noticed nothing was being said about me to Peter, she had probably already briefed him, I had heard it before, ‘she is fine, just a bit shy, you know, I look after her, she will be no bother, be nice to her, or just ignore her.’

‘You are late,’ he said in a surly tone. ‘Train is due in a minute.’

‘So I am just in time,’ I retorted brightly, conjuring my sweetest smile. ‘Nice to meet you, Peter, love the boots!’

To my surprise he tucked them under the bench, as if ashamed of them, I might not wear quality, but I know it when I see it, he had to be wearing at least a hundred quid on each foot.

‘Here it comes!’ Francis cheered, picking up her own bag, balancing mine and hers in both hands. A small train of just two carriages rumble to a stop and the doors hissed open invitingly, Peter stood up, shouldered his heavy pack, tried to take Francis’ but she skipped away, giving me a last glare, for now, Peter followed her onto the train, I sighed and joined them, where the hell else was I going to go?

Peter rudely pushed past me to claim the seat next to Francis, I was left to sit opposite. Peter put his hand on her bare thigh, if she noticed she pretended not to. I pulled out my guide to the Pennine Way and ignored them both.

My first surprise was the Pennine way ran north to south, up the spine of the hills, not across them, east to west, as I had always visualised. Francis was taking us to the north end of the way, officially stage 4 of the 20 stages. It was reckoned the average walker would complete 268 miles, Francis planned to just head south until the week was up, then head for the nearest bus or train station and come back to Leeds. Francis was never big on complicating things.

Hebden Bridge was a mile from the trail, it was Bronte country, Howarth was close by, we would be in the Calder Valley and our first hike on the trail would be a long climb up out of it onto the moors. I rested the book and concentrated on looking out of the window as the city slipped away.

I tried to make my pack feel as light as Francis seemed to find it, but it still felt like I had a gorilla clinging to me, I had to walk slightly stooped or else I was sure I was about to fall back on it.

We followed a road out of Hebden Bridge, traffic whipping past us, Peter took the lead and led us up a side road, then a gravel dusted dirt track rutted deep with tractor wheels. I was half faint with exhaustion when we reached a style over a drystone brick wall that had a post with an engraved metal sign on it, painted green and spelling out “Pennine Way” and had an acorn on it. Opposite was another style, the trail was a grassy path between the walls, set with a line of flat stones down the middle. Peter consulted a compass and set off along it, uphill, of course.

The trail faded away after a bit and we followed a rough path that was little more than hard packed earth with a dry wall on one side and a steep drop into the valley on the other.

Francis walked with a flowing, easy stride, her long legs making short work of the miles, Peter was more a head down slogger, I brought up the rear, telling myself I was enjoying the freedom and the beautiful day. And the view, as we climbed a vast rolling land of green fields squared off with low walls spread out, through them a river churned over protruding rocks and jumped down broad waterfalls, occasionally spread out into calm, deep blue reservoirs.

But I nearly cried with relief when Peter announced it would start getting dark soon, and this was not a good place to walk blind.

We pitched camp just off the trail on a patch of rough grass that bore the marks of previous tents. |I tried to help Peter erect the little hiking tent, but he grumpily informed me I would just get in his way. Francis beckoned me to join her, foraging for fallen twigs and dry grass to make up a fire. As we knelt with heads together, forming a pyramid and poking at scraps of paper with matches she whispered. ‘Don’t mind him, he will come around, men like to have their little sulks!’ We giggled, and then all the more when we saw him pause in his efforts, to see what we were laughing at.

‘It is just like when Harry Potter and Hermoine and Ron were hiding out, you can help me set up the spells around the tent!’ She told me. My money was on Peter doing a Ron and going off in a sulk.

Francis insisted on making supper, she balanced a pan with a folding handle on a couple of flat stones over the fire and tipped in the contents of three tins and grandly served up a hash of corned beef, tinned potatoes and some sort of soup. After a long half day hiking it was delicious, and I started to feel sleepy at once. I stuck a pen torch between my teeth and crawled into the tent, leaving them sharing a bottle of wine, drinking it from the neck.

I was surprised to see Peter had arranged my sleeping bag out for me, to one side of the tent, and disturbed to see a double sleeping bag at the other end, although the tent was so small they were almost touching. I struggled out of the hiking boots I had bought from a charity shop; I kept the rest of my clothes on, snugged up the zip of the sleeping bag and put my back to the double bed. Outside in the gathering dark I heard them talking in low tones, then they fell silent. Unable to resist I glanced down past my feet to the open tent flap. The fire had burned down to a soft red glow and silhouetted against it Peter and Francis were sitting shoulder to shoulder, heads turned to each other and kissing passionately.

Blushing and imagining murdering the molester of my love I put my head back down, and despite the storm of my thoughts I fell asleep.

When I woke it was pitch-dark, muffled sounds were close by, and I picked out the attempts of my tent mates to settle into their sleeping bag without waking me. Eventually the shuffling calmed to the hiss of a zip and some very quiet whispers. Then Francis said in an almost normal tone ‘Oh stop fussing, she sleeps like the dead!’

‘It was supposed to be just you and me!’ Peter grumbled, sotto voice.

‘Get over it!’ Francis told him brutally. ‘I have known her a lot longer than you, be thankful she agreed to let you come along!’

I had?

Peter muttered something I could not hear, but it made Francis laugh. ‘Big baby!’ She chided. I heard the slither of a body against the fabric of their bag, then a loud lip-smacking noise, like a fake kiss.

Peter gasped in the dark and let out a soft, drawn out ‘Ooh!’

The lip-smacking went again a few times, then turned into a sound like a child sucking on an ice pop. ‘Oh god!’ Peter whispered.

The lip-smacking sounded again and Francis whispered, ‘Just lie still!’ The sounds of shuffling bodies started again, and the urgent ZZZZZ as a zip was yanked. Unable to help myself I silently turned onto my other side to face the sounds.

It was not as dark as I had first thought, outside the tent was a faint pale light, and it bathed the tent fabric, against that soft backdrop of light I saw the clear silhouette of Francis kneeling up, just inches from me. Her hair was a spray of pale gossamer, and every line of her face was etched in clear relief, the swell of her breasts and erect nipples as clear as if carved from alabaster.

Then dark shadows closed over her breasts, and she let out a soft hiss of pleasure. ‘Go on!’ Peter urged her. ‘Please!’

One of her legs touched my arm, which was lying out of the bag, I felt her naked thigh against my bared arm, I realised she had cast back the sleeping bag and was kneeling over Peter, her leg nudged me again as she positioned herself, I did not move my arm, afraid she would realise I was awake and spying on her. The touch of her flesh to mine was an impossible thrill.

Francis paused her shuffling and lifted her head to look up to heaven, her hair cascaded down her back and she let out a fierce hiss, closely followed by a heart-felt groan from Peter. I felt the muscles in her thigh working as she flexed and relaxed them and as she did, her body lifted slightly and fell back in a slow, exotic rhythm. I struggled to keep my breathing even and slow, I heard the slap of skin on skin as they struck at each other, Peter gripping, then slapping at her swaying breasts, she punching her hands down against his chest.

Her movements became less smooth and faster, she panted and let out small yelps. Of its own volition my arm lifted and rested over her straining thigh, one of her hands closed over mine, pressing it down to her, a rope of muscled pulsed against my palm. I bit my lip to stop from moaning as her passion crossed our touch. I dug my nails into her, and she gasped ‘Not yet!’ Mortified I relaxed my hand, but she pressed it hard back down and her fingers closed over mine, forcing my nails back into her skin.

Her body bucked on her mount with increasing fury and Peter let out a strangled cry. Francis stopped and held still.

‘Oh, you beauty!’ Peter whispered.

Francis’ thigh slipped out of my grip and her silhouette collapsed as she lay down next to Peter, hugging him.

I lay, far to wired to sleep, Peter’s breathing deepened and slowed. Presently I saw Francis appear again as she sat up carefully. Her fingers tapped my still exposed arm. ‘Come on,’ she whispered.

She slid out into the night, slowly drawing up the zip of the flap. I crawled after, careful not to nudge the sleeping form of Peter. Outside the tent, on hands and knees, I stared up in wonder, the pale light was the stars, a vast array of them, away from the drowning lights of towns and cities they dominated the sky. By their delicate light I saw Francis, truly my Elf Princess, nude, the light of the galaxy on her skin, stretching yoga style, then she flipped her cheese-cloth blouse over herself like a cape and beckoned me. She led away from the tent, picking her path carefully. We reached a dry-stone wall that marked the trail, and she leaned over it, admiring the stellar view.

‘Hope that was not too gross for you,’ she said in a normal tone.

‘I should not have come,’ I voiced my miserable thought. ‘I am just in your way.’

She glanced sideways at me as I echoed her pose, leaning on the wall, in the distance a little sprinkle of lights in the thick darkness, perhaps a farmhouse. ‘I was not going to come when it was just him and me,’ She shrugged. ‘I was trying to find a way to let him down nicely. I was sure, I still am sure, that he planned this trip just to propose to me.’

‘Oh!’ I was dismayed on so many levels.

‘I never thought to insist on separate tents,’ she admitted. ‘You and I could have had one to ourselves.’

‘I do not understand,’ I confessed. ‘I mean if you do not want to marry him why did you...’ I floundered.

‘Because I am weak,’ Francis sighed, gazing back at the skies. ‘The wine, the night, and apart from being too quick on the trigger he is not a bad lover, but it was not fair on you, sorry about that.’ Her apology was a casual one, she did not sound sincerely contrite, but it was a first, she had never apologised before.

I was distracted by her breasts, hanging loose though the open shirt, they were laced with the marks of rough hands. I gathered myself. ‘Why don’t you want to marry him?’ It was not what I wanted to ask, but it was as close as I dared.

Francis turned and heaved herself backward to sit on the stone wall, swinging her naked legs, suddenly she ducked her head right down and her curtain of hair slapped against my face. ‘Climb up my hair!’ She ordered dramatically. I gathered her hair into a ponytail and gave it a gentle tug.

‘Rapunzel, my captive beauty!’ I laughed. ‘Oh, I miss your stories, you made them come to life.’

Francis fanned out her hair again. ‘Peter would tell me to brush my hair while he looked for the key to the tower. No, I think I can do better!’

It seemed cruel to me, but I did not mind, maybe I was not going to lose here again, so soon after she came back into my life.

We crept back into the tent and into our bags. I fell asleep quickly but woke twice, thinking Francis was sitting naked astride me and my hands were twisting into the flesh of her breasts, setting marks in them. The dream woke echoes of similar ones long ago, and the guilt they twisted me with, daring to think of such blasphemy about my princess.