Page 88 of A Year at Appleyard Farm
Laura felt a sudden hard shove as something made contact with the middle of her arm and she was pushed roughly to one side, spinning around so that she crashed through the bush, landing sprawled on her back. She was vaguely aware of something hurtling past her and, as she flailed her arms around to try and slow her downward movement, an even bigger shape shot past, only metres from where she lay. She stared at the road in shock, her heart pounding, a sharp stinging in her arm from the thorns which had torn at her skin as she fell. Within moments, a gentle wet nose poked at her as Boris came to her side, licking her face. She struggled into an upright position, chest still heaving, to see what had cannoned into her.
The cyclist was lying on his back too, his bike to one side, the front wheel buckled, the rear still spinning wildly. He’d obviously gone straight over the handlebars, and Laura flinched at the memory of doing this as a child. She got cautiously to her feet, but apart from the pain in her arm and a slight soreness in her backside, she was unhurt, more shocked than anything. She crept to the side of the prostrate figure, fervently hoping for no blood or broken bones, stopping dead when she saw him. She recognised his face instantly. Of all the people who could have crashed into her this afternoon, it would have to be Stephen bloody Henderson; arrogant pig. And what on earth was he wearing? She could feel the heat of her anger beginning to rise as she stood looking down at him. He might have really hurt her, careering about the countryside on a bike he clearly couldn’t control properly. If he wanted to look like an over-stuffed sausage in that ridiculous Lycra get-up that was up to him, but she certainly didn’t want to be involved in his midlife crisis.
She was about to walk away when both his eyes suddenly shot open and he lurched upwards, looking about him wildly, his breath coming in short pants. He struggled to focus, eventually homing in on her face as his brain seemed to catch up with the rest of him.
‘Jesus, are you all right!’ he exclaimed, trying to get to his feet. ‘I could have killed you!’
Laura studied his face, unsure of what to say. In fact, she didn’t want to say anything at all. Stephen’s face was all screwed up, his jaw clenched. He certainly didn’t look like he was sorry.
‘I’m fine,’ she stated, beginning to look around for the bag she had dropped. There was no way she was hanging around for a minute longer than necessary. She spied it caught up in the branch of one of the bushes, and was about to retrieve it when she felt an arm tugging at hers. She wheeled around.
‘I said…what on earth were you doing just standing in the bushes like that? You’re lucky I saw you at all.’
He was shouting now, his face contorted.
‘I was picking sloes, not that it’s any of your business. What on earth wereyoudoing riding that thing around when you clearly can’t control it? And…if I’m not much mistaken, you were on the wrong side of the road.’
Stephen stared at her as if she had grown another head. ‘Me?Iwas out of control? Didn’t you see the bloody car going ninety miles an hour down the road? The one I swerved to avoid, the one that narrowly missed you? Are you blind or something?’
Laura bent down to retrieve her bag, picking up Boris’ lead which was trailing on the ground. She turned back to Stephen and looked him squarely in the eye.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m deaf.’ And then she walked away.
48
Laura had only gone a matter of yards before she felt a sharp tug to her arm once more. Anger leaped into her throat. She turned swiftly.
‘Will you stop grabbing my arm?’ she snarled.
Stephen had the grace to step back slightly, looking momentarily abashed.
‘And before you ask the bleeding obvious, I can lip-read, that’s how. So, I can ‘hear’ what you said, but no I didn’t hear the car tearing down the road, or you screeching across the road, or squealing your brakes or shouting, or any of those things that probably happened. Is that enough of an explanation for you, or do you need me to go on?’
Stephen stared at her. ‘No, that’s enough of an explanation,’ he said, and she could see that he was no longer shouting. ‘I had no idea, I’m sorry.’
‘What? Sorry for hurling me into the middle of a prickly bush or sorry because I’m deaf?’
There really was no answer to that, and Laura didn’t expect one. She glared at Stephen for one last moment and then turned her back on him once more, stomping off down the lane. There was no tug to her arm this time.
* * *
Behind her, Stephen gazed after the slender figure, still trying to catch his breath. God, if she was this beautiful when she was angry, imagine what she would look like when she smiled.
* * *
Laura made it home in near record time. Even Boris, sliding in through the door after her, flopped onto his bed in the corner of the kitchen with a reproachful eye.
‘And you can stop looking at me like that as well,’ she muttered, fetching the dog a bowl of water.
She managed to fill the kettle, set it to boil, and place the teabag into her cup before the tears came. She had done it again. What on earth was the matter with her? She had never been like this before David died.
She prodded the tea bag in her cup viciously. She didn’t really know what it was that made her act the way she did. Her walk had been lovely, the loaves she carried in her bag were fresh and fragrant, and she had enjoyed the balmy autumn air. On the face of it then she had been in a good mood, so why on earth had she felt the need to take Stephen apart the way she had? After all, despite the fact that she hadn’t wanted to listen to what he had to say, it sounded as if he had come to her rescue in a roundabout way; even if that had necessitated shoving her to the ground. Her memory of the events leading up to their encounter was patchy, but Stephen hadn’t fared too well himself. She could have offered some gratitude, or even a solicitous enquiry after his own health, but instead she had berated him for something which was obviously not his fault at all.
Anger seemed to come at her from nowhere these days, boiling up when she least expected it, and when it did, the resulting embarrassment only served to make her worse. Instead of apologising for her behaviour like any normal person, she cranked her abuse up a gear and then walked away; running back to the safety of her little cottage, to her warm kitchen, where she was alone and could ruminate on her shortcomings at length. Her anger scared her. Everything scared her, and today was another stark reminder of how vulnerable she was.
She took her tea to the table, wrapping her arms around Boris who had magically appeared at her side. The sloes were still in a bag by the sink where she had left them, but her impulse of earlier in the day had waned, and she couldn’t be bothered to deal with them now. The dog’s fur was warm and comforting, and it seemed easier simply to sit where she was for the time being and let herself be soothed.
It was some time before she moved again, reluctantly getting up to prepare the fruit. She made it a rule never to pick more than she needed, or to waste what she carried home. If nature had seen fit to provide such bountiful produce, then she was only allowed to pick, never plunder. This batch of sloes was destined for the freezer first, where it would sit for a couple of hours until covered with a layer of ice. So far, the autumn had been warm, and the first frosts of the year had yet to appear, so the sloes would benefit from their assisted freezing, releasing their juices and flavour into the alcohol she would steep them in much more readily as a result. It wasn’t until she was running water into the sink to give the fruit a good wash that she remembered the connection between Stephen and Freya.
