Page 20 of Rescuing Rosie
‘We can use the back entrance,’ said Ant.
‘I always love a back entrance!’ said Madison to Dale.
‘In fact,’ continued Ant, ‘if you both keep your boots on, we can walk you back to the hotel via the footpaths. It’ll avoid the people and break the boots in a bit.’
‘Good plan,’ said Dale. He looked at Rosie and smiled. ‘And perhaps a pint in the bar when we get there?’
This was promising. A weekend, no-strings flirtation with this gorgeous northern lad would surely be a step on the road to mending her broken heart, and to restoring her battered self-esteem. ‘Good thinking!’ she said. ‘My Xanadu should beready and waiting. Ashley promised. That’s the house cocktail, apparently.’
‘Let’s go, then,’ said Madison. ‘I’m gasping.’
‘I’ll go back the way we came and tell Ashley there’s no need to pick us up,’ said Veronica. ‘I can provide a diversion for the sightseers too.’
While Ant locked up behind Veronica, and Dale put their footwear into Hill and Dale carrier bags, Madison and Rosie scrolled through the Instagram photos of Wainwright on numerous hilltops. In most he was alone, but sometimes Ant was in the pictures too, his arm round the dog. He did, in fact, have a lovely smile.
‘How many mountains has Wainwright climbed?’ Rosie called to Ant.
‘A hundred and fifty-four down, sixty to go. Alfred Wainwright described two hundred and fourteen fells in his books.’
‘Isn’t it dangerous for dogs?’
‘Not at all. And Wainwright’s a great climber; very sure-footed,’ said Ant. ‘Moreso than most humans.’
‘Well, dogs have four legs and don’t have to manage umbrellas.’ She caught a tiny smile as he came over.
Dale waved towards a door at the back of the shop. ‘Quickly, ladies, before the plebs rumble us.’
The damp, rain-scented air was deliciously fresh as they exited onto a narrow footpath skirting the backs of more shops, before leading past a churchyard. Dale led the way; Ant and Wainwright brought up the rear.
‘Wordsworth’s buried here,’ called Dale, ‘if you want to risk a stop?’
‘I’d like to see his grave,’ said Rosie.
‘No,’ snapped Madison. ‘I’m cold and I need a drink.’ She grabbed Dale by the arm, pulling him on. ‘If I never see anothereffing daffodil in my entire life, it’ll be too soon. Take me to my Xanadu, Dale.’
‘Catch us up,’ Dale called, as Madison linked her arm through his. Was there a note of panic in his voice?
Ant frowned at the departing couple, and Rosie wondered whether it was out of concern for his colleague, jealousy (unlikely), or at the tiresome thought of having to play tour guide.
‘Would you mind?’ she asked, hesitantly. ‘I’ve always liked Wordsworth’s poetry.’
‘It’s in here,’ he said, leading her through a wrought-iron gate in the church wall.
The grave was worn and grey and unremarkable, considering the man’s fame.
‘It’s very peaceful,’ she said. ‘I like how it’s simple, and that he’s got his family with him … Oh –hello!’
A black cat had emerged from the gap between Wordsworth’s grave and the one next to it. Wainwright, who had been let off his lead, shattered the silence with a stream of ear-splitting barks. The cat shot through the palings around the graves and took off, swiftly followed by Wainwright, deaf to the exasperated yells of his master, who set off after him.
When they didn’t reappear, Rosie followed, and soon spotted them side by side in a grove of trees just off the path, brightened by a carpet of daffodils. Wainwright was back on his lead. Although the rain had stopped, water was dripping from the leaves above, and the daffodils were drooping under its weight. All was quiet; there was no sign of the cat.
Rosie joined Ant, who was gazing at a plaque sitting among the flowers:Nature never did betray the heart that loved her. She sighed, reminded again of recent events. ‘That’s so beautiful,’ she said, and before she could stop herself added, ‘If only men were that reliable.’
Ant glanced down at her. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘nature’s far from reliable in these parts, especially when it comes to the weather.’ When she didn’t respond, he added, ‘But then I don’t think Wordsworth was a serious walker.’
Jeez, this man was like the poet’s lonely cloud, if it had been grey and moved across the sun at every opportunity.
‘More of a wanderer than a hiker, perhaps,’ she said. ‘Oh look – a lovelock. What a gorgeous place to leave one.’ The grove was bordered by a low, wrought-iron fence, and attached to it was just the one lock, bright red and heart-shaped. As Rosie bent down and traced the engraving with a finger –Carl + Lisa 4 Eva– she remembered Lysander the gardener snapping off padlocks and chucking them into his wheelbarrow like pieces of trash.
