Chapter 5

      The ascent of Helm Crag was a delight; not much over a thousand feet but full of interest and beauties. He had set off in plenty of time and it was not much after noon when he reached the summit.

      He removed his rucksack and laid it on the ground at the foot of the group of rocks which he presumed gave the fell its nickname. But that was not the only interesting formation; the whole of the summit ridge was strewn with shattered slabs and broken boulders among which he wandered for a while, musing on that sense of peace underpinned with menace which mountains always gave him.

      When he returned to his rucksack, it was gone.

      ‘Over here,’ called Annie Wilson.

      He looked around. She was sitting in a well-sheltered declivity looking westward. His rucksack lay at her feet with hers.

      ‘You move fast,’ she said approvingly. ‘I was barely five minutes behind you when you started climbing, but you must have gained ten on the way up.’

      ‘I never saw you,’ he said frowning.

      ‘Move like the old brown fox, that’s me,’ she said.

      He sat down beside her. The old brown fox; he recalled his first sense, quickly modified, of a certain foxiness in her features; still, the description fitted well enough, except for the old. Dressed today in a heather-mixture shirt and dark green slacks which clung a little closer than walking trousers really ought to, she reclined among the rocks like a creature of them rather than a visitor to them. Her long black hair hung free today and there were some small green lichens in it picked up from the boulder behind her. The brown eyes in that narrow intelligent face had instantly registered his appraisal so he made no real attempt to conceal it.

      ‘Will I do?’ she asked.

      ‘You fit the occasion perfectly,’ he said. ‘And me?’

      She looked him up and down, her eyes lingering on his well-worn but beautifully maintained boots. Custom-made many years ago, they were a perfect fit, light and supple, with great reserves of strength, and with the lace lugs, like the lace tags themselves and all metal parts on all of his equipment, veneered a non-reflective brown.

      ‘You don’t stint yourself do you?’ she said touching the leather.

      ‘If a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing best,’ he said lightly. ‘I’ve brought tongue sandwiches and a piece of salmon quiche. What about you?’

      ‘Apple, cheese, and a bramble pie,’ she said.

      ‘We complement each other perfectly. Do you mind drinking Chablis out of a cardboard cup?’

      ‘As long as it doesn’t come out of a cardboard box first,’ she said.

      They began to eat. Conversation flowed easily, but shallowly too. She refused to let him penetrate far into her personal life, and as he was by need as well as nature reticent about his own background, he could hardly suggest a fair exchange.

      ‘When shall you move into Rigg Cottage?’ she asked.

      ‘That depends.’

      ‘On what?’

      On what happens between me and you, he thought but did not say. It was not that he was afraid to say it; simply that he was not yet ready. Her response might be indignation, but he did not think so. If it were, it would be on her aunt’s behalf, not her own. More baffling would be the simple question, ‘What do you want to happen between us?’

      The truth was, he didn’t know. He was attracted to her, but this might simply be a symptom of reaction to his decision to retire. He felt relaxed, able to enjoy himself, and the first attractive woman to come along was ipso facto in the right place at the right time. He was surely too old for love at first sight. He had even begun to think he was getting a little too old for lust at first sight. Indeed, this did not feel like mere lust, though desire was moving languorously through his veins as she brushed pastry crumbs from her swelling shirt and stretched her long slim legs.

      ‘On business,’ he said vaguely.

      ‘What precisely is your business, Mr Hutton?’ she asked rather sharply, as if provoked by his vagueness.

      ‘To tell the truth it’s almost non-existent,’ he said. ‘I ran a little management consultancy firm, almost a one-man show, but the recession’s been too much. I’ve sold out to a competitor while there’s still something to sell out. So now, like thousands of my fellow citizens, I’m drifting into early retirement. Just a few loose ends to tie up, that’s all.’

      ‘None of these loose ends could affect your purchase of Rigg Cottage?’ she asked, suddenly alert.

      ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve been making some sound investments against this day for years. The sale is secure, believe me.’

      She said, ‘At the moment it’s only as secure as your handshake, isn’t it? I don’t mean to be offensive.’

      ‘Don’t you?’ he said, slightly piqued, a feeling he knew he had no entitlement to, since, if she had given him the brush-off yesterday, he might already have reneged on the deal. ‘It takes two to shake hands, you know. And tell me this; if someone turned up today, cash in hand, with a better offer, how would you advise your aunt to react?’

      She frowned a little, then smiled.

      ‘Even your brief acquaintance with Aunt Muriel must have taught you she’d feel no need to ask for advice from me,’ she said.

      He said, ‘They don’t by any chance let women become Jesuits nowadays, do they?’

      She smiled again and turning away from him said, ‘I spy with my little eye something beginning with H.’

      He let his gaze drift to the horizon.

      ‘Harrison Stickle,’ he said promptly.

      ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Your turn.’

      ‘B,’ he said.

      ‘Bow Fell,’ she replied.

      ‘You know you can’t see Bow Fell from here,’ he chided. ‘The Langdales get in the way.’

      ‘So they do,’ she said innocently. ‘I give up then.’

      ‘Blea Rigg. There.’

      He pointed.

      ‘So it is,’ she said. ‘Well done.’

      ‘I pass the test then?’

      ‘Do you? My marking scheme is, to say the least, eccentric.’

      ‘But it was a test?’

      ‘A tiny one,’ she smiled. ‘When I saw that brand-new Wainwright fall out of your pocket, I did wonder if you mightn’t be shooting a line with all that great fellwalker stuff.’

      He complimented himself on having studied both his Wainwright and his OS map carefully for a good hour that morning. But perhaps it was time for a bit of truth to get himself a rest from those searching eyes.

      ‘You’re right to some extent, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘I was trying to