Читать книгу Sarah’s Story: An emotional family saga that you won’t be able to put down - Lynne Francis - Страница 7

Sarah had watched the bird of prey awhile, shading her eyes against the midday sun. It was hunting from the edge of Tinker’s Wood, scattering small birds from the hedgerows where they had taken refuge from the heat. The hedge-hawk had had no success so far, and she wondered at the energy it was expending, but it was patient. It returned to the shelter of the woodland canopy each time, waiting for the scattered birds to settle, then launched another attack. She didn’t want it to succeed, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away, either.

Just when she thought it must have given up and flown away without her noticing, it startled her by skimming up over the hedge, so close to where she was sitting that she could have sworn she saw the intent in its yellow eye as it swept past. There was a muffled squawk, a flurry of fine feathers and calls of alarm – and it was all over. The hawk sped off, taking its prey to a plucking post deep in the woods.

With a sigh and a shudder, Sarah jumped down from the wall where she had perched herself and shook out her skirts, craning her head back over her shoulder to check for any mossy stains. She tied her bonnet back in place over her curly brown hair which, in honour of the unusual warmth of the weather so early in May, was loosely caught up on top of her head rather than hanging halfway down her back, then she turned back to the track. She’d wasted enough time and the plants in her basket were beginning to wilt. Her grandmother would not be pleased. With the sun in her eyes, Sarah didn’t notice the man until she was almost upon him. She cried out in shock and almost stumbled as she tried to avoid him.

His arm shot out and he held her in a firm grip. ‘Watch out for yoursen here, miss. ’Tis a rough track you tread and your ankles look a sight too dainty for it.’

Sarah, her heart beating fast at the close and unexpected encounter, felt her colour rise. It was wrong of the man to make a remark about her ankles, which in any case he couldn’t have seen, encased as they were in sturdy, though patched, boots.

She made to shake him off but he’d already let go of her arm and stepped back to a respectful distance. He held both hands up, placatingly.

‘I only thought to save you from a fall, miss. No offence.’

Now that she was no longer blinded by the sun she could see what manner of man he was. And she rather liked what she saw. He was barely taller than she was – unusual in itself as she was petite – wiry with dark curly hair and a deeply tanned face. His eyes shone bright blue and they seemed filled with an amused expression, while a smile played around his lips. She had no idea how she could read so much into a countenance, but she had the distinct impression that he was laughing at her.

‘I’ll thank you to stand aside and let me on my way,’ she said, with as much dignity as she could muster.

He regarded her gravely, then bowed. ‘The track is yours.’ He stood back to let her pass and she had gone but ten paces before he called after her, ‘But I’d be honoured if you’d let me keep you company along the way. I fear ’tis not safe for a young girl like you to be abroad along this path. ’Tis used by all manner of ruffians and vagabonds, heading to and from the water.’

His words echoed those of her grandmother, who had warned her never to use this route, tempting though it was as a short cut, for the very same reason. She faltered in her stride. How could she know whether or not he was the very same vagabond whom he was proposing to guard her against? She turned and regarded him.

‘And where are you from, if I might make so bold as to ask? Are you from these parts, or a stranger here?’

The man chuckled. ‘My name is Joe Bancroft. Today I am just passing through but I’ve spent enough time here in Nortonstall to know that the canal dwellers do have a fondness for this track here, using it to get them most directly into town, and they be, for the most part, company ’twould be the wisest for you not to keep.’

By this time, he had fallen into step beside her and, reassured by his manner, she had allowed him to keep pace with her until the track widened out. Here, a path struck out over the fields, climbing up towards Nortonstall, and she felt quite safe to take it alone. It was an open track and her progress along it would be visible for miles, not hidden as they were right now between two high hedges laden with May blossom.

He’d talked about all manner of things as they’d walked, about the hedges and the birds and the creatures hiding within, and she’d reached the end of their journey together knowing no more about him than she had at the start, nor he of her.

‘I thank you for your company but I must leave you now and make haste. My grandmother will be vexed.’

‘We must hope not,’ Joe said. ‘I, too, thank you for your company. I daresay I’ll not be able to pass this way again without remembering you.’ He smiled, a rich and joyous smile.

Sarah, rather taken with the thought, smiled back.

‘Might I know your name?’ Joe asked.

‘Sarah,’ she replied, all at once reluctant to part but turning to climb the stile nonetheless. ‘Sarah Gibson.’

‘Well, Sarah Gibson, I hope our paths may cross again, if not here then in t’near neighbourhood.’ And with that Joe tipped his hat to her and strode off.

Sarah, almost cross that he hadn’t offered to hand her up, mounted the stile, jumped down on the other side and retrieved the basket that she had pushed beneath, before striking out up the hill. She looked back once and could just make out the top of his hat as it passed between the hedgerows. A melodious yet jaunty whistling drifted up to her, causing her to smile again. Joe Bancroft appeared to be a man of the greatest good humour, something that his very presence seemed to spread and share. She rather hoped that she would see him again, and soon.

After that first encounter, Sarah had arrived home to Hill Farm Cottage breathless and flushed, easily accounted for to her grandmother, Ada, by her fear that she was very late and might have caused her to worry. She described at great length how she had wandered further afield than usual and discovered lungwort and comfrey, waxing lyrical about the great quantities there and promising to return for more at the first opportunity.

She made no mention of her route home by Tinker’s Way, nor of her encounter with Joe Bancroft. That was something to be kept to herself, a memory to savour in private moments when no one else was around. Having examined the chance meeting from every angle, Sarah concluded that it was something she must repeat, despite having no way of knowing how this could be achieved. As it was on Tinker’s Way that she had first seen Joe, she decided that it was to Tinker’s Way she must return, risking the wrath of her grandmother if her disobedience were to be discovered.