Page 17 of Love Letters on Hazel Lane

They set off along the road, in the same direction as all the other walkers, and took a path into a woodland. A sign ahead said: ‘Waterfalls’.

Aha, thought Jo, so that’s what he’s brought me to see. Kind of romantic. Well, it would be if she fancied him.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been for a walk. A proper walk, rather than a short stroll along the canal to feed the ducks. It was such a simple pleasure: breathing fresh air; counting the different shades of green on the trees, hearing the ground scrunching underneath your feet, the birds singing. She ought to do this more often. It was a bit silly, living somewhere like Hebbleswick, surrounded by beautiful countryside yet only ever seeing it from the train window on her daily commute to and from Manchester.

And it was a lovely thing to do on a first date. Far better than sitting opposite someone in a pub or a restaurant. How many times had she done that?

Suddenly, an unwelcome image popped into her head.

Her first date with Si.

Her ex-husband.

He’d taken her to the poshest of restaurants. She’d been half-impressed, half-intimidated, certain that the waiting staff were all looking down on her. It must have been obvious from her clothes that this wasn’t the kind of place she usually frequented.

But Si had strode in as if he came here every day. She’d almost expected the wine waiter – or what was it Si had called him? The sommelier (13 points) – to say, ‘The usual, sir?’

‘What would you like, Joanne?’ he had asked, when he’d seen her frowning at the complicated menu.

She’d hesitated, wondering whether to remind him that she preferred being called Jo. She’d mentioned it once already.

‘Shall I order for you?’ he’d said.

It had seemed kind of gallant at the time, and she’d nodded gratefully. Only later did she realise it was the first of many choices that he’d made on her behalf. At least on their first date, he had asked.

‘Wow, look at that,’ said Ras.

Jo jolted back to the present with a huge sense of relief. They were standing by a waterfall, white froth deluging over steely grey rocks.

‘It’s lovely,’ she said, raising her voice to be heard over the noise of the water. ‘Thank you for bringing me here.’

‘You’re welcome. Although this isn’t what I’ve brought you to see. We’ve still got a couple of miles to go.’

‘Let me guess. We’re climbing a hill?’

‘Nope. We can do that afterwards if you like. Although I rather thought we might go for tea and cakes.’

Tea and cakes. Now he was talking her language.

‘Afterwards… after what?’

‘Wait and see. You’ll love it.’ He held up crossed fingers.

They yomped on. A wide pathway led upwards, along the path of the river, with fields of sheep on either side, and drystone walls criss-crossing the hillsides. The path grew narrower, winding steadily upwards into a gorge with limestone rocks towering on either side of them.

After scrambling up some loose rocks, they found themselves on open moorland, the slopes of Ingleborough now visible in the distance, and beneath it, a large, white tent, not unlike the kind you saw on TV detective shows.

‘Is that where we’re heading?’ she said. ‘Or have they found a body?’

‘A body?’

‘They look like those tents you see on crime dramas on the telly. You know, that they put over the murder victim whilst they do their forensic tests or whatever.’

He laughed. ‘I see what you mean, but no-one’s been murdered. Hope not anyway, as that’s where we’re going.’

As they drew closer, Jo could see it was more like a marquee – 18 points – than a forensics tent. For a second, she imagined it was some kind of village fete, up here on the hillside, and that a committee of women from the local WI were at this very moment judging the Victoria sponge competition. Ridiculous idea. But it was baffling. Why would someone go to the trouble of lugging a big tent all the way up here?

‘What is it?’