Hill Walker (The)

Beneath them, Malvern swelters. Its ingrained gentility threatened
by those ladies touching middle age who shop without tights. Their
upper arms hang like half moons from sleeveless dresses. They mingle
effortlessly with coach loads of American tourists and visitors who
arrive in search of culture and Englishness.

It is a fine day. Anna basks in the July haze. Her hair is fanned like
angels' wings around her face. Jake is sprawled untidily in the faded
grass. His head rests on his arms. He monitors her lack of movement
through half shuttered eyes. Her eyes are shut against the sun and his
intrusive gaze. Jake sighs. His left hand reaches out and his fingers
drum the tight earth. Anna turns her face towards him. Jake pauses. He
slices a look back.
"It's not hurting you." He thumps the ground in defiance and the
backbeat of his favourite dance track is slapped into the ground.

Anna's body tenses. The warmth of the sun fuels her frustration. She
feigns dozing as her eyelids heat up like hot pennies. Jake tires of
his assault on contemporary music and flicks the grass in contempt. A
fragile truce descends on North Hill.

Anna is conscious of her arms and draws an imaginary finger along her
triceps. She relaxes. Her arms are still tight with youth and years
away from middle age.

"Morning." A cool shadow cuts across her face. Anna opens her eyes and
squints upwards at a pair of legs. Slim male limbs stand over her. His
calves are toned, lean and well bedded in sturdy boots and walking
socks.
"Morning" Anna smiles up at the stranger. Jake rolls himself up on to
his side. His presence hovers like a kestrel on high thermals. He cups
his head in his hand and surveys the man from the proprietorial view of
a Roman emperor. His body fences Anna in; her arm forms a perfect
equilateral triangle as she flings a wrist over her eyes. Jake watches
her gaze move up over the stranger's knees and thighs. She rests
briefly on his crotch before peering through her fingers at his face.
The stranger inhales deeply.

"Inspiring, isn't it?"
"Yes." Anna pauses and politely raises herself to her elbows. "It is."
She follows his vision across towards The Vale of Evesham and
beyond.
She watches his posturing. His legs are wide apart in a stride mode. He
rocks slightly on his feet, minute movements that gently flex his toned
muscles. He is proud of his legs. They are not bad legs for a man of
his age.

"He used to ride up here on an old boneshaker."
Jake glances up.
"Who?"
"Elgar."
He stares down as Jake falls silent. His legs freeze momentarily. Jake
turns away. It is more with boredom than shame. The man still stands
next to Anna. He waits as if he still expects some further
conversation. Anna re-examines his legs. They have a colour of gentle
weathering and are splattered with large golden freckles. Anna thinks
of eggs.

"You here for the day?"
"Walking holiday."
"On your own?"
"My wife doesn't much care for walking. She does her own thing."
Anna looks past the man, up to the marbled sky. She can sense Jake's
reaction to the man.
"I'd better be going." He smiles down at them. "I'll be well into
Herefordshire by tonight. Enjoy your day."

Anna watches his dappled legs descend from view. She turns and gazes
across to the beacon. It is partially obscured by people with the world
at their feet. She can hear fragments of their laughter slide across
the air like early morning birdsong.

"That's stupid."
"What is?" She already knows the answer.
"Him; I wouldn't like you to go away with out me." His restless palm
drops onto her hand. "No point being with someone, just for them to go
away without you." His fingers twist around hers. "Is there?"

Anna shuts her eyes. She tries to disengage her mind from this
unwelcome intrusion. Her lids turn to a thick transparent shield of
orange intersected with fine capillaries. The heat rises. Anna reclines
on the Silurian slopes that shield Malvern from the West. The sun warms
her blood and sucks up tiny beads sweating from her skin.

The warm of the sun invites sleep. It lulls Anna into a false sense of
slumber. She wraps herself into the heat. She should feel safe.

It grows dark. The heat covers like a duvet and suffocates her with
thick padding around her throat. She can hear muffled anger from
beneath her; she cannot speak out.

The sun scorches through the fine cloud. It wrings out any vestiges of
moisture that remain, hardening the earth. The hills deflect its heat
deep between the shops and houses. There is no hiding place. People
bustle like ants. Ants viewed through a magnifying glass with the sun
on their backs. Anna can feel small knots of earth digging between her
spine. She writhes gently.
"What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing."

Anna sits up. The sudden movement drains her sight. The impulse of dark
heat fills her eyes. She blinks uneasily. Her brain thumps her blurred
vision back into focus.

Anna gazes round in a protractoral sweep. The sun catches the windows
of a distant train. The needle of light glimmers like a fine trail of
oozing sap. She swings her vision to the beacon. Anna staggers to her
feet.

"Just going across to the beacon." She looks down at him.
"Coming?"
"What for? It's too hot."
"Because."
Jake glares up. His face is distorted by the brightness.
"Don't be long."

Anna descends. She knows when she has escaped his view. Her shoulders
relax and her arms are thrown out for balance as she tight walks the
narrow path. Anna feels the steepness of the hill contract in her
thighs. She watches her feet, as she takes tiny braking steps. She is
conscious of losing her balance. Anna thinks of eggs, deep, runny,
golden yolked eggs.

The path pans out on the valley floor. She is hidden for now between
North Hill and The Worcestershire Beacon. Anna pauses. She draws breath
as her eyes follow the path draped like thin rope over the hills'
surface. Her vision is blinkered, restricted by the hills, formed
millions of years before from igneous metamorphic rock. Anna turns away
and begins to climb. She climbs almost on all fours. Her hams and
calves tighten as she scrabbles towards the beacon. She grabs tussocks
of wire-like grass to pull herself upward and onward. She devours
mouthfuls of air. The end result will be worth the effort.

Anna's mouth is parched. She thinks of bottles of Malvern water stacked
in cool clean supermarkets, full of mothers with young children. Her
lips are cracked. She bites off small flakes of skin and swallows. Warm
sticky blood is pressed between her lips.

Anna hauls herself upright. She is level with the beacon. She won't
look at the view. Not yet. She strokes the beacon's surface. Her
fingers trace out the carved outlines of directions and distances. She
wraps her arms around its circumference and follows round in a three
hundred and sixty degree sweep. She pauses. Her head rests on her
arms.

Anna stands and stretches. She shuts her eyes as the sun bathes her
face. The heat folds itself around her. She is conscious of Jake
watching. She turns to view his prone form. He does not acknowledge
her. She raises her eyes above him. Distant hills merge to haze and
sky. She turns, slowly. She worked hard for this view. Anna intends to
take her time.

She stares down at Malvern. Houses cling to the lower slopes. They are
elegant and graciously built. They allow Malvern a continental feel.
People below continue with their lives unquestioningly. She imagines a
torrent of water rendering them helpless and sweeping them along the
streets. People taken by the waters. Cool cleansing water.

She turns and looks away from Malvern. Anna travelled in from this
direction. At night as she walks back home from their small local pub,
she can see the hills. The foot of the hills is draped in a necklace of
fine lights. The hills are warm and welcoming. They are full of
knowledge.

She stands still in solitude. Her feet are firmly stuck to the soil.
She thinks of secret underground caverns and deep springs that swell
below and rise to the surface. The impurities filtered away by age-old
rock. The result is cleansed, pure and fresh to the palate.

She changes her direction and looks out past the beacon. She stares.
Her palms cap her eyes. The view stretches easily into blurred
horizons. She squints for the British Camp. Something moves. Anna
stiffens. She thinks she sees him, already deep into Herefordshire; a
tiny speck of coloured pigmentation; moving on.