Echoes of the Dance Read Online Free PDF Page A

you directions. I’m simply hopeless at that kind of thing and we’re rather hidden away.’
    He’d done better than that: he’d telephoned.
    â€˜I’m so glad that you can get away,’ he’d said, as if it were she who was conferring the treat. ‘Mim’s often spoken of you. Now how would it be if you took down some directions? Got a pencil?’
    Getting from the A38 onto the A30 sounded very simple but shortly after he’d talked her past Launceston and onto more local roads she’d begun to laugh.
    â€˜Help!’ she’d said. ‘I’m lost already. I’ve got it all down but if I could have your telephone number I’ll put it into my mobile and then you can rescue me if need be.’
    He’d chuckled too. ‘If you can get a signal,’ he’d warned. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll send you a blow-up of the local map and you’ll be fine. Can you manage short walks? . . . You can? Then don’t forget your walking boots.’
    He’d done just as he’d promised. Each small road, crossroad and lane along her route was inked with red, leading all the way to the edge of the moor and the ford. Attached to the map was a drawing: an enlarged section of the lane over the ford and the house itself. He’d drawn himself and Mim waiting outside with several dogs in attendance: two retrievers and a small brown person that she’d identified as a dachshund. She’d laughed with pleasure at the little sketch: it captured Mim to the life – elegant, eager – and, if this tall man with a mane of white hair and the small dog in his arms were Roly, then she was very ready to love him too.
    She packed her case and gathered her belongings, watching all the time for the return of the little car, listening for a ring at the doorbell. There was no sign of Paul. By Sunday morning the car had not returned and, assuming that he’d gone away for the weekend, she set off for Cornwall feeling oddly disappointed.
    On the whole she managed very well, following Roly’s instructions, recognizing odd names from their conversation: Kennards House, Pipers Pool, St Clether. Once she’d turned off into the quieter roads she drove slowly, delighted with the variety of the countryside that was unfolding around her. Here, in this tiny village, the sheltered cottage gardens were full of flowers, next moment she was passing over a wild heath where the silently turning sails of a wind farm transformed the landscape into a strange, bizarre world. One minute she glimpsed the sea, the next she’d plunged into a deep narrow lane sunk between high banks of thorn and furze. A board stuck in a hedge advertised a bank holiday fête: the attractions included a flower festival and duck racing.
    â€˜ Duck racing?’ Daisy rolled her eyes. How did one race ducks? She had a mental picture of a group of Jemima Puddle-Ducks racing along a track on their yellow webbed feet, quacking madly. She shook her head, dismissing such a crazy idea, and stamped painfully on the brake as a pheasant ran out in front of her. She followed it slowly whilst it zigzagged to and fro along the lane until it rocketed suddenly upwards with a clatter of wings and vanished over the hedge.
    She drove on, taking one or two wrong turns but, with the aid of the map, she got herself back on the right route and it was with a sense of triumph that she passed through the ford and pulled into the yard.
    Only one dog was waiting for her – one of the retrievers was lying in the sunshine – but it gave her a moment to savour the charm of the old barn and the beauty of its setting. As she climbed rather stiffly out of the car she could hear barking from somewhere inside and almost immediately a man came through the open doorway, the two other dogs at his heels. Daisy recognized him at once from the drawing.
    They smiled at each other: his handclasp was warm and firm and she saw