An Act of Love by Carol Drinkwater

Author:Carol Drinkwater [Drinkwater, Carol]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781405933377
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2021-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

45

Hours spent by the river, stepping along the rim of the gorge, sometimes with a picnic hamper, on our way to swim, these were the most precious hours. Nathalie accompanied us on quite a few of our late-afternoon outings if she was not swotting for future exams. Sylvie turned up one afternoon out of the blue. She was in the company of Thomas.

‘Fancy seeing you here, Sara,’ she sneered. ‘My, what a chic bathing costume. I wonder where that came from.’

After that, she slipped into the water and exchanged few further words with me. She was angry, hurt, jealous – of course she was – and she suspected Alain and I were up to something. There was a look of distrust, of steel in her blue eyes. She was accusing me of betraying her. I prayed she would not ask directly what was going on because I had no desire to lie to her, but I would if pressured. I was learning to be as cagey as Delphine.

Most cherished of all were the jaunts Alain and I took on our own. Cherished, although sometimes painful episodes. Painful, like the day he took me on a discovery tour along the Cherry Tree Route. We were not planning to climb the entire distance. That would have entailed an overnight stay and there was not the slightest possibility my parents would have agreed to such an outing.

Alain provided me with a sac de montagne to carry my water in and a small towel. He pulled his own, which was packed with our lunch, up over his shoulders. These cloth ‘mountain bags’ were what the locals called their knapsacks. As we marched, climbing gently in single file at first because the path was narrow as we left our village, keeping clear of loose stones that could send us flying or create a mini landslide, he pointed out various markers to help me find my way up or down should I ever attempt this alone.

‘Sheep graze on these hills. Wild goats, too. Further up, over to the right, see it, the landmark, there is a sheep wash. At that point, you are precisely one and a half kilometres from the village.’

He knew every scrap of this terrain. Not a scrubby bush missed his scrutiny, his recognition. If a plant had disappeared, he noted it.

He took frequent breaks, offering us the opportunity to slow our heartbeat, though he was so fit I felt sure this precaution was entirely for my benefit. Whenever he paused, he swung his body southwards to absorb the view, drawing it somewhere deep within himself, one precious draught at a time.

The path widened as we ascended. Our first pause at 1,900 metres was Madone de Fenestre. A holy site with a rest stop. Delphine had mentioned this chapel to me. It was an astonishing place, and sheltered, encircled as we were by mountains.

‘Behind us is the highest point in these Alpes-Maritimes, the Cîme du Gelas at 3,143 metres above sea level. Sara, quick, look there!’

A quartet of small long-haired creatures with pointed faces.

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