The Way We Are by Sally Graham

Author:Sally Graham
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Lite Bite Publishing
Published: 2019-04-09T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Blake dropped Carrie off at her car, and drove back to the bothy as a steady drizzle began to fall. The quad slithered in muddy puddles and she was glad to push her front door shut against the wind. Her blonde hair was plastered against her head in spite of her woollen cap and the rain had found its way through the layers of clothing she thought would protect her.

Romy pushed past her, and they both stood in the porch of the bothy which was littered with boots, wet weather kit, walking sticks, shepherds’ crooks, twine, sheep medicines and the other detritus of shepherding life.

Peeling off her outer garments so as not to bring water into her house, she towelled Romy down. “Yes - your supper is coming,” she murmured, rubbing the dog’s forelegs and pulling a thistle out her coat.

It was dark by the time Blake had lit the fire, showered, completed the paperwork she needed to prepare before the sheep market the following week, made supper, and finally sank on to her couch in front of the roaring flames.

She normally didn’t allow Romy into the house as she was a working dog and had her own kennel outside, but she had done good work up the glen and deserved a treat. As if reading her thoughts, Romy looked at her with a knowing eye before jumping nimbly onto the space beside Blake and began to nuzzle her wrist, and then lick her bare arm affectionately.

Blake sat back drowsily, enjoying the heat and warmth of the fire, the unexpectedly enjoyable hike with Carrie, and the companionship of the sheepdog. She glanced down as the dog licked her, the pink tongue flicking over the small ridged scars on her arm.

She brushed her away and instinctively pulled the shirt sleeve down, but then paused. With a start, she knew that Romy loved her as dogs do, unconditionally, whatever she might think of herself. Her scars didn’t matter to the sheepdog at all. What was it her therapist had said in one of their last conversations before she left New Zealand?

“You know, Blake? When you look at your arms, you only see those scars and what they mean to you. But there’s someone out there who is going to look at your arms, and see someone they love. They won’t even notice them.”

Blake suddenly felt wide awake, her body charged with an energy that belied the arduous hours working the sheep high up the glens. Slowly and deliberately, she rolled up both her sleeves, and looked from one arm to the other, as if she saw for the first time the fragile beauty of the thin skeins of lighter skin. They had metamorphosed, mysteriously, from marks of self shame into a symbol of strength, and independence.

Other people have inkings and tattoos, she thought suddenly. I have my scars. To hell with it!

She leaned over and hugged Romy. “You don’t know what you’ve just done for me, honey,” she whispered into the sheepdog’s silky ear.

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