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"It'll be funny going down again, like starting a new life."

I looked from Dad to Sam. Sam's head had drooped lower, he was no longer looking at the water but down to the floor. I went to him and put my arm round his shoulders, and Dad's attention was drawn to him again and he punched him playfully on the head saying, "It's not really bad, Sam, you get used to it. You won't believe it, but I felt the same as you when I started. Thirteen I was and couldn't sleep for nights."

"But, Uncle Bill, I'm ... I'm ..." The tears were in Sam's eyes again as he looked at Dad and he could not bring himself to say, "I'm frightened of the dark," but we all knew what he meant.

"Come and have some tea." It was my mother speaking now.

"I've got some lardy cake."

After tea Sam stayed in our kitchen until Aunt Phyllis's voice yelled from the backyard, "You, Sam!" and when he was gone my mother said,

"Poor little beggar, and him scared without a light." Then getting up from her chair and pushing the seat level under the table, she said,

"That's that Don."

Neither Dad nor I made any comment.

Later that evening I found it impossible to sit quietly with my mother and so went upstairs, then came down again and walked from the front-room window to the kitchen window. The house felt airless and I had a sudden longing for a sight of the river.

"Do you mind if I take a walk, Mam?" I said.

"No," she said hastily, "You look pee ky It's this heat. Where do you think of going?"

"Just down to the river," I said.

"You wouldn't like your dad to come with you?"

"No, no," I shook my head quickly.

"Then go out the front way," she said.

This was so that Don, if he was in the kitchen or in his room which looked on to the back as mine did, would not see me making for the river.

I did not even go upstairs to tidy my hair, I just slipped off my apron and went quickly out of the front door. I walked sedately down the street, around the corner and on to the fells proper. But once I was hidden behind the rise of the land I began to run and did not stop until I had reached the river bank, and there, looking down into the water, I kept drawing in deep gulps of air. Then I decided to go along the river as far as the bend. It seemed years since I had been to the big bend. The river was all bends but the big bend was where it turned sharply and rounded the foot of Brampton Hill. It was a good two-mile walk from where I was now, but it was not yet twilight and I knew I could do it and be back before dark.

I decided to cross by the stepping-stones further along and walk on the other bank. The path there was mostly clear, and it was prettier than on this side.

When I came to the stones I saw a couple with their arms around each other. They were both standing on the same stone. It was not very big and would hardly hold them, but they clung together laughing at the water rushing noisily round their feet. When the girl turned her face towards me I saw that I knew her. Her name was Edna Stace and she had been in my class. She and her boy friend made for the bank, and I said, "Hullo, Edna," and she said, "Hullo, Christine." That was all.

Jumping quickly from one stone to the other, I hurriedly crossed the river, and when I stepped on to the far side I did not look back at them but went on, feeling somewhat embarrassed and strangely very lonely. It was a feeling I had not experienced before. It was as if there was nobody in the world who loved me, and as I walked I thought,

"Fancy Edna having a lad."

Later on I passed two men fishing and an elderly couple out for a walk, then I saw no one else until I reached the big bend. It was lovely at the big bend. The river was wider here and 86 had not the tumbling turbulence of the narrower stretches, and rising steeply from the other side was Brampton Hill, the side of it that few people saw, and on the top of the hill there were railings, and inside the railings were trees. These were the grounds of some of the big houses of Brampton Hill. I could see from where I stood that there were gates let in to some of the railings and pathways leading down to the river. I sat down and rested on the bank for a while and, looking up towards the houses I couldn't see, I wondered what it would be like to live in one of them with a garden that bordered on the river. Well, didn't our houses almost border on to the river? But those railings with the gates in them spoke of something different from Fenwick Houses.

As I sat a mist came from nowhere and began to spread itself evenly over the water, like butter under a hot knife. It covered the river and I rose to my feet knowing that the heat of the day was over and soon it would turn surprisingly cold. I walked much quicker going back and had almost reached the stones again when I saw, crossing them, a young man. In the first glimpse I recognized him. He wasn't wearing a scarf this time, but it was one of the two young men who had watched Ronnie, Don and me running down the hill the night we went to the social. He stepped off the last stone as I reached the bank and we looked at each other. He looked the same as I remembered him, pale-faced, with dark eyes almost black in this light. And as he looked at me he did not blink and my eyes fell before his gaze. And then he spoke.

"Good evening," he said. It was strange but I found myself stammering as I replied, "Good evening." Then although I had no intention of running I almost leaped across the stones, and when I got to the other side I had to take a firm hold of myself to stop myself from scampering away like a rabbit.

"Don't be silly," I said, 'he'll think you're daft. "

I did not look across the river but I knew for certain that he was standing watching me, and so I walked as sedately as possible, with my head up and my arms swinging just a little. I had to stop my legs from striding out for, being long, they inclined to big steps.

I kept up my sedate walk until I rounded the first bend, because from here he could not see me. Then I almost jumped as I glanced across the river, for there he was walking nearly

parallel with me on the other side. He smiled and caught my |

glance.

But I did not smile back, I kept looking straight ahead, | and even when I came to the bank below our houses I did not j look across but turned up the hill. And when I reached the j top my heart was beating rapidly. But, strangely, I did not feel | lonely any more. : People were sitting on their doorsteps getting the cool evening air and they said, "Hullo, Christine. By, it's hot isn't it?" ;

"Yes," I said, 'it is. " I found speaking difficult, for my throat

\softline seemed tight. } " Where did you go? " asked my mother.

"The big bend," I replied.

"All that way?" she said.

"Aren't you tired after that washing the day?"

I shook my head. I had never felt less tired in my life; my i body was afloat, my heart was now leaping and bouncing within me; all I wanted to do was to get upstairs into my \softline room and into bed and think and think.

When at last I found myself between the sheets I buried ; my head in the pillow, and in the deep darkness his face came up clearly outlined. He was beautiful . lovely, and I had not only seen him twice, I had been seeing him for years, for his was the face around which I had dreamed my budding dreams. That night going down the hill, I thought I had seen him before, and now I knew that in some strange way he had always been familiar to me. Turning on my back I lay staring out through the window to the star-laden sky. He was under that sky and somewhere quite near, and he was thinking of me. I knew he was thinking of me. That last look had told me that he would think of me all night and all tomorrow.

I sat quickly up in bed. Tomorrow night I would walk to the big bend again, and if he spoke I wouldn't be silly, I would speak back. But tomorrow night was eons of time away I couldn't see how I was going to live until tomorrow night. Tomorrow night came after a day of ironing and doing bed rooms. The day had been much cooler, and by half past six the sun had gone in and it was not such a nice evening. Then after the meal was over and I had washed up and trying to keep all excitement from my voice, I said. Tin going for a short walk, Mam. "

She raised her eyes from her patching and said, "All right, lass."

Ronnie was sitting by the table and he had lifted his head quickly when I spoke, and I thought for a terrible moment he would say he was coming with me, but to my relief he did not. He dropped his eyes to his book again. He was always reading, always getting books from the library, but since the night I told him to get out of my room he had not talked to me as he used to, and was short with me sometimes he wouldn't look at me for days.

I slipped on my coat and went out, and when I reached the end of the street I stopped myself from running I must walk sedately, he could be anywhere on the river bank. Then my walk was halted. What if he wasn't there? I felt sick and my steps became slower as I neared the river.

As far as I could see along both banks I was the only one out for a walk. I continued up to the stones, across them and along the far bank. I stood as I had last night looking up at the gardens across the river. Once again I saw the mist come over the water, and tonight it brought an immediate chill, and the chill was on my heart, too.

Slowly, very slowly, I walked back to the stepping stones. I crossed them and made my way along the other bank and did not see a soul until I was nearly below our houses, and then across the meadow on the other side came the black-coated figure of Father EUis. In my present state of acute disappointment I did not want to speak even to Father Ellis, but he had recognized me over the distance and waved to me, so I waited until he reached the far bank and then we shouted over to each other.

"How are you, Christine?" he called.

"All right. Father," I called back. I was not all right, I felt I would never be all right again.

"I'll be over one day next week."

"Oh good, Father, Mam will be pleased." Father EUis was not on our district now, but he visited us at odd times. Since that Sunday when Father Howard had delivered his notable sermon on morality the two young priests had been moved from district to district. About every month there was a change round, and it was whispered that things were not happy in the presbytery.

"Hasn't it been hot?"

"Yes, Father."

"Is your mother any better?"

"Yes, Father, quite a bit."

"Oh, that's good. I say a prayer for her every day."

"Oh, thank you. Father."

"You're growing tremendously, Christine. It's ages since we had a walk we must have a walk and a chat, like old times."

"Yes, Father, yes."

"Well, good-bye, Christine."

"Good-bye, Father."

He went away, waving his hand, and I turned up the hill from the river.

The next fortnight I walked back up the hill every night. Inside I felt sad and lost and lonely, and my mother thought I was sickening for something.

"You're doing too much," she would say; 'this kind of work is too heavy for you. All that washing. You weren't cut out for it. " I looked at her and smiled and asked, " What about you? " and she had replied, "

I'm different, lass. "

This answer made me feel more lonely still.

In the weeks that followed only two things of any note happened: Don Dowling got a car and Father Ellis lost his temper with our Ronnie.

This latter happened on his promised visit. He saw a book on the dresser and he went and picked it up and, holding it up at arm's length, said, "Who's reading this?"

Our Ronnie, coming out of the scullery buttoning up his shirt, said firmly, "I am. Father." The priest looked at him across the room for a moment, then at the book, and as he placed it back on the dresser I could see that he was making a great effort to be his jovial self as he said, "Well, Ronnie, no offence meant, but I dont think you're ready for Martin Luther yet. The mind needs training before you read such things."

"Why?"

Ronnie's question was snapped out, and in it was a challenge, and from that moment they began to argue, and when my mother interrupted and said, "Enough of that!" Father Ellis raised his hand and said, "No, Mrs. Winter, leave him alone, let him go on."

I was setting the table and buttering the bread, and most of their talk was far above my understanding, but I remember being amazed that our Ronnie knew so much, and my attention was caught when he said, "But we are told. Father, that Satan was a fallen angel, he had been cast out of heaven, yet we're told that heaven is the reward of good people.

Can you explain how Satan ever got in? And is there a power which can turn good people into bad in heaven?"

As Father Ellis was about to reply, Ronnie, with what was to me awful temerity, put in quickly, "And you say God didn't create evil, but we are told that God created everything and there is nothing that wasn't created by him, then where does evil come in?"

Father Ellis's voice held real anger now as he replied, "I can't answer your questions in a minute. It has taken scores of great men a lifetime to ponder them, but if you want to find the answer to these questions I'll help you. But there's no need for you to attack the Church and God Almighty himself because of your limited intellect."

"Oh, Father, I'm sorry." My mother was wringing her hands, and she looked threateningly at Ronnie as she said, "When your dad comes in I'll have something to tell him."

"There's no need, Mrs. Winter. We all go through these phases, but we dont get so angry about them, that's all."

Father Ellis did not stay long, and when he had gone my mother, her hands in her lap, sat helplessly looking at Ronnie. And then she said,

"Well, lad, you've asked for a catastrophe the day."

"Oh, Mam, for heaven's sake be your age. This is nineteen- thirty nine, you're not struck down dead the day if you talk back to a priest."

He got up and marched out, and my mother turned and looked at me. I felt the same as she did: things happened when you went for a priest.