Page 22 of Four of Hearts

‘I did,’ Harry replied, deciding against saying anything about the crash or the explosion. The last thing he wanted to do was give the person on the other end of the call the impression he had the upper hand.

‘You agree, then, that we should meet.’

‘I do,’ Harry said. ‘See if we can’t put an end to this nonsense before you do something you’ll regret.’

A laugh.

‘Is that a threat, Harry?’

‘I don’t make threats.’

‘And there’s another, isn’t there? You’re a very interesting man, Harry, that’s why I like you.’

‘A feeling not mutually shared.’

A pause, and Harry wasn’t about to fill it.

‘Are you free today?’

The question caught Harry off guard. Was he free? Was writing a speech enough of an excuse? And there was the stag do, too, wasn’t there? But he needed to get to the bottom of whatever this was. He couldn’t be doing with wondering who else was going to get run off the road, or what might be next on his cousin’s list of things to blow up.

‘Are you?’ he countered.

‘For this? Of course. How would this morning sound?’

Awful, thought Harry, and said, ‘Fine.’

‘Just you and me, though, understand? This is simply a chat, after all, isn’t it? Don’t go trying to do anything brave and foolish.’

Harry didn’t fancy travelling too far, then having to race back, so decided to take control of the location. He ignored the comment about doing something brave and foolish.

‘There’s a village called Reeth,’ he said. ‘Easy to find. Nice village green, plenty of benches to sit on. I’ll meet you there. I’m not difficult to spot.’

Nice and public, too, he thought, so there won’t be much chance of anyone trying anything stupid.

‘What time?’

Harry considered the day in front of him, the speech, the evening at the Tan Hill.

‘Two hours from now,’ he said, and hung up.

Standing up, Harry stretched, washed up his mug and plate, then shoved his feet into his shoes. Smudge had followed himfrom the sofa to the kitchen and was now sitting in front of the door, staring at him expectantly.

‘Don’t worry,’ Harry said, ‘I’m not leaving you behind.’

As though she’d understood every word, Smudge thumped her tail on the flagstone floor. He unhooked a jacket from the back of the door, grabbed a dog lead, and then they were outside. He thought it was probably for the best to get over to Reeth sooner rather than later. There was a good little walk out the back, across the fields and down to the bridge over the river. He’d not have time to do the full circuit, all the way around to Grinton and back, but that wasn’t a problem. The views were inspiring enough, wherever he ended up in Swaledale, and that was a fact no one would ever argue with. He’d be able to give Smudge a good run, think about the speech, jot down a few notes or inspiring thoughts, assuming he had any, then get back to the green to wait and see.

The journey over from Hawes was, as ever, nothing short of glorious, regardless of the low cloud and threat of rain. Taking the Buttertubs Pass, Harry weaved his vehicle along the narrow road and down into Swaledale. The windows of the old Literary Institute and Public Hall in Muker stared at him as he rolled through the village, crossing over the river Swale to push on towards Reeth. This was a road Harry loved, in a valley he was always at a loss for words to describe. The beauty here seemed different somehow to the other dales he ventured into. More often than not, it seemed to him that he’d driven through a portal and landed in a secret realm, a valley lost to the rest of the world, hidden.

By the time Harry arrived in Reeth, he was so entranced by the ancient vale that he’d forgotten why he was there in the first place. It was only when he switched off the engine, and climbed out of the vehicle with Smudge, that he remembered. Glancing at his watch, he still had well over an hour to himself, so pushingall thought of his cousin away, he clipped Smudge onto the lead, and made his way down the cobbles, along a narrow path, and finally to a track that led him on towards pastures green.

With no sheep or cattle in the fields, except those scattered on the fellside on the other side of the River Swale, Harry let Smudge off the lead. The air was rich here, Harry noticed, a bright, damp smell bursting with the scents of the dales, of peat and grass and sheep, and behind it, the dark, smoky tang of burning coal.

Coming to the bridge over the river, Harry checked the time, and pushed on over to the other side. It seemed wrong to come to such a place, and not do the river the honour of seeing it from above, the cloudy sky reflected in its surface, as crows mobbed a buzzard, and somewhere a curlew mewed.

When the time came to return to Reeth, Harry realised he’d done little, if any, thinking about the speech, and certainly hadn’t jotted down any notes. In many ways, he realised that the issue wasn’t so much what to say, as what not to say, because there was so much to be thankful for. His life now was unrecognisable. There wasn’t one thing he could think of that hadn’t changed, that wasn’t different to how things had been before he’d driven north that pivotal day.

Wandering back into Reeth, Smudge at his heel, Harry made his way to a wooden bench and sat down. He took in the view, the fells staring down into the village, the old buildings gathered round the green like wagons pulled into a circle to protect the locals. He glanced over at the Black Bull, toyed with the idea of popping in for a pint once the meeting with his cousin was over, then looked up towards the Burgoyne, and smiled at the thought of Grace and her friends sweeping into the place in their fancy clothes.