Page 94 of A Change of Location
“A newcomer,” a woman commented. She appeared to be in her forties. “Welcome.”
“This is Hannah Ballard,” Martin informed the group. “She’s with Acorn Films. Hannah, here’s Joyce. And Eileen.” Pointing at each of the men in turn, he added, “Bob and Rory and Thomas.”
“Glad you joined us,” Rory said. “We wondered if any Hollywooders might turn up.”
“I don’t actually live in Hollywood. And I’m a very casual runner.”
“Us, too,” Joyce responded. “We’re not competitive, either. If there’s a ridge loop, plumpies like me and some of our sixties take the low road.”
“Which is to say,” Bob added, “we don’t all finish at the same time. We used to make the first person who reached the pub buy our first round, but we discarded that rule. Otherwise, Rory would’ve had to re-mortgage his house to keep the tortoises in drink.”
Martin chimed in, asking, “Ready for the off? Doesn’t look like anyone else is coming.”
They set out as a pack but as Joyce said, there was no effort to keep together. Rory shot ahead after the first mile, cheered on by his friends—except for Thomas, who shook his fist in mock-fury.
“This is half our usual number,” Eileen huffed as she came up beside Hannah. “One member has back strain, and Gareth is nursing a bad knee. Plus it’s a holiday. Some regulars are relaxing at home, or on family outings.”
“I work at the bank in Newbridge,” Joyce said. “There’ll soon be filming in the town, I hear.”
“I hope it won’t be disruptive,” Hannah said. “Part of the street outside the Guildhall will be covered with dirt and the curbs concealed for exterior and establishing shots. We’re using the interior for courtroom scenes.”
“Sounds exciting,” said Eileen. “When term begins, my students would enjoy watching, if that’s allowed. I teach at Milver Vale Comprehensive.”
“Members of the public can observe, from a distance. And they have to keep quiet. I can ask the location manager to place your class close to the action.”
“That would be grand. I’ll give you my contact info.”
Martin suddenly speeded up, moving well ahead of the ladies as though intent on catching up with Thomas and overtaking Bob.
Bob dropped back, wailing, “Sod it—forgot my phone! I’m supposed to take pictures for the website blog.”
“Never mind,” Eileen said, as though consoling a pupil. “I brought mine. And I’ll get a group photo at the pub. But this time I won’t do the write-up for you.”
Farther on they found Martin seated on a wooden bench, studying the verdant landscape and wooded hillside beyond.
“Gosh,” said Joyce, “you never wait for us to catch up. Leg cramp?”
“Admiring the view.”
“Hannah, sit beside him.” Eileen had whipped out her phone.
Her eyes met Martin’s. He shifted to make room, and she sank onto the bench. Her fingers curled on the edge, gripping it tightly.
“Give me happy expressions. Our blog visitors need to know what a splendid time you’re having!”
She responded with her picture-posing smile.
“Perfect!”
The two women jogged on.
Martin’s hand moved to Hannah’s thigh. “I’m surprised you came.”
They were alone and unobserved—except by the sheep over the hedge—in a beautiful setting on a gorgeous evening. The pasture, lit by the sun’s lingering rays, belonged to him. So did the oak tree behind them. And the grass under their feet. Months ago, when he drove her to the hotel at Heathrow, she hadn’t imagined running with him again. Or loving him. Or yearning for a durable connection to his home and these villages and acres and the interesting people who inhabited them.
Their shared silence stretched beyond a minute but felt longer.
“If you don’t want our picture posted on the blog,” he said, “I’ll intervene.”
