Holiday At Home

I wasn’t a tourist, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy myself!

GEMMA, I have something I need to tell you.” Rob takes my hands and I can see anxiety in every feature of his face. Little nauseous pulses pound in my stomach.

“Don’t tell me: you’ve forgotten to pack the fig rolls,” I quip, wanting the moment to go away.

He gives a little laugh but his eyes are sad. I stare down Harry’s Hill towards the woods we have just walked through and wish it didn’t matter so much.

But it always does in the end, doesn’t it? If you care for someone, you make yourself vulnerable, and I swore I wouldn’t do that again. But here I am and, unreasonable as it may be, I’m blaming my mum.

“Why don’t you be a tourist here?” she’d said weeks ago when I sat drinking coffee at her kitchen table.

It was the end of July and I’d finally flopped, every muscle, memory cell and morsel of patience stretched to its limit in the countdown to end of term.

It’s a feeling about which any teacher can tell you. And when it comes, you feel like a balloon with all the air expelled.

“At least with Michael I always had a holiday to look forward to.” I groaned. “Two weeks of Mediterranean sun.”

“Surely you wouldn’t wish him back?” Mum’s face creased in concern.

“Of course not. It was completely right that we broke up. You know how much happier I’ve been since. It’s just –” I shrugged. “When it comes to holidays, everywhere seems populated by double rooms.”

“Why don’t you give it a try round here, then?” Mum was insistent. “Your dad and I have had some great days out since he retired.”

I refrained from saying that my idea of a great day out was probably not the same as hers, because that would have been mean.

However, after another few days of moping around my flat, I decided to give the local tourist information centre a go.

My first outing was a river cruise, and drifting along half-listening to the guide’s commentary, watching swans glide past and sunshine sparkle on the water, I began to think there might be something in this home-tourism stuff after all. Until the drama after our lunch stop.

“Is there a first-aider aboard?” the guide asked plaintively.

Reluctantly I raised my hand.

“Over here.” She flushed with gratitude. “The gentleman slipped from the quay trying to get back on the boat.”

I followed her to the little wooden jetty, and found that, far from being the frail elderly gentleman I’d imagined, the casualty was a man around my own age.

He was holding on to a badly grazed elbow, his face whiter than the river swans’ feathers.

I pasted on the kind of smile I use with my primary school pupils; his deepbrown eyes were so wide with horror that he looked like one of them.

I examined his injury. “There’s a lot of blood, but it’s not as bad as it looks.” I smiled. “You’ll live.”

“Can I do anything?” the guide asked, shuffling from one foot to the other.

“Could you get your kit?” Surely she should have known how to use it herself? “And a bottle of still water. There’s grit, so I’ll have to rinse it with running water.”

I turned to the terrified patient.

“What’s your name?” “Rob.” It was a whisper. “Rob Wadebridge.”

“OK, Rob. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Well, I’ve tended braver five-year-old boys! But eventually I was done and returned to my seat. The tour continued.

“. . . so following the battle, they say the river ran red with the blood of the fallen.”

I smiled to myself as the man called Rob, whose colour had been returning, looked suddenly green around the gills.

“Sorry I was such a wuss,” he said as we all alighted at the end of the tour. “I guess I’m just not very good with blood.” “You don’t say.” He looked so mortified I had to giggle.

“Only joking. Some people aren’t. It’s OK.”

“I wanted to thank you anyway. I don’t think I said it properly. Thank you – er . . .?” “Gemma,” I supplied. “Thanks, Gemma.” “You’re welcome.”

For my next trip I chose the local Tudor manor house: much safer and surely with less likelihood of a first-aider being required.

I hadn’t been to Widdecombe Manor since my own schooldays. I had vague memories of sternfaced staff and soulless oak-panelled corridors hung with tapestries we were forbidden to touch.

So I was pleasantly surprised to be greeted by a young, enthusiastic tour guide bursting with juicy tales of the 16th-century goings-on of local aristocracy.

I was even more surprised to see that my recent patient, Rob, was one of the group crowding into the

“Myths and legends, but no blood and gore – I promise”

Great Hall. We nodded in acknowledgement. “The house has several priest holes. Sometimes the Widdecombes were a little hasty in hiding their fugitives, with drastic consequences, the most famous instance being a priest who was bundled so quickly into his hiding place that his hand was chopped off by the trap door!

“The Widdecombes only discovered what had happened when his blood began to drip through the ceiling into their dinner.”

There was a ripple of appreciative laughter and I glanced across at Rob, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable.

I still don’t know why I did it, but I inclined my head towards the door. The deep-brown eyes I’d noticed before opened wide with comprehension. He looked relieved.

“I’m sorry all our local history seems to be so gory.” I giggled once we were safely back at the entrance. “First we had rivers of blood and now we have dripping diningrooms. On behalf of my town, I apologise.”

That made him chuckle. “You’re local, then?” “Yeah, just having a bit of a staycation. You?”

“I’ve just moved down here for a new job. I’ve got a few weeks spare so thought I’d get to know the area first. I didn’t realise I’d be following a trail of gore.”

“There are some good bits, I promise. Lovely countryside.”

There was a pause while his eyes scanned my face.

“Shall we get a coffee? That is, unless you’ve got to be somewhere.”

“And miss the end of the tour?” My face flashed mock horror. “I’d love to.”

“Charles the Second is supposed to have hidden in an oak tree here, you know.” I set my steaming coffee on the silver bistro table.

“Really?”

I wrinkled my nose. “Personally I think if he had hidden in all the oak trees he’s supposed to have, he wouldn’t have had time to be King.”

Rob laughed. I liked the way his eyes scrunched up when he did it.

“I’m not much of a history buff.”

We were seated on the coffee shop terrace overlooking manicured lawns leading down to the distant river. Sunlight winked silver on its meandering course.

“Me, neither, really.” I sprinkled sugar into my cappuccino. “But some of their interactive stuff was great. I might bring my class for a trip next term.”

“You’re a teacher?” His eyes brightened.

“Yeah, but I don’t talk about it much. It’s too boring.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I suppose I’ve got a bit of a bee in my bonnet about it. My ex was a teacher, too.” I sipped my coffee. “I’m never making that mistake again. You spend too much time talking shop.”

I gave him a let’s-changethe-subject smile.

“Anyway, what about you?” I prompted.

“Me? Oh, I’m an engineer.”

“Gosh, how very science-y!”

“Yeah, yeah.” He nodded rapidly.

I watched it dawn on him that he might have sounded boastful.

“I mean, yes. But boring . . . you know?” He shrugged. “So what kind of stuff are you into, if not history?”

“Oh, I’m an outdoorsy kind of girl. There’s some great walking country around here, but I haven’t done any of it for ages.” “Me, too.”

His head bobbed and in his eager features I was reminded once more of the inner five-year-old who had been so evident when I’d dressed his wound.

I felt like I wanted to reach across and touch his arm. I didn’t, though.

“The hills around here are pretty famous,” he said. “They’re supposed to be filled with myths and legends, aren’t they?

“I brought my walking boots hoping to explore but I haven’t yet. Maybe we could walk them together?”

He looked so hopeful that this time I did reach out.

“You’re on.” I smiled. “Myths and legends I can give you, but no blood and gore – I promise.” He laughed again.

It felt nice touching his hand across the table.

And that’s how it began. To start with we joined some of the organised walks along the well-known routes: Sir Lancelot’s Quest; the waterfalls where Guinevere bathed.

But as the weeks wore on and we got to know each other better, we branched out on our own.

We discovered a mutual passion for fig rolls and a fondness for the fallow deer that roamed in the oak forests of the foothills.

“So beautiful,” he breathed as we sat side by side in bracken watching a herd feast on bark.

Sunlight slanted through the tree canopy in golden shafts and he look so rapt I couldn’t help myself – I leaned across and kissed his cheek.

He flinched and turned. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I did that.” I felt my face turn red.

A slow smile spread across his handsome face. “I’m really glad you did.” Then, cocooned by bracken, watched impassively by fallow deer, we had our first proper kiss.

Today we’ve walked Harry’s Hill, the public route to the pinnacle of the estate of Sir Henry Widdecombe, our town’s famous Victorian forefather. There is a statue of the man on the summit.

It is on the bench beneath this that Rob is holding my hands and looking so forlorn.

“What?” I whisper. “What do you have to tell me?”

My stomach squeezes as I watch him taking a breath.

“Gemma, I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

I don’t seem to be able to speak. I’m aware of birds trilling in the trees below and the wind teasing my hair. I have an overwhelming urge to stop him saying anything that might spoil what we’ve had this summer.

“You actually hate fig rolls?”

“Gemma . . .” He lets out the breath. “I’m a teacher, too.”

“What?” “Secondary – English. I know I should have told you.” He’s talking like an express train. “But you said all that stuff about not wanting to be with another teacher.

“Then I thought it didn’t matter, because we were just having fun together for this summer and no point in spoiling it. And then I thought I’d tell you later, but . . .”

He’s inches from my face. “I’ve fallen for you, Gemma. I want to be with you. We can make it work, can’t we?”

His fingers cup my cheek, and then from nowhere I feel laughter bubble inside me because it’s so ridiculous.

“An engineer?”

He looks abashed. “My dad’s an engineer. I panicked and said the first job that came to mind.”

“Rob Wadebridge!” I shake my head at the absurdity of it. “We’ve spent a whole summer not talking about teaching so let’s not start now. There’s so much else we have to talk about.”

Then I lean across and kiss him. As I do, I remember another local myth: that lovers who kiss on Harry’s seat will stay together for ever.

Now that’s one legend I’d like to believe. Perhaps I’ll tell Rob about it later. n