She got to the top
before him, her neck shiny from the effort, dancing up the incline on
rubber pedals. A red oxide gate in the high hedgerow let them look
down over the valley. They slid off their saddles and stood.
He had never noticed
her in class. Grace was serious and quiet and sat behind him. He
was behind her now, looking down over the sloping field. She seemed
French, he thought, with her hair up and her eyebrows, expressive of
subtleties beyond the grasp of a thirteen year old boy, even one as
tall as him.
They had met outside
the bakers, both bored after Easter, both on bicycles. 'Let's ride
up Peg's Hill,' she said, and he assented, through a hot cross bun.
Two sudden flashes of
white amongst the stubble. The bellies of two hares stop-starting.
Changing direction. One bigger, wilder of eye. They leapt at
angles, twisting in mid-air, flying across the field, faster than a
car, then vaulting backwards. A beautiful thing to witness. He
turned to look at her, to say 'Can you believe this?' She was
already looking back at him. She reached over and took his hand. He
thought he was going to be sick, but in a good way. As if he might
be shedding some now dead part of himself.
Yards away, the big
hare caught and mounted the smaller hare, only one of them moving
now, with calmer eyes.
Grace felt the boy's
hand slip from hers.
