Chapter Three

Two days on from this, prospects looked bright enough for a walk and so having met atour bridge we walked up to the summit of Barker’s Knoll. Helena wore black leggings and a belted knitwear top, long enough to act as a short skirt. The coat that topped all was of a metallic looking light-weight fabric I didn’t recognise.

I commented on how unusual it seemed and she replied it was waterproof and surprisingly warm. “In fact, I think I’ll have to take it off. Here, feel the texture. No not the outside. Feel the underside.”

She laughed at my look of puzzlement, “It feels like the warmest fur.”

At the summit, the full extent of the breeze buffeted and she spread it out for us to sit on. I had also removed my coat on the ascent and draped it around our shoulders.

“Nice and cosy,” she said snuggling closer. Then with a peel of laughter, “You smell like stew!”

My halting reply, that I shouldn’t have worn my pullover while preparing the previous evening’s meal, seemed to make matters worse and I looked on helplessly while she rocked with laughter.

Once a little calmer I enquired, where exactly had she obtained her strange coat? I sensed a marketing opportunity, but she simply took on that far-away stare I’d noticed on a previous occasion, before suddenly pointing to say, “Look at those shadows. As the clouds sail on, the sun lights up patches like little worlds that weren’t visible before. Look, there’s a pool I hadn’t noticed. Now there’s the silver sparkle from a stream, like a pretty thread of necklace.”

I told her I often watched the changing shapes, like huge white galleons passing overhead and that apparently no two cloud formations are ever exactly the same. I went on to explain that each billowing cumulus held the weight of water equal to that of a massive herd of elephants or a school of blue whales.

“How do they all stay up there?” she asked looking puzzled.

“I really don’t know. I suppose the water vapour rises on the thermals and somehow just stays there until the clouds cool and it starts to rain.”

“Fascinating,” she said gazing upwards. “You know some amazing things.”

“It’s not amazing really. I just take an interest in certain subjects.”

Snuggling closer, she asked with a look of devilment, “So tell me. Which exactly are the elephants and which are the whales?”

Hearing my resigned sigh, she apologised for teasing, then said, pointing again, “Look, there’s a perfect hole straight through that puffy-mountain cloud.”

“Yes, just a fleeting aperture to the sky beyond.”

“When cloud watching, you sometimes wish, don’t you.”

“We all wish, but some more than others. Anyway, wish what exactly?”

Peering up at the unusual formation, she asked, “How often have you seen such a perfect tunnel through the clouds?”

Thinking about it, I said, “Not often. Why?”

“Well I’m guessing you’ve held a secret wish, of wanting to fly like a plane, straight through to the clear blue yonder.”

I remember being so completely stunned, it was to the point of feeling quite vulnerable, for it was as if she could actually see inside my head.

With the cloud pattern slowly shifting, we sat in silence, gazing at the changing colours of the tapestry below and I have to admit, even though having reached a certain level of seniority, it’s still almost impossible to prevent the odd improbable romantic notion from rising to the surface. Perhaps, with men being such poor deluded creatures, there’s no way of helping it. We just happen to be born like it.

Anyway, the remark, “That stewy smell doesn’t seem so strong now,” put paid t