Full of his plans, he closed his eyes and basked in the sun. A noise made him open them. The door of the Hardacre house opened and someone was coming out. It was a woman, carrying a large basket and heading for the garden behind the house. She was so intent on her task that she did not notice John sitting under the tree, leaving him free to follow her with his eyes. She put the basket down on the grass underneath a long washing line and began the process of hanging out the damp laundry. Absently, John watched for a moment, then recognised Sampson’s daughter. He remembered her from his school days, but he did not really know her. She was two years older than John and that had been enough to put an ocean of disinterest between them. Since then, he had seen her around the village occasionally, but that was all. She did not attend the social events. She had never been to a dance. She had a way of scurrying through the village looking busy, never stopping to talk, never offering a friendly smile. The only thing that was ever said of her was that she was a cross patch like her father. John had neither experienced this, nor seen any evidence to prove it wrong. If he had crossed her path at all, he did not recall it. He had barely given her a thought at all.
But today, he watched her, stooping and stretching. Her movements, freed from the self-consciousness of knowing she was being observed, were fluid and agile. Whoever had fixed the washing line, her father presumably, had been considerably taller than she. She could just reach it with a slight lift onto her toes, catching the line with her fingertips and pulling it lower to hang the clothing. When each item was pegged, she let the line spring back up as she bent for the next piece of laundry. The clean, damp clothes danced with the bounce, until she brought them back under her control once more with a firm grip. It was a practised movement, done many times. She moved down the line, pushing the basket along with her feet as she went, then repeating the movement; stooping and stretching, stooping and stretching, each stretch up lifting the hem of her skirts to reveal a glimpse of her ankles. The longer he watched, the more John felt he should look away. And yet, he stayed, watching. He wondered how he had never noticed her hair before. On the top of her head, she wore a small cap, such as women wore to keep their hair away from their face, but it did not conceal the full length of her hair. It hung down her back in long, thick waves of black, falling almost to her waist. John watched it sway with her movements. As it occupied his present thoughts, he recalled long, dark plaits on the school girl he could just about remember. Somewhere in his mind was a tiny pocket where a memory of a dark surly girl existed. But it was nothing like what he was watching now.
He remembered that her name was May and satisfaction in this memory made him smile. He considered calling out to her, using the name to halt her task and draw her face to his. But what would he say? He knew he would not call. He would do no more than watch, fascinated by her rhythmic movements. But then he was watching her bend to pick up the empty basket and turn away from the washing line. She was returning to the house, and in doing so, she turned in his direction. Their eyes met. She stopped short. John shifted on the block so he was sitting up straight. Then he nodded to her courteously. He let his lips form the smallest of smiles, just enough to be polite. She stared at him, then scowled and put her head down and hurried into the house. She was gone before the smile could fade from John’s lips.
M J Schofield 