Firebird by Iris Gower

don’t like the thought of you driving to town with only Watt for company. Are you sure you can manage?’
    â€˜You are needed here.’ Llinos clucked her tongue and the horse moved forward abruptly, jolting the cart so that the pots rocked from side to side.
    Llinos looked at Watt. ‘Hold on tight now, it looks as if this is going to be a bumpy journey.’ After a few miles she realized how prophetic her words had been; the jolting of the cart against the uneven surface of the road jarred her bones and her head began to ache. Already one of the taller jugs had keeled over and the handle had broken off.
    The road led along the river bank towards the town and the market place. The animal was restless, knowing there was a bag of oats at the end of the journey. Llinos pulled on the reins. ‘Whoa there.’ She leaned backwards in an effort to slow the cart, the shafts creaked with the strain and Watt, sitting beside Llinos, was clinging on for dear life. The load shifted again and, startled, the horse reared, hooves pawing the air.
    She saw a rider from the corner of her eye. He came alongside and caught the reins of her horse, talking soothingly to the animal.
    Llinos was breathing hard, her hair swung loose, her eyes were misted with tears of frustration. She was a failure, she was sure that half the stock was broken, the hard labour of the past week wasted.
    She climbed shakily from the cart, pushing her hair away from her hot face. She could hardly breathe, her heart was thumping as though it was going to jump out of her chest.
    â€˜Thank you,’ she managed to gasp. She looked up and saw the pale face of Eynon Morton-Edwards looking down at her in concern.
    â€˜You all right?’
    She nodded. ‘Yes, I’m perfectly all right.’ She somehow felt resentful of him, whenever he was around there was trouble. She knew it was unfair of her to blame him but nonetheless she turned away from him and began to examine her stock.
    â€˜Not too much damage done,’ he said and there seemed to be a wistfulness about his voice that was touching. She turned to face him. His head was inches from her own. He was very fair, his eyebrows and lashes almost invisible. There was something soft about him, a vulnerability that he seemed unable to hide.
    He smiled at her and she felt churlish. ‘It was good of you to help, thank you so much, but I can manage now.’
    â€˜You call it managing, letting a pile of crocks run away with you? Look, the load of pottery is insecure. Let me ride with you, I’m going to town anyway.’
    She hesitated.
    â€˜I’m no threat,’ he said, ‘I only want to be a good neighbour. I heard of your sad loss and I would like to offer my condolences.’
    She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘That’s very kind of you. But please don’t trouble yourself, I will be just fine.’
    She knew she was being childish but somehow the sight of Eynon Morton-Edwards, son of her father’s rival, offering her sympathy was too much to bear. His pottery was not suffering. His father had not gone to the war and left his wife and child at home alone.
    â€˜Look,’ he said, ‘it’s none of my business but if you are going to the market’ – he gestured towards the pots – ‘which unless you are taking these things for a walk I suppose you are, don’t you think you should do something about that hair?’
    â€˜What?’ Llinos put her hand up and encountered a rough tangle of curls. She bit her lip and twisted her hair into a loop with impatient fingers, wishing he would go away.
    He was small and thin and pathetic-looking and she felt sorry for him. He seemed to need a friend but she had enough to do to look after herself without taking on his problems as well.
    â€˜I don’t know why we have to meet in such unfortunate circumstances,’ he said apologetically and it was as though he sensed her