In the Springtime of the Year by Susan Hill

pebbles, and stored them all away in his pockets. She did not wish for Ben to be here, it was enough that she had Jo, they were held together in this capsule of quiet, sunlit pleasure.
    They lay on the sand, and Ruth half closed her eyes, so that the sea and sky danced together, were incandescent, it was a magic world and time went on forever.
    *
    It was dark, and much colder. Coming up the lane, her body seemed to be floating and her head was full of the sound of the waves, she felt washed clean by the salt air and sunlight, the reflections off the water. She was vividly awake, every nerve was vibrating, she heard every sound very clearly, like the ringing of bells; their own footsteps on the road, the creak of a tree branch, the quick dart of some animal in the ditch. When she breathed, it was as though the fresh air passed through every vein.
    The moon was full, papery pale as a circle of honesty.
    Jo was tired and silent, hugging the brightness and joy of the day close to himself. At the bottom of the slope, they stopped. He should turn right to the village, and Ruth would go on, up to the common. But perhaps she should go with him to Foss Lane, perhaps, in this mood, she would be able to say something to them, break through the barriers of hostility and mistrust.
    ‘They don’t know where you’ve been. I ought to come with you, tell them.’
    ‘They don’t care.’
    ‘But…’
    ‘Nobody notices. Don’t come, Ruth, don’t.’
    His voice was tense.
    ‘I ought to talk to them.’
    ‘No. And I don’t want them to know anything about today. It’s private, I don’t want it to be spoiled and if they know, it will be. Don’t come.’
    She sensed that he was trying to protect her from them and that there were other, hidden reasons of his own.
    ‘I’ll come tomorrow.’
    He turned away from her, then back again, he hugged her tightly for a second. He said, ‘Thank you, thank you,’ and reached into his pocket, took out one of the shells, the abalone, and gave it to her.
    ‘Jo – don’t forget today. Don’t forget anything about it.’
    But she had no need of a reply.
    He walked off and she stayed there, holding the shell, listening to his footsteps, and did not want to go back to the cottage, because once there she would know that the day was over, and that what she had deliberately put out of her mind would be waiting for her in the empty rooms. And a sudden picture of Ben, walking towards her across the common, filled her head and she cried out, because he was not there, because she was alone in the dark lane, she wanted to be with him and there was no way, no way.
    There was a way.
    As she came to the top of the hill, she began to run, as though time mattered and she might somehow be too late, might find him gone. And she blamed herself for having stayed away so long, she had to make up for all the days and nights of neglect.
    She had imagined him to be with her, in the cottage or else gone somewhere beyond her reach, but now, she faced what seemed to be the only truth, that this was where they had brought, and left him. Had others been here? Had Dora Bryce and Alice and the black mourners, the neighbours and relatives? If they had, she resented it, she wished this to be a private place, a locked garden to which only she had the key. But it was open, anyone might walk in and view, as they had all stared down upon him in the open coffin.
    She walked through the lych-gate and then stepped on to the grass, moving between the old, moss-covered headstones. The flints on the church face gleamed pewter. She did not need the moonlight, she could have found her way unerringly if she had been blind.
    The old graves gave way to new, along the south side of the church, with his the last, the most recent, at the end, and beyond that, open grass.
    Ruth stopped dead. They had taken the flowers away, all of them, there was only a bare oblong mound, like a molehill pushed up through the turf. It might have belonged to any