Wishing Water by Freda Lightfoot

me,’ he murmured, smiling into her eyes.
    Quite unable to help herself, Lissa found herself smiling back, responding to his charm.
    As she hurried back to the shop she decided that Philip Brandon was really far more attractive than Derry had led her to believe. And so kind.
     
    It was Derry’s idea that they go on a day-long hike the following Sunday, and Lissa and Jan readily agreed. The weather was calm and settled, the sun shining like a big soft round cheese and there were few holidaymakers to disturb the peace so early in the season as they caught the bus out to Skelwith Bridge.
    The three of them were sensibly dressed in slacks and warm sweaters, for mountain weather can change even as you are wondering if it might. On their feet the girls wore strong shoes, Derry his favourite boots for he was a keen climber.
    Lissa cast him a glance from beneath her lashes. He looked different today in his windcheater and rough cords, woollen socks replacing the hideous lime green, more approachable somehow.
    ‘Do you really go rock climbing?’  
    He pushed back his shoulders, preening himself, brown eyes glinting with such a cocky arrogance she almost wished she hadn’t asked. What a peacock he was. ‘Sure, would you like to try?’ Lissa haughtily assured him that she would not.
    They got off the bus and walked along the lanes to the bridge where there were a few people sitting about having picnics. Where only a short while ago there’d been limp dead grasses, the verges were now clotted with yellow primroses thick as cream. Violets, bluebells and meadowsweet filled the clear mountain air with their fragrant scents. In a few weeks the scene would change yet again and foxgloves, wild roses and ox-eye daisies would have their moment of glory.
    Lissa felt the excitement of a day free from the dusty confines of the old fashioned draper’s shop.
    They walked up a dusty lane by the river that led up through the quarry work sheds. A few shirt-sleeved men sat joking and whistling as they worked the stones, splitting them on the grain with their special tools.
    ‘This is where they quarry the blue-green slate that makes Westmorland famous,’ Derry told her as if she’d never seen such a thing before.
    She almost told him that they quarried stone on her fells too, but it sounded too petty. Besides, she’d no wish to think about quarries, or the roads that led to them. Not today.
    They stood on the huge flat rocks at Skelwith Force and watched with wonder as the small waterfall rushed down in a cloud of white froth into the river below, swirled around huge boulders which forced it to gush and froth and gather in deep dark pools. It was like a fairy glen, a magic place where a water sprite would be sure to live, reminding Lissa suddenly of that other day in early summer when she and Nick had played their wishing game.
    For a moment, homesickness claimed her. It didn’t happen so often nowadays and she knew it was foolish for she could visit Broombank at any time, only she rarely did. Transport was a problem and she felt instinctively that she wanted to make a place for herself here first, before she dared risk it. Or she might never have the courage to come back.
    After a while they left the force and walked on up the rough footpath, across flat water meadows where the river widened and spread out until it reached Elterwater. Ahead lay some of the most dramatic scenery in Lakeland. Blue-grey crags jagged against the pale sky, dark rocky grandeur dropping precipitously to a thickly wooded fringe of trees below.
    ‘It’s like Switzerland,’ she said, breathing deeply her delight. ‘Or how I imagine Switzerland might look.’  
    ‘It’s the Langdales, a special place,’ Derry said.
    They reached the village of Chapel Stile and went on past the school and the post office, and up the big hill. When they grew hot from their walking they pulled off thick sweaters and settled in the lea of a drystone wall to eat their lunch. It