Page 7 of Twisted Paths

That’s assuming anyone does turn up.

I exhale, scanning the road leading from the village. Any second now, someone will come striding over, eager and ready to embrace the great outdoors.

Any second.

I wait.

A bird flaps noisily out of a nearby bush. A sheep bleats in the distance. The clouds drift a little more.

I press my lips together. Well. This could be awkward.

I hear her before I see her.

The steady clack of a walking stick. The measured rhythm of sturdy boots on the path. The unmistakable sound of someone who walks with purpose.

Then she appears, marching towards me with military precision. Waterproof trousers, zipped-up fleece, a rucksack big enough to house emergency supplies for a month.

Mrs Higgins.

And trailing behind her, looking considerably less purposeful, is Bernard. The world’s most exhausted beagle.

I suppress a groan.

It’s not that I don’t like Mrs Higgins. I do. She’s the kind of woman you’d want in your corner during a crisis: sharp as a tack, tough as old boots, and completely immune to bad weather.

But she’s also nosy.

More specifically, she has a deep, unshakable interest in the state of my personal life.

And by interest, I mean she has made it her mission to casually, but relentlessly, question me about it at every available opportunity.

I school my expression into something welcoming as she reaches me. “Morning, Mrs Higgins! What a surprise.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Surprise? You put up flyers all over the village. I took it as a personal invitation.”

I glance at Bernard, who collapses at her feet with a dramatic sigh.

Mrs Higgins nudges him with her boot. “Lazy beggar. You’d think he had been climbing Ben Nevis.”

I let out a weak laugh, glancing at the road again. No sign of anyone else yet. Maybe if I stall long enough, another person will arrive and save me.

Mrs Higgins plants her walking stick firmly into the ground. “So then, Nancy, how are things?”

I smile, careful not to say anything that could lead me down a dangerous conversational path. “Oh, you know. Keeping busy.”

She nods. “Good, good. Of course, work isn’t everything, is it?”

My smile tightens. Here we go.

Mrs Higgins sighs, looking wistfully towards the horizon. “It’s nice to have a bit of company now and then, don’t you think?”

I hum noncommittally.

“I was just saying to Doris the other day,” she continues, “how it’s a shame how many lovely people in the village seem to be on their own.” She pauses meaningfully, giving me a sideways glance.

I feign ignorance. “Oh, were you?”

“Mmm,” she says, adjusting her rucksack straps. “Especially ones who are busy with work and don’t always have time to meet new people.”

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