It was a private wood, but no one ever came there as far as she knew and the old house in the middle was shuttered and cold, the panes broken in the windows, tiles fallen from the roof and sycamore suckers threatening its foundations. Its general air of dilapidation, ruin, desolation suited her mood exactly. Honey and Blacker tired by their exertions lay down, rose from time to time to investigate a noise or a scent and then returned and were content to laze in the sun filtering through the ragged canopy. It was ragged. There was no sign that the wood had ever been managed. The tall beech trees towered upwards all the same height, all the same age, many of them dying of beech bark disease or drought. In places trees had fallen, either because their time had come, or precipitated by the great storms of 1987 and 1989 and now they lay there rotting, home to countless insects, covered with ivy, surrounded by Dog’s mercury and spurge, the crowns still identifiable, impenetrable. And in the clearings made by their fall, in the sunlight, the understorey burgeoned, hazel, ash, naturally regenerating beech, and the ubiquitous sycamore. She could hear bird song all around her and unidentified rustles. There were bluebells still and from somewhere came the scent of Mayblossom. She sat down on the moss-covered step of the house and let the peace soak into her. It was hard to feel so wretched here when she was an insignificant pawn in the endless sequence of death and regeneration. They were so still, even the dogs, that she saw three roe deer enter the clearing and start to graze, until Honey pricked up her ears and barked and then they clattered away noisily through the undergrowth. Once the noise of their passing had diminished, the peace settled back around them.
She ought to return, she had no idea how long she had been away, three quarters of an hour, an hour or maybe longer? Jonathan thought the dogs ought to have at least an hour’s run, but more than that and she would be accused of dawdling. She did not wish to go. She did not wish to return at all. If only she could stay there for ever, live in the old house, be at peace and be alone. The thought of Jonathan hung over her like an impending storm, heavy, threatening, sultry, possibly dangerous. She was afraid. Absorbed in these dark thoughts again, she did not hear the soft rustling behind her, and nor did the dogs. Nor did they catch the scent since the man was down wind of them and hidden behind the house. And so when he rounded the corner and halted, he had an opportunity to study them for a moment.

He saw a youngish woman – early thirties, maybe – with light brown hair, cut in a childish fringe and bob, small, he thought, trim, and – potentially – very pretty. And at her feet two dogs: an old spaniel and a black retriever. It was altogether a pleasing picture except that he could see that her face was blotchy, and her eyes red: she had been crying. Part of him felt a craven desire to retreat silently and leave her to whatever problems had brought her to this lonely glade, and part of him was strangely moved by the defenceless pose. She reminded him of Elinor. If Elinor had lived, she would have been about this age, she might have looked like this. If only he had helped her when she needed him then she might still be with him. He could not, having thought this, and in all conscience, go away now. He retraced his steps very, very quietly for a few yards and then walked back noisily. Honey and Blacker immediately set up a warning and leapt to their feet to investigate the stranger.

“Good morning,” he said, not sure how to begin.
“Good morning,” said Isabel faintly, conscious of the state of her face, remembering that this was a private wood.
“May I join you there? The wood is larger than I thought, and I am less fit than I hoped.”
“Of course…I mean I have no right to be here anyway…are you…? Are you trespassing too?”
“Only on your feelings,” he said with a slight smile. “No, please don’t go! I have, as it happens, just purchased this wood, but you are most welcome to stay, really.”
“I didn’t know it was for sale.”
“It belonged to the Baronshill family for generations, as you probably knew if you live round here, but Charles is getting old and has no children and has decided to sell off the untidy edges of his estate and just leave what he would describe as `a viable package’ which his executors will be able to sell, if necessary.”
“I’ve never met him,” said Isabel at random, unsure whether she should go despite the gentleman’s polite request and seem rude, or stay and invite another outburst of Jonathan’s anger. “I really ought to go.”
“Why? It is so restful here, and I would be grateful for your company for a few moments. I find woods delightful, but unnerving sometimes. They undermine my conviction of human superiority and instead make me feel supremely unimportant – I’m conscious that these trees have stood here for over a hundred years, and they have no passions, no feelings, if I were to die they would remain unmoved and I would merely be another part of the food chain, soon disposed of, soon forgotten.”
“How macabre! It sounds medieval – A certain convocation of politic worms are e’en at him…”
“Hamlet! Not just a pretty face,” he said delighted.
“Not a very pretty face at the moment,” she said ruefully.
“No, I can see that in happier circumstances you must be more than just pretty. Would you like to tell me why you’re unhappy? It’s usually easier to tell a complete stranger.”
She looked up at him for the first time and he felt himself drowning to lie `tangled in her hair and fettered to her eye’. Her eyes were deep and blue and candid. For a moment he forgot his age. Maybe not beautiful – a generous mouth, good bones, a slightly crooked nose, – but her eyes were lovely. And she saw a man of sixty or more, with iron grey hair, still thick, a determined chin, but fine mouth, a patrician nose, indeterminate grey-green eyes lined and careworn, but with a singularly sweet smile. He was tall, over six foot, she thought, rather thin, and he had walked with a cane. Sitting beside him, she found that she felt overwhelmed, in awe, and yet: “The odd thing is, that I think I could,” she said wonderingly.
“Then why don’t you? Please do. It’s a lover, isn’t it? Rather than disappointment in your career?”
“Yes.”
“It seems a suitable place to bring your troubles – rather lonely, a little wild, very beautiful. Such places restore a sense of proportion, don’t they?”
“Yes, I think they do, but it’s only temporary. While I’m here my “troubles” seem quite unimportant and I can stand back and see what I might do… but as soon as I return home the mole hills are once more mountains, and quite unscaleable at that.”
“You’re married?”
“Yes.”
“With children?”
“Three girls.”
“How delightful!” he said and then sighed and she was aware that his attention had wandered from her.
“And you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Are you married? Do you have children?”
“I was, and I had one daughter. My wife died last year and Elinor… Elinor died ten years ago.”
“Oh…” Isabel felt as if he had slapped her, or douched her with cold water suddenly and most unfairly. How could she tell him of her despair in the face of real tragedy. “I’m so sorry. Look, I think I ought to be getting back or my husband will be even angrier with me.”
“Of course. I mustn’t detain you.” He stood up politely. “May I accompany you some of the way?”
“Yes,” she said uncertainly. She was not at all sure now that she welcomed his interest, or wished him to know where she lived. Was he perhaps a little mad? Living all alone, his daughter dead long before him, recently bereaved…? She had never felt frightened before walking alone in the woods.
He smiled at her and she smiled back involuntarily. One could not help responding. Only she knew she ought not to be deceived by appearances. The fact that he looked like a saint, a kindly priest, was no guarantee that his intentions were honourable. He was clearly well educated, he knew Charles Baronshill, his clothes were impeccable, a complete country gentlemen. He did not look like a murderer or rapist, but then, there was no particular look to distinguish either, it was merely prejudice that would have made her look askance at a man unkempt, in leathers and boots, or an old mackintosh…She laughed at herself.
“So, where do you live?”
“In the Keeper’s Cottage. I could live here,” he said pointing to the old house,” if I were prepared to restore it – it was included in the sale.”
The Keeper’s cottage was a delightful old house on the edge of the common, of brick and flint, with a tiled roof as irregular as a storm tossed sea. With a local habitation all he needed now was a name.
“I live in the Old White Hart. My name’s Isabel Gardiner.”
“How do you do, Isabel,” the pointless politeness was automatic. “I’m Christopher Donaldson-Foy. Ah! Here we are at the bounds of the wood. Really the sun is surprising bright and warm, it had seemed rather cool and dim under the trees.”
“Thank you for your kindness to a trespasser.”
“No, don’t feel that you’re trespassing. Please wander here whenever you wish. I hope to meet you again. Good day.” He raised his hat and walked back into the shadows.
Isabel watched him go. She knew no one else who raised his hat to her, but then, she knew no other man who wore a hat as a matter of course. It was pleasingly old-fashioned, but she had not thought him old. The sun was surprisingly bright and though she could still hear his footsteps receding, the rustle of leaves, the occasional snap of a twig, she could no longer see him. She turned back towards the common and, sighing, walked slowly home.

“Where in heaven’s name have you been?”
Isabel had to admit to a moment’s secret satisfaction, because she could hear Beth’s angry crying from the door. It was clear that she had not settled down. “I walked the dogs through the woods.”
“You walk out of the house without so much as a by your leave. I do have work to do you know, you mustn’t think that just because I’m here you can hand over to me whenever you like so that you can fritter away your time, reading the paper, drinking coffee with your friends or walking the dogs.”
“I’m sorry,” she said automatically. “ It suddenly all seemed too much and then you accused me of wasting time drinking tea when I hadn’t – I still haven’t – managed to have a hot cup of tea yet, or anything to eat today.”
“For goodness sake – It’s just a question of managing your time better. Get up earlier and then there’ll be no rush and you can have your breakfast in peace.”
“But I’m so tired… Beth woke three times last night and Rosie had a nightmare about the bees again. I only get about five hours sleep as it is.”
“Well, I’m tired as well. You agreed when Nicci was born that it was quite fair for me to be the one who went out and made the money which keeps us here, and you would take responsibility for the children especially at night. I can’t work if I’m too tired.”
“Neither can I,” said Isabel bitterly.
“Well you don’t have to. You don’t have to make decisions on which millions hang, or which might sink a multinational company. It’s just a question of making a few meals, collecting the children from school, doing a bit of washing and ironing – it’s hardly an onerous life.”
“Oh, but it is. You’ve no idea – you’ve never had any idea. You come home and can leave all your business worries behind, you read the paper, watch the television relax…”
“I work damned hard during the day and you have no idea of the stress levels of a proper job, the responsibility I have to shoulder…”
“I do, I know your responsibilities are greater, but there’s no respite for me – day or night.”
“Come on, Isabel. Beth sleeps for two hours every day!”
“But I can’t go out, I’m still responsible for her.”
“And that reminds me, I found the window wide open in her room. You know she’s a climber – we’re lucky she hadn’t climbed out and broken her neck.”
“I only opened it as we left, I would have shut it when I put Beth down for her rest!” Isabel said angrily.
“You mean you went out leaving the window wide open? Are you determined to beggar me? What if some opportunist thief had happened along? It’s just asking for a burglary.”
“Mrs. Kingsmill never even locks her door.”
“Then Mrs. Kingsmill is an idiot! I don’t know why we’re wasting time discussing Mrs Kingsmill anyway. Beth is still crying. Why haven’t you gone up to her, poor thing. And I have work to do, now you’ve condescended to re-appear.”
Isabel would have liked to throw something at her husband, something like porridge, she thought longingly, or tomato ketchup which would have stained his crisp blue and white striped shirt irrevocably and ruined his nice pin-striped suit.

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