Sunday 27 November 2016

Cecily: Looking for Love at Cyril's Creek Part Four

Chapter Four
Cecily was alone again.  
The day was grey, which was ok, it was warm enough to play and she was out for her walk as usual. There was still a bounce to her step and her mood was buoyant as she made her way to the creek. As she walked past  the  terrible houses, the net curtains shook like doves in a storm. Her unfriendly and nosy neighbours watched her pass and made notes in the small books they kept to note who had passed and when. Later on, they would arrange meetings with each other to compare notes in one another's books but no-one would go to them. Instead, they would wait behind net curtains to write down who did attend (which was no-one). 
Her walk took her once again past the Henderson’s. Mr Henderson was out in the garden, polishing  some very long leather boots with an awe-inspiring heel. 
“Lovely day for it,” she called cheerily. 
Mr Henderson nodded eagerly, leaving a pause  as if  he wanted Cecily to  say  something  else. 
Lovely boots!” she continued, “I shall spend the rest of the day wondering how I should look if I were wearing them... 
Mr Henderson made a noise which was obviously agreement of some sort but oddly wordless. In fact, he turned a rather odd colour. 
"Perhaps you would like to try them on?" he managed. 
"Yes," she called back. "What do you think I should wear with them?" 
"Aaargh!"  
With a cheery wave, she left him behind and tripped merrily towards the open land. After what seemed like an age to her, she reached Cyril's Creek. As usual, all was tranquil and calm to the eye (although, deep in the reeds, a little grebe had just dropped a bundle after some speculative trading against the yen). She stood for a moment, breathing in the beauty. 
When the rapture had subsided and she had become more aware of her surroundings, movement in the thick stems that ringed the pond caught her eye once more. She felt odd; someone was watching her. But who? She decided to steal closer. Across the grass, over the dirt, between the ants, under the sky- you get the picture. Soon she was all but down by the water's edge with just a screen of tall, proud reeds between her and whoever was spying on her. Gently, the reeds were parted by questing fingers to reveal more behind. Onwards her exploration went until she was sure that the centre of the reeds lay before her. 
Just one more reed and the truth would surely now be revealed. Until- 
"Oh. Ow! The pain!" 
A scream came from behind her.  
She scrambled out of the reeds, looking around her for the source of the cry of pain. An oak tree regarded her, silent despite the presence of a woodpecker on its trunk; it certainly hadn't cried out in agony. Indeed, it bore the indignity and pain in silence, believing that a stiff upper lip was necessary to show class and breeding. The woodpecker just hammered away without mercy. It was the baddest, most evil woodpecker in the woods and worked hard to preserve its reputation. 
Cecily looked further afield. Or was that 'Cecily looked further. A field?' After carefully negotiating a barbed wire fence, the upright figure looked up and down the ploughed rows for any sign of who it was that had cried out. Once more, her search proved fruitless although she came back from the fields with a sizeable truckle of courgettes. Still the sounds abounded but the source remained a mystery to her. Perhaps there was someone who she could ask? Her head slowly moved through 180 degrees. Having made sure no-one was crying at her feet or directly above her head, she decided to look from side to side. 
There! 
A man lying on the floor. 
He was dressed stylishly in a suit but rather oddly lay among the ruins of a glider. Cecily rushed to his side. 
"Excuse me," she hailed him, "did you hear someone yell in pain?" 
He blinked up at her, a somewhat bewildered look in his eyes. 
"I rather think that was me," he said, smoothing his neat and small moustache. 
He was rather dashing in a lemon waistcoat. It must have been the largest piece of fruit anyone had ever produced. Aside from that, a silk scarf dangled over his silk shirt. His silk socks were just visible under his hand cobbled trousers before slipping inside the expensive hand-tailored shoes. A monocle hung from his neck and in one of his hands was grasped a gold topped cane. 
"I think I rather ditched the old crate, what?" he told her, with a rueful boyish smile. 
Breathless with exertion and speechless with unspoken attraction, Cecily helped him up. 
"Tarquin Ponsonbey-Smythe," he said. 
"Cecily." 
They shook hands and, as they shook, he winced. 
"You've hurt you hand," she cried in shock. 
Rather embarrassed, Tarquin told her that she had, in fact, hurt his hand. 
"That's some grip you have there." 
"You must let me take you to the house. We will get you patched up and I will make you something to eat. Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked, concern across her face. 
"Rather!" he replied. 
With his hand across her shoulders, he limped elegantly alongside her, away from the creek and back towards the house. Meanwhile, behind them, where the reeds were still flattened by Cecily's searching, a shadowy figure watched on. A dry croaking cry reverberated across the creek- a cry of anger and frustration. Then, a breeze stirred the river bank and the couple were hidden from view. And, in the creek, each frog quaked for it knew that vengeance would be meted on them. They hopped, they swam and slithered. But most knew that many of them would die. 
Meanwhile, Tarquin was describing his flying exploits and how he was a test pilot for a new, revolutionary and ,for the time being, unsuccessful glider. Cecily listened to him speaking, admiring his rich voice and swooning over his strong and handsome profile. 
Maybe this was what she had been hoping for. A man she could  admire, a man she could love. A man who could lift her to new and amazing heights. 

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