I rolled my eyes. ‘Luke goes there every Friday night, according to you.’
‘He’s the one who told me.’ Daniel resumed eating.
‘They have a whole family dining area in a separate room. And Alice is working there on Saturday. I’ve not seen her in ages.’
Daniel raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you want to show me off?’
I shuffled in my seat. I didn’tnotwant to show my friend that Daniel and I were exploring being more than friends. Maybe partly because I wanted to remind her what a decent boyfriend looked like.
* * *
We set off after a fortifying breakfast of eggs on rye toast, relieved to see the good weather was continuing. We spotted a smattering of new buds on the apple trees as we weaved through the orchard, the ground awash with a sea of daffodils and speckled with the first of the bluebells.
‘Excited about reviving it again?’
Daniel nodded, his head tipped up to inspect the straggling boughs overhead. ‘I’m thinking about Apple Day. It was a much smaller thing when we used to celebrate it, but they’re all over the place now.’
‘Apple Day?’
‘It’s held in October.’ We began moving on towards the other side of the orchard. ‘Everywhere does it differently, but there’s usually cooking demonstrations and cider tasting, games and village fete stuff like music and craft stalls. Loads of apple related produce on sale. We used to serve cups of apple and parsnip soup and masses of pies and cakes. In the evening we’d have a bonfire, and get some of the old miners’ band to play. It was Charlie’s favourite day of the year, when her orchard became one big party.’
‘Sounds fantastic. Are you thinking of doing one this year?’
He shrugged as he opened the gate to the meadow beyond. ‘I spoke to Ziva about it. But we’ve both reached the point where a community day involving only the Old Side feels wrong.’
‘Were only the Old Side invited before?’
‘Only the Old Siders ever came.’
‘You never know what could happen between now and October.’
Daniel winked at me. ‘Up until somewhere around the middle of January I would have rebuffed that comment. These days, I’m inclined to believe anything is possible.’
* * *
As usual, time in Daniel’s company soon dissolved any resolve to keep an element of distance between us. Walking and talking together, Hope joining in over his shoulder with her happy nonsense chatter, felt a mixture of thrilling and at the same time blissfully comfortable. He listened to everything I had to say, asking interested questions and following up with his own stories and observations that were relevant and in no way constructed to boost his ego.
We talked more about the orchard, and potential plans, how we could incorporate pruning and fruit picking into the retreat programme. We shared more anecdotes from our childhoods, Daniel now able to fully appreciate how my parents had shaped my younger years, and both of us swapping notes about the blessings and frustrations of growing up in a home that doubled up as the family business.
By the time we’d moved on to modern conservation issues and the environmental impact of intensive farming versus the economic trials of more sustainable methods, we had braved crossing the tiny, crumbling footbridge and had officially entered the New Side.
Another mile or so, and we reached the row of red-brick terraced cottages that preceded the Water Boatman. As we wound back towards the water, tired and hot from the walk, the riverside pub garden appeared idyllic.
‘A table in the sunshine or the shade?’ I asked, already eyeing up an empty picnic bench sitting in a pool of sunlight.
‘I was thinking table inside.’ Daniel glanced warily across the water towards the Old Boat House, where every table appeared packed with a mix of families and couples out enjoying the warmer weather.
‘Seriously?’ I looked at him, surprised. ‘Are you ashamed to be seen at the Boatman?’ And then another realisation struck. ‘Or ashamed to be seen withme? The incomer who swaggered in with her grandiose saviour complex and attempted to rectify decades of devastation with a cheese and wine evening?’
‘Either that or I’ve been mates with the manager of the Old Boat House since I was four, and two days ago I met with him to pitch Damson Farm Cider. I promised him first dibs.’
‘Okay, I can see how you now turning up here could be misconstrued.’
A man around Daniel’s age, who looked as though he had sampled more than a bellyful of beer in his time, currently stood on the far side of the river, hands on hips, a knowing tilt to his head.
‘Gavin,’ Daniel called, with a half-hearted wave.
‘Danny.’ Gavin nodded back, folding his arms, bar towel dangling from one elbow.
