Moorland Hall (FIRST DRAFT)

from 4-5 November 2010: Meeting the Master

She would take Odelia swimming, teaching her how to paint, how to tell a maple from a Lombardy poplar and oak from birch and holly. While the girl child had been wilful and cared little about anything else than pretty dresses, over time and with great care, Julia found her to be both sweet and intelligent.

As the months rolled on and seasons changed, however, being mostly stuck in a house in a remote part of the Derbyshire countryside with not much more than a five-year-old and an old lady as company, she longed to have someone to talk to, someone with whom she had something in common. Sure, she could be excited at Christmas with opening presents just like Odelia, but she wasn’t a great conversationalist. Mrs. Deacon, equally sweet, was also not someone she had a lot in common with.

The days became a bit monotonous, every one seemingly the same, she couldn’t help feeling bored. Thinking about it, she thought it unfair to be bored, because did she not enjoy their company? Were they not friendly and did they not look after her, and did she not feel welcome? Was being an au pair in the United Kingdom not something she had longed to be?

One day in February, Odelia feeling unwell and having gone to bed, Julia offered to run errands in Branwell for Mrs. Deacon, taking some letters to the post office. Stretching her legs in a pair of thick winter boots, Julia longed for the sun, but it was hidden behind a wall of fog and cloud. Compared to her home, the winter days were longer here, not to mention warmer. Not today, though. Frost spread across the park every night and still lingered in the shadows next to the road; one of those narrow country lanes surrounding Moorland House. Where she came from, the roads were lined with reflective orange sticks to guide the snow ploughs this time of year. Here, snow always came as a surprise and no one knew how to deal with it. Julia wouldn’t be surprised if the people in this country had never even heard of snow ploughs.

The narrow road snaked its way around the hills with no way of telling what lay ahead, as a thick hawthorn hedge entwined with honeysuckle and ivy obscured the view on either side. Even more so on a day like today, with cold, damp fog smothering both the road and the rolling hills beyond. Fog in February, now that was unusual, Julia was more used to mounds of snow.

Walking made it easy to avoid the few icy patches hidden in the shadier parts. Julia skipped over one of them only to stumble as one of her shoelaces came undone, but she wasn't in a hurry. It was only about four o'clock and the village post office wouldn't close for another hour, so she had plenty of time to stop and tie them. It was relaxing to go for a walk, and she had missed the walks she had back home, before she came over.

A rising roar announced an engine drawing closer. Heart leaping into her throat at the sudden, unwelcome noise, she scurried to the side of the road to let the vehicle pass safely. It wasn't a car swishing past her; it was a motorbike, its rider an ominous black figure. The two-wheeled vision was gone as quickly as it had appeared, like some sort of phantom – except phantoms didn't normally ride bikes. Nor did they slip on ice and come crashing to the ground.

Julia froze at first, fearing the worst, but as she could hear muffled groans and mutterings just a few seconds afterwards, she realised the rider wasn’t dead after all. By the time she reached the crash site, the leather-suited biker was already trying to get back on his feet, unsuccessfully.

‘A-are you okay?’ she stammered, unable to stop her heart from pounding like a jackhammer. Calm down, Julia, he may be hurt but he’s not dead.

Noticing her, the man took off his helmet to reveal a pair of dark, glowering eyes set in a surly, square face, surrounded by a black mane. She couldn’t quite tell from where he was on the ground, but he was probably tall, definitely dark, but handsome – not really. Oh well, at least it meant she didn't have to stammer and blush like a schoolgirl, which she always did when talking to someone she fancied, which annoyed the crap out of her. Luckily, his face was harsh and uninviting, a far cry from any Adonis. Had he been crying, she wouldn't have known what to do or say, so the torrent of swearwords made her strangely at ease. Finding it a lot easier to handle, it made her all the more willing to help.