Free The Mermaid's Child by Jo Baker Page A

of me volitionless, like plumblines. Blisters began to burn my feet. And then came the cold; slyly incremental, relentless. No matter how often I reminded myself to keep my shoulders down, to keep my back straight, to step out, no matter how persuasive were my recollections of hot sun freckling my face, warm slate step on the back of my legs, or winter fires crackling on the sandstone hearth, there was no getting round it. I was frozen. I wrapped my arms around myself to hold back the shivers, but this pressed my wet shirt against my skin. I let go, but then the night air slipped in around my body. Jaw clamped tight, stumbling along, flapping my arms around me like some giant waterbird, I became absorbed in the kernel of warmth inside, focused on the slight ripples of comfort that followed each shiver.
    I didn’t notice the sun rise, or hear the dawn chorus. I wasn’t going to complain, wasn’t going to show any weakness. I wasn’t going to make him regret, even for a moment, that he had brought me with him. So I just stumbled on, still half a pace behind the stranger, wondering if he would never stop, if we would keep on walking until I crumpled in on myself like a struck tent and lay where I fell, shivering, unnoticed, while he strode on ahead, believing, if indeed he gave it any thoughtat all, that I was still there, still half a pace behind him, following at his heels. I glanced up and caught him looking round at me. I tried to smile. He laughed.
    â€œYou look fit to drop,” he said.
    He glanced up beyond me, up the empty moorside.
    â€œBest get you sorted out.”
    And he set off uphill through the heather. As far as I could see, there was nothing up there but a sheer rise, a patch of broken-stemmed bracken and a stand of gorse bushes, and after that the sky. But I sucked in a breath, gritted my teeth and set off after him, following like a balloon tugged along on a string.
    It was a difficult climb, that hundred yards or so up the hillside, footsnared and stumbling in the heath. As I passed the gorse I was engulfed by its sudden thick cloud of scent. When, some years afterwards, I first encountered a coconut, I found myself transported by the perfume of its unexpected milk, its blue-white flesh, back to that shivering stumble through the moors. Coconuts, to me, will always smell of gorse.
    Behind the gorse stand there was a dip in the moorland, where the hill gathered itself a moment before taking another leap towards the sky. And here he’d stopped and slid his knapsack from his shoulder, and I almost stumbled into him.
    â€œThis’ll do,” he said.
    I saw nothing but a dip in the ground, an overcrop of rock. I didn’t like to ask about the watershed.
    â€œSit yourself down,” he said. “Soon get you warm.”
    I made to sit, but found that I couldn’t. Everything seemed to have locked solid. I stood swaying, looking down the length of my uncooperative legs, past the black scuffed leather of my clogs, to gaze at the soft mossy turf. It looked socomfortable I could have cried. Then I felt his hands pressing against my ribcage, under my arms.
    â€œHere,” he said. “I’ll help you.”
    I glanced up at him, thinking he was laughing at me, but his face was all sympathy and seriousness. He took my weight and lowered me, stiff-legged, down onto the ground. I whimpered: I couldn’t help myself. He straightened up and turned away. I just sat there, my legs stretched bolt out in front of me, looking down at my feet, and it was wonderful just to be still. Each specific pain, each throb and cramp and chafe, sang out through the fog of overall discomfort. I was conscious of his presence as he moved around, but only vaguely. I was preoccupied by the deep structural ache within my feet, by the burning tackiness where the skin had been worn away. It would be wonderful if I could just lean forward, reach down and untie the laces, ease off my clogs. But it