Free The Wedding Cake Tree by Melanie Hudson

The flowers were a little battered by now, but I laid them down on the grass and placed a stone over the stems to keep them in place. Alasdair stood waiting on the footpath that skirted along the top of the hill.
    ‘ Ready?’ he asked.
    ‘ Ready.’
    W e set off across the heather and followed a sheep track that seemed to be going in roughly the right direction and eventually found a path that followed a stream.
    ‘ I love playing in water,’ I said, ‘it must be something to do with all those years running through the ford at St Christopher’s.’
    ‘ Yes,’ he agreed, wistfully, ‘the ford is pretty special. I was at St Christopher’s during your Tulip Festival last year. Don’t you remember Rosamund introducing us?’ I shook my head.
    ‘ We’ve met before then – seriously?’
    ‘ Seriously.’
    ‘ I’m sorry. I just don’t remember.’
    ‘ No bother. I probably looked a bit different then anyway.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I’d been away, lost a bit of weight, you know …’
    I stopped in my tracks and turned to him.
    ‘Lost a bit of weight? Good God, Alasdair, you must have looked shockingly different at St Christopher’s for me not to remember someone as gorge—’ My brain caught up with my speech. ‘Well, you know. I’m just surprised I don’t remember you, that’s all.’
    Alasdair tried to suppress a chuckle I blushed, and we carried along on our way.
    The path meandered on for half an hour or so and I filled the time rega ling Alasdair with anecdotes from home. He seemed happy to listen and laugh and I was happy to think of anything else rather than analyse Mum’s letters. The revelation I had an aunt remained a constant presence in the back of my mind, as did the thought of what horror Alasdair must have been part of to have lost so much weight the previous year. It struck me that this was no ordinary man Mum had asked to travel with me, and I realised that the journey she had conjured up wasn’t, in fact, just for me, but for Alasdair too. An exhausted special forces soldier with a failed marriage (I tried not to see this as a good thing, but he suddenly became a whole lot sexier, on both counts), an absent mother and who knew what kind of baggage from his childhood – no wonder Mum had wanted to look after him. But then, Alasdair was the kind of man that you couldn’t help but feel affection for.
    A half hour later we reached a small wooden gate with a latch, beyond which I was surpr ised to find a narrow, tarmac lane running downhill from left to right. It seemed odd to come across something modern – even if it was only tarmac – and a little disappointing. Despite the emotion of the letter and the ashes, our time together on the hill was special somehow.
    ‘ Let’s wander into the village,’ he said, ‘it’s down this road by about a quarter of a mile; we’ll find somewhere to sit and have our lunch there.’ He closed the latch on the gate behind us.
    A blacksmith’s forge backed onto the village green. Alasdair stopped next to it and removed his rucksack. He stretched his arms upwards and then backwards and, as his shirt rose up, I found myself admiring his muscular frame and perfectly toned midriff. It was evident he took his soldiering duties quite seriously.
    Not bad, not bad at all …
    For a terrible moment I thought he had caught me looking, so I turned away, tried to hide my blushing cheeks, and pretended to find something in the distance particularly interesting.
    I nevitably, our conversation turned to the letter.
    ‘ I’d like you to read it,’ I said, opening up the tin foil covering a second round of sandwiches.
    ‘ Me? Are you sure?’
    ‘ Of course.’
    I took the letter out of my top pocket, making sure to hand him only the first one, and ate while he read.
    ‘ I must confess that I already know you have a relative here,’ he said, folding the letter and handing it back. ‘Grimes wrote to your aunt to say you would be visiting West Burton this