Free Beneath Us the Stars by David Wiltshire

they?’
    Not sure whether she was having her leg pulled she prompted: ‘Outside shops and cinemas. You must have seen them?’
    Enlightenment dawned. ‘Ah, standing in line, taking your turn. Right.’ He frowned. ‘How say we go to my sources first – see what they can do?’ He tempted her with: ‘Might save time?’
    She relented, grinned. ‘All right.’
    They finished their coffee and stood up.
    He waited as she pulled her coat back on, helping her find her sleeve. She found his attention very nice, very comforting.
    She turned and said: ‘Thank you.’
    When she’d picked up her bag he said: ‘Mary.’
    She paused, looked up at him questioningly. ‘Yes?’
    He took her face in his hands and very very gently kissed her on the lips.
    ‘Lest there be any doubt.’
     
    A couple of hours later they were clear of Cambridge, cycling along a lane, sometimes holding hands, wobbling along, once nearly going into each other as two Mosquitoes passed hedge-high, the sudden deafening roar of their engines gone as quickly as it had come.
    They arrived at a crossroads and dismounted.
    ‘Which way?’ he asked as Mary looked uncertainly in all directions. Half-turning the front wheel to the right she said: ‘I think we go – this way.’
    ‘You don’t sound too sure. Don’t they signpost anything around here?’
    She spun her pedal around backwards until it was in the right position to push off. ‘They were all taken down during the invasion scare.’
    Suddenly she nodded to a track that ran off the lane into a wood. She seemed to make up her mind.
    ‘Come on, that’s it.’
    As she sped off he followed, wobbling with the weight of his pannier bags.
    ‘Hey, hang on, wait for me.’
    Giggling she raced ahead and turned down the track. Almost immediately her front wheel caught in a rut. She screamed as she went over the handlebars and into a hedge. Bill caught up, laying his bike on the ground and rushing over to her all in one non-stop motion.
    Concerned, he knelt beside her. ‘Are you hurt?’
    Mary rolled on to her back, got her breath back and looked up at him. ‘No – just my pride.’
    He grinned his relief, and tweaked her nose. ‘Serves you right, leaving me behind.’
    He stood up, held out his hands. ‘Come on, I’m dying to see this cottage.’
    He put a foot either side of her and hauled her to her feet, then helped her brush off twigs and mud. Mary smacked his hand away as he paid too much attention to her bottom. ‘That’s enough, thank you.’
    Grinning, he retrieved her bicycle, checked it out, standing with both legs either side of the front wheel as he straightened the handlebars.
    Mary picked up the spilled contents of her wicker basket.
    They resumed their journey but not quite so fast. Another quarter of a mile along the track widened, the wood ended, and there was a thatched cottage with a pond and ducks. From a gate a gravelled path led to the oak front door.
    Mary looked at the sign, half buried in the hedgerow and read it aloud: ‘Keeper’s Cottage – that’s it.’
    He looked around and whistled. ‘Hey, this is great.’
    Mary nodded. ‘It’s very picturesque, I must say.’
    They leant their bikes against the fence and opened the gate. It gave a creak.
    Under the porch Mary lifted a flower-pot and produced an old iron key. The lock turned easily but she could not budge the door. Bill leant over her and pushed with the flat of his hand. It flew open.
    They stepped into a low-beamed room with, on the far side, french windows, beyond which they could see a small paved terrace with a white iron table and two chairs.
    There was a brick fireplace, and opposite it a glass twenties -style cocktail cabinet tucked in under a dog-leg staircase. A sofa and two chairs were grouped around the hearth, and a floor-standing wireless and gramophone was under the little lattice window beside them.
    A steady clunk-clunk came from a grandfather clock.
    Enchanted, Bill took a step