Echoes of the Dance by Marcia Willett

valley. Thirty years ago she’d bought a little cottage on the edge of the valley – oh, how she’d loved it – and countless times since then she’d climbed these rocks to gaze in awe at this ancient land stretched in wild splendour below her. Today, away in the west, the hills and tors of Cornwall lay hidden in mist but she could see the silver glint of Plymouth Sound and the sinuous curve of the River Tamar. As a young naval wife she’d walked here, anxious about her deteriorating marriage with Mark Webster, sustained by the moor itself: the subtly changing landscape, combined with its quality of timeless infinity, never failed to calm her restless fears. Each season thrilled her: the sight of a twisty, wind-pruned thorn all newly covered with red may blossom or a hillside flowering with purple, bee-laden heather; the fiery, coppery gold of rusting bracken burning in the late autumn sunshine or a black, stark-etched Tor iced with snow. In all its moods she loved it.
    In those early days her twins, Guy and Giles, would have been scrambling below her, playing war games and climbing the rocks, whilst the dogs scattered the grazing ponies as they raced through the bracken. Often her closest friend, Cass Wivenhoe, would have been with them, along with her own brood of children. From shared schooldays and as young naval wives their lives had been so closely linked; indeed it was Cass’s father, the General, whose benign presence had held them all steady. Constant as the moor itself, his friendship had supported Kate through those difficult years with Mark, the final break-up of their marriage and her mother’s death. Never judgemental, the General’s own experiences had marked him deeply with compassion and humility; not odd, then, that she should still miss him.
    A lark began its erratic skyward flight, its song spilling down through the soft billowy air. The warm west wind tugged at her clothes and, as she watched the cloud shapes fleeing across the distant slopes of Sharpitor, it seemed as if she heard their voices, the General’s and Mark’s, in the wind.
    â€˜You must be very brave, my darling . . . Your mother died this morning . . .’
    â€˜I see no point to children until they’re old enough to hold an intelligent conversation.’
    â€˜You are stronger than you can possibly imagine and I am here. For the moment that will have to be enough.’
    â€˜Children are much more likely to wreck a marriage. You know my views about that.’
    â€˜. . . and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.’
    Kate pushed her hands deep into her pockets: she felt afraid. The past with its failures and mistakes pressed upon her and, with David gone, she was rootless; there was no framework now to keep her centred. She had her family, of course, and many friends, but it was a mistake to depend too heavily on other people – however close – in an effort to fill this emptiness. During the last terrible year of David’s illness there had been hardly any time for anything except the care of him at the London flat; their world had shrunk to the small round of special diets, regular injections and then hospital visits. Oh, back then . . . how she had longed to walk here in the clean air; to hear the sound of clear water bubbling up from the thousand issues that drenched the peaty earth or watch the buzzard suspended high in the milky-blue dome above her head. Now she had all the time in the world, the freedom to do as she pleased, and the knowledge of the empty hours filled her with a kind of panic.
    Other voices, human ones, were carried up to her, and the sound of a dog barking. Instinctively she glanced about, ready to call the dogs to her – but she was quite alone: no Megs or Honey; no Oscar or Felix. Pain squeezed her heart and she turned away abruptly as a party of people climbed up towards her. Blinking away tears she stared across