Copenhagen, June 1938

Late as it was, Roger found he could not settle to sleep. He might blame the large meal or the coffee. They had lingered, chatted, danced and strolled back to the Sea Bear. They hadn't even come back by the most direct route. Roger could admit privately to himself that the longer than intended return route was more a failure of navigation on his part than anything else. Still, none of the others had objected and the meal was a good few hours in the past now.

He sighed and rolled over in his bunk. He couldn't really fool himself. The reason he couldn't sleep lay asleep herself only feet away, on the other side of the cabin in the rabbit-hutch bunk directly below Peggy's. Roger tried to explain to himself why, after however-many years he had known Dot, it suddenly bothered him that she was a pretty girl.

He had never danced with her before, of course. He had never danced with anyone besides his mother and his sisters. He was suddenly grateful to Mother for insisting that they did all learn to dance "enough not to feel embarrassed if they had to." Roger had genuinely enjoyed learning, especially when he realised that it was one of the things he did better than John.

Roger had not been unaware of the admiring glances she had received as they danced. Dot had, over the last year or so, suddenly become beautiful. People had thought she was his girl and envied him. He wished she was. He couldn't say anything to her aboard Sea-Bear. If he managed a moment alone with her without a sister in earshot, Peggy or one of the Baby-Macs was sure to be there. At the next port, he promised himself, he would somehow get Dot alone and say…. he was not quite sure what he would say, but he had a few days yet to think of something. A pity he had gone out of his way to imply he didn't see her as a potential girlfriend. What on earth had possessed him to say that? And that comment about Titty and Dick being far too convenient to be likely…

Decision made, Roger buried his face in his pillow and slept.

Roger worked quickly to pack his knapsack, stuffing in all the clean socks and underpants he could find. Susan, he thought, would be pleased to know that he remembered his toothbrush and a towel, too. Roger himself was less pleased. He'd nerved himself up to talk to Dot and now the chance was gone. He knew it made sense for him to be the one to transfer to Goblin, but sometimes he felt sense wasn't all it was made out to be. Oh well, there would be another chance when they all got back. He'd known Dot for years, after all; a few more days wasn't going to make much difference now.

Beckfoot, July 1938

With all nine of them back at the lake - even if only for a few days - everything should have been like it used to be. It wasn't, though. Not long after they got to Beckfoot John had asked Roger to keep Dorothea and Dick out of the way, then steered Titty and Bridget into Captain Flint's study to tell them he and Nancy were engaged. Titty and Bridget had been delighted and were plainly finding it difficult to keep the news to themselves for the rest of the evening. Mrs Blackett still had scruples about telling friends of the engagement before she was sure that John's letter had reached his mother in Australia.

Roger was still wondering a little about how the new relationship (but how new was it, really?) between John and Nancy would change things. It wasn't long before his mind drifted to his own dilemma. Through the time he'd been at Pin Mill and on the journey north he'd wondered over and over again whether he should say something to Dorothea or not. John's announcement had been the final push he needed, though. It seemed that childhood friends could become something more, so why shouldn't he and Dot?

The tricky bit, of course, remained the same: finding a chance to talk to her alone. The problem was that there was no shortage of plans. Peggy was doing her best to keep things moving, just as she'd done that winter when Nancy had mumps, and Susan, arm still in plaster though it was, was actively assisting her. It never occurred to Roger that the mates were working to give their captains as much privacy as they could. John had spoken to Mr Jackson that morning and arranged to hire Swallow for the week - it seemed that the current "summer folk" weren't interested in boats - and a race was planned for the day after tomorrow. After that there would be a trip to the mine then they'd be camping on Wild Cat Island. Once all that got started he'd never get a chance to speak to her; if it was going to happen it would need to be soon.

Tomorrow would be his chance. Susan and Peggy were staying at Beckfoot while John and Nancy had Amazon for the day. Dick had asked Titty if she wanted to sail in Scarab and Bridget, too, was eager to sail. Dorothea had always been less keen on sailing than her brother – or, for that matter, Roger's sisters. Perhaps she would prefer a walk to a day spent in Bridget's far from restful company. Swallowdale was a reasonable distance – and not visible from the Lake. Fishing in the tarn might be as good an excuse as any. Roger wandered down to the boathouse where Dick and Dorothea were checking that everything in Scarab was neatly stowed and ready for the next morning.

He found Dick putting a new whipping on the end of Scarab's mainsheet while Dorothea sat on the edge of the dock, waggling her bare toes in the cool green water and straightening the little wire staff of the beetle pennant. "Oh hello, Roger," she said. "Are we late for supper?"

Roger shook his head. "Oh no. I just wondered if I could help with anything." He looked over Scarab critically. She and Amazon could be sister ships. In fact they almost were - Captain Flint had asked the boatbuilders to make Scarab as much like Amazon as they could. Amazon was twice as old, and you could see that she had had years of hard use. Every part of her rig was perfectly maintained, though, showing the skill of her crew. Dick and Dot were catching up but they weren't quite there yet.

Dick looked thoughtfully around Scarab then pointed at the halyard. "You can put a new whipping on there if you like. The old one's a bit frayed and it would look nice if it matched the sheet."

Dorothea smiled quietly at that statement. Roger wondered why then shrugged. He'd asked the question rather hoping that nothing would need done, but it gave him an excuse to be here. He opened his knife and cut off a long length from Dick's coil of fine cord, then carefully closed the blade and stepped down into Scarab. He cast off the halyard from the cleat, opened the knife again and started to cut away the old whipping. Now, how could he ask? It shouldn't be so difficult to think of the right words. He didn't usually have a problem thinking of something to say, after all, and it was only old Dot. Why was his head so empty all of a sudden? He pulled away the last of the old whipping, then laid a long loop of the fresh cord against the halyard and started winding tight coils over it. Dick, shifting his weight, joggled his elbow and he nearly let the tension come off. Then he had an idea.

He braced himself and took the plunge. After looking round Scarab's small interior (rather theatrically, Dot thought) he turned to her. "I say, Dot, it's going to be awfully crowded tomorrow with four of you in here. Bridgie's bigger than I was when we first had Swallow, and Swallow is roomier than Scarab. Mrs Blackett says I can borrow Captain Flint's trout rod if I take care with it and I thought I'd go to Trout Tarn tomorrow. Would you like to come with me? You've never fished with flies before and it would be a good chance to visit Swallowdale, too. If you like we might even get old Mr Swainson to sing for us."

Dick looked up from his work again. "That's not a bad idea, Dot," he said enthusiastically. "It would be jolly cramped with all of us in here."

It felt almost disloyal to Scarab, but Dorothea thought she did prefer the walk to Swallowdale to sailing. You couldn't really let your mind wander when you were sailing, not for long anyway and she really did want to think about getting a story – or maybe two or three out of their trip to the Baltic. She didn't especially want to fish, but it would be hopeless to expect Roger, who was after all a Walker, to spend the entire day doing nothing – or at least to admit it. As far as Dorothea was concerned, fishing, especially for trout, was most likely to amount to a day doing nothing. She let her mind wander now. Despite Roger's comments in Copenhagen, she wondered how her brother really did feel about Titty and whether he would make any use of the opportunity today. A pity Roger had not asked Bridget to accompany them, but then he was probably the last person to even consider the possibility of romance.

They had set off rather late the next morning. The problem – although no-one said so in so many words- was that no-one really seemed to want Bridget with them. Bridget herself wanted to go with John and Nancy. Bridgie was always on the look-out to make sure that she wasn't, yet again, left out. Roger was fairly sure that this was beginning of her campaign to make sure that if there were to be bridesmaids, she was one of them. Judging by Bridget's rebellious expression, Susan had offered a little advice on the subject of waiting to be asked and not hinting. Bridget was scowling at her eldest sister and making perfectly plain that she would not be spending the day at Beckfoot with Susan and Peggy if she could possibly help it.

Roger was hoping that Titty, usually so sensitive to the moods of others and anxious to avoid a row, would make haste to encourage Bridget to sail in the Scarab. To his mild exasperation Titty appeared to have finally noticed that their younger sister could be a little spoilt, and he thought for an uncomfortable few minutes that he and Dot would be lumbered with a sulky Bridget for the day.

Eventually, Titty and Dick had to give into Bridget's repeated assertions that she had been really looking forward to sailing today. John and Nancy had already gone to the boat-house and Amazon. Peggy had almost pushed them out of the door. Roger tried to get Dot, the fishing rod and a knapsack containing a picnic out of Beckfoot and up on to the fell as quickly as possible. He was somewhat hampered by Dot's kind, but luckily fruitless, efforts to persuade Bridget to accompany them.

The watch tower and Swallowdale were closer to Beckfoot than they had seemed to Roger's eight-year-old legs all those years ago. Dorothea admired the view from the watch tower. The shallow bowl on top that helped conceal a sentinel wasn't quite large enough for her to lie comfortably in, but she could imagine how perfect it would have seemed to the others when they'd first discovered it years ago. Looking back over the rolling fells towards Beckfoot she let her mind drift away. The last survivors of the ancient Picts, living on in this high place while the Celts colonised the valley… no, that theory was exploded, wasn't it? A group of young Saxons taking refuge in the hills, always vigilant for the sight of marauding Norsemen… there were so many stories suggested by this place. She sighed. That was the problem, of course; there were so many stories suggested by everywhere. She really must stop looking for new plots and try to finish the ones she had already begun.

Roger broke into her meanderings. "Shall we go on, Dot? Swallowdale isn't far at all. You could see it from up there if it wasn't so well hidden. And if you weren't facing the wrong way, of course."

She sighed again and took one last look out over the uplands, then slid backwards and lowered herself carefully to the ground. Minutes later she was standing beside Roger, looking down into the little secret valley. "That's the knickerbockerbreaker," Roger said, pointing at a ramp of wind-polished stone, "where I used to slide down. And there's where John built the pool. The dam's washed away now, of course. Come on, shall we slide down? No, perhaps not."

They scrambled down the grassy slope and stopped beside Susan's old fireplace. Someone had been here, Roger thought, perhaps a few months ago; the ashes in the circle of stones had been flattened down by rain, but they were nowhere near old enough to be from Susan's last fire. Dorothea was looking around the valley. "Where is the cave?" she asked. "I know it's hidden by some heather. There?"

Roger laughed. "No, not quite. Farther to the left. Come on, I'll show you." In fact it took him a few seconds to be sure of the exact place himself, but soon enough the memories sharpened in his mind and he was leading her to the concealed entrance. He took off his knapsack and found his torch in a side pocket, and handed it to Dorothea. Then he pulled the overhanging heather to one side and gestured for her to go ahead.

Following her in, he found the cave much smaller than he had remembered. Surely he hadn't grown that much! It seemed he had, though. He looked around in the light of the torch. Yes, the cave at least had remained secret; there was still a good stack of firewood against the wall where Susan had piled it. That would save a trip to the woods.

Dot flashed the torch about, examining the walls carefully. Would this reappear in the stories she wrote? What had that first one been? That one that she and Titty had pored over in the seemingly interminable series of exercise books, that summer they had found the copper? Outlaw of the Broads.

Of course, now having visited the Broads last Easter with Dick, Roger had met Dot's original outlaw. Tom Dudgeon had seemed pleasant enough, but sensibly dull at the time. Now he seemed the most boring fellow Roger had ever met. This cave was ridiculously claustrophobic. Probably the hole that ventilated the top of the cave had become blocked.

"Come on." He said abruptly. He had been meaning to show her much more, to explain again how he and Titty had found the cave and how they had fooled the Amazons. He held the heather aside for her again and gesture for her to pass him. In the chill of the cave he could feel the warmth of her arms as she brushed passed him. A faint trace of scented soap was almost overpowered by the honey scent of the heather. One long plait swished against his bare forearm.

She stood in the sunlight a pace from the entrance, eyes still adjusting to the brightness. From his place at the cave mouth she appeared haloed by the brightness of her own hair.

"I'm not as keen as I was on caves either. Not since that time under Ling Scar," she said.

Roger scrambled through the entrance. He shouldn't waste this opportunity.

"It doesn't bother me, but I should have thought that it might upset you." Maybe he could put an arm around her, hug her and then see if she might like to be kissed.

"It doesn't – not really. I just don't enjoy caves as much." Dot sounded so cheerful that he could not pretend, even to himself, that she was in any need of a comforting cuddle. She had already turned towards the little waterfall at the head of the valley. "The tarn was this way you said."

"Yes, but we'll come back to have our dinner." said Roger.

So far as he knew, Dot never had fished with a fly. She was sure to get something wrong at first and he would have to show her. That could open up all sorts of opportunities.

It caused all sorts of problems, too. Dot had been charmed by the carefully tied trout flies, and impressed to learn that Roger had tied them himself. He named them all as he carefully tied them to the leader; the Triumph, the Welshman's Button and the Greenwell's Glory. All three were different colours, he explained, but when he found out which one attracted the most fish he'd change the other two to match. The flies, the fat silk line designed to float on the surface and the reel were all new to Dorothea.

To Dorothea, as to most of the others, fishing was just a way to pass a lazy afternoon and - more importantly - catch dinner. In the last couple of years Roger had started to take it a great deal more seriously, first learning from Captain Flint then trying new things for himself. He'd even managed to catch some of the elusive char that lived in the lake by towing a spinner behind Swallow, something Captain Flint had tried many times and sworn was impossible.

This confident, competent Roger was very different from his usual rebellious self. Perhaps, Dorothea thought, that was because when it came to fishing he didn't have to look up to John and Nancy all the time? She was even more impressed at his skill when, after watching him effortlessly feed out line until he had fifty feet or more swishing in the air above him, then letting it shoot out to settle gently on the surface, she tried it herself. Twice the whole lot landed off to one side in a tangled mess, which Roger patiently sorted out for her. The third time she ended up dropping the rod in panic as one of the flies - which, she was uncomfortably aware, had a barbed hook projecting from its tail - whistled past an inch from her ear. Next time Roger stood behind her, controlling her hand to show her the correct action (and resting his left hand lightly on her arm) and she managed to get the flies to at least land on the tarn. On her next attempt, though, the line collapsed once more in a knotted bird's nest.

"I think I'd better watch you for a while," she said when Roger had untangled it again. "There's something I'm not getting quite right." Roger shrugged and began casting, working his way slowly round the edge of the tarn, a few feet with each cast. Before long there were half a dozen fat little trout in his basket.

By the time they reached the little beck that ran from the tarn down to Swallowdale Roger had decided that dark flies were what was wanted, and he sat down to replace the Greenwell's with another Triumph. Dorothea wandered over to the beck then stopped as she glimpsed a sudden ring of bubbles on the surface. There was a place where the beck had hollowed out a little pool from a soft place in the bank, and whatever had made the splash was in there. She wondered if she remembered what Jackie had taught her the summer they'd got Scarab. Lifting her skirt slightly she dropped to her hands and knees, crawled quietly to the bank of the little stream, then lay down and carefully, fingers already waggling gently, lowered one arm into the water.

Roger had just finished tying on the new fly when he heard a sudden splash behind him, then Dot excitedly calling his name. He turned quickly, to see her scrambling to her feet beside the beck. "Dot! What's the matter?"

"Quick!" she cried, pointing, "Over there!" Then she ran towards a small patch of bracken and started searching through it, pulling the leaves aside to peer beneath them. Roger dropped his tackle and ran over. "What is it?"

"This!" said Dorothea triumphantly, straightening up with a large trout in her hand. She looked around for a rock and briskly whacked the fish's head against it, and it lay still. "Will this do for lunch, do you think?"

"We haven't got a frying pan – and we have got sandwiches. We'll take him back with the others."

Roger knew perfectly well that the addition of seven trout to the supper menu would not bother the Cook in the slightest. He had told her they would be bringing some trout back. She had said "Go on with you." and "I'd best have a meat pie ready in case." and then wrapped another couple of slices of sticky ginger cake in greaseproof paper for them.

"Do you want to try another cast before we eat our sandwiches?" he asked, "I thought we would go back to Swallowdale for that. The wood is there, and the fire place."

Perhaps tickling the trout had given her confidence. Perhaps it was because he was guiding her arm so closely. Anyway, she did a lot better this time and the cast was successful.

"That's seven small ones and a big one," she said happily as she scrambled after him down into Swallowdale.

He filled the kettle while she lit the fire. He watched as she carefully set the kettle to boil. He reached out and took her hand to help her up. He didn't let go of it; she looked at him in surprise. He couldn't keep putting it off. He had to say something now.

"Dot."

She looked at him questioningly.

"I think you're very pretty, you know and," Roger swallowed then continued "Will you be my girlfriend?"

Still holding her hand, he tried to draw her closer. She stood absolutely still.

For a fraction of a second, she had thought he was joking and then realised almost immediately that he was not.

"I'm sorry Roger, but I just don't feel that way about you. I like you a lot but only as a friend." Her voice trailed away. He was striving to look composed, but she had seen the flash of anger in his eyes as she started to speak and realised that the spark of wry amusement she had felt before she realised he was serious had been seen after all.

"You think this is funny!" She had only seen him this angry once before, in the Hebrides.

"I don't. At least," she paused. This might be an occasion where kindness was more important that truth. She would try not to stray too far from the truth either.

"You do! I saw it!"

"I only think it's strange, absurd even, that anyone should think like that about me."

"If that's all." He put his arms around her. "Dot, you must look in a mirror sometimes. You must realise how very pretty you are. It's more absurd if people don't feel that way about you."

Her hands were flat against his shirt, keeping a small distance between them. She was looking at the backs of her own hands, avoiding meeting his eyes.

"It's not just that. I do like you Roger. I like you far too much to pretend I care about you like that and then turn round sometime later and tell you I don't – that I never did. Maybe we've known each other too long. I don't know."

"Doesn't seem to bother John and Nancy." His voice was bitter.

"We aren't them." Dear gods, could she only speak in platitudes now, when it mattered? She was a writer for heaven's sake. She should be able to do better.

"Well if you really feel like that.."

"Yes, Roger, I do feel like that."

He stepped back. "I won't ask you again, you know."

"Good. Then I'll be spared the trouble of repeating my answer." She knew she must have hurt his pride and, by his last comment, very little but his pride. She tried to keep the bite of annoyance out of her voice. She thought she had succeeded.

How and when had Dorothea, that timid little girl who had been so grateful to be included, so anxious for everyone's approval, learned such dignity? He couldn't match it, so the next best option was silence.

They drank tea, sharing an enamel mug with rigid formality and near silence. It tasted revolting. The water had not been properly boiling. Neither had much appetite for their sandwiches, but they ate half of the ones intended for dinner with freezing courtesy.

Roger glanced at Dorothea. She was, irritatingly, just as pretty as she had been an hour ago. He was not prepared to go back to Beckfoot early if they could help it. Susan was sure to ask why.

"Would you like to go back to the tarn?" he asked, impressed with how normal he had made his voice sound, "or would you prefer to visit the Swainsons?"

"I'd like to visit the Swainsons' please, if you don't mind."

They tidied up Swallowdale with the efficiency of two people trained by Susan, and went down to the farm. Roger led the way.

"Peggy told me Mr Swainson was ninety. I was eight then. I suppose that means he must be nearly a hundred now." Roger told Dorothea when they were nearly there, but still far enough away not to be overheard.

"Gosh." Dot would normally have more to say than that.

Everything seemed to look the same. There were the same ducks (or at least their descendants) enjoying the water from the same trough. The walls were still bright with whitewash. Inside there was the same hunting horn. There were same shells on little knitted mats. There was no sound of hunting songs. Roger wondered for a moment if Mr Swainson after all had not reached ninety-nine. But Titty had seen the old couple only last Easter, and surely Mrs Blackett would have told them if anything had happened since then.

It seemed he need not have worried. Here was Mrs Swainson rocking in her chair. Here was Mr Swainson sitting in his high backed chair, leaning forward on his stick.

"What do you think of my youngest great-granddaughter then?" Mr Swainson asked with pardonable pride.

"She's lovely." said Dorothea, peering into the old carved oak cradle.

Roger peered into the cradle for form's sake and muttered something vague. "Is her nose meant to run that much?" didn't seem tactful.

"Eh, now I'd hardly recognise you, you've grown that much. And your brother and little Molly Blackett's eldest with a baby of their own too." Mr Swainson continued.

"Now Ned, you've got the wrong end of it again." Mrs Swainson interrupted. "Mary was explaining it again yesterday. It's not their baby at all. It's a foreign baby, poor little mite. Friends of poor Bob, I'm sure she said. Molly was telling her."

"Aye, poor Bob. That were a cruel do, that. Living through all that in the war and dying of that influenza. Still, little Molly's got the grandchild now to cheer her up and if he's half the blessing to her that our Mary is to us, she's a lucky woman after all."

"Now, Ned, they're engaged not married yet and…"

"Well who minds that? Happy together is what they'll be. She's got a good heart for all her lively ways has Molly's eldest. And so you've found yourself a young lady too! And what is your name my dear?"

"I'm Dorothea, but we're really just friends."

"Now, Ned," began Mrs Swainson.

Roger's ears were fairly burning with embarrassment and he was, for once, relieved when Mary came in. The conversation changed course. Everyone started to tell Dorothea about the knickerbockerbreaker and how Mary had darned the seat of Roger's shorts with Roger still in them. He was more relieved still when the baby woke up and he was able to excuse them both by saying they were expected back to Beckfoot for tea.

Some days later

She had moved quietly, but she wasn't as quiet as Peggy or even Titty could have been. Roger pretended he didn't know she was there. How long would she watch him? Did this tentative approach mean she had changed her mind about how she felt? Well if that's how it was, she had better think again. Roger continued to fuss around in the boathouse, checking again that nothing had been left in Swallow. He couldn't spin it out any longer and turned towards the doorway.

"Dot."

He would not let it sound like a question.

"I …He could tell she was searching for words. For the right words. "I don't want us to part… not being friends."

"Neither do I." Roger felt a rush of relief just saying it. He should have let himself forgive her days ago. His rueful half-smile was more to himself than anything else, but she smiled back warmly.

"Kiss and be friends." he suggested, with some emphasis on the last word. He was probably pushing his luck but…

"Yes."

The kiss was brief and pleasant – but neither of them was tempted to change their minds. It was beginning to grow dark. They walked up the Beckfoot lawn with a reasonable distance between them but companionably enough.