'I'm Heather by the way,' she told the twins as they began to stroll. She'd never in a million years imagined herself in this situation. She tried to think what made it so odd, but couldn't come to a conclusion.
'Did you go to school around here?' Heather led the twins away from the village. She was taking them to a nice place she knew that ran just below her house.
'Uh no, not exactly,' George answered,
'School wasn't really for us, we dropped out during our last year,' Fred told her, grinning. He and George were obviously remembering something entertaining as they both exchanged amused looks.
Heather nodded, she could relate to that.
'What subjects did you take at school? She asked as they were met with a fork in the road. She took them down the right path. The one to the left led to her house.
'I must confess I haven't really wandered this far before,' Fred frowned, changing the subject.
'I know where we are, we're hardly five minutes from the village. Do you not live around here?' she enquired. The path was not unknown; it connected many houses to Ottery St. Catchpoll.
'We live up the other way,' George waved his hand vaguely behind him,
'It's a bit of a walk,' he continued. Heather felt the twins drink in the new surroundings.
'I've never been up that way myself. I didn't think anyone lived there…'
Heather led them off the path and into a little clearing that had picnic tables... George took a seat next to her, while Fred sat opposite them. They were at the lowest part of a valley and all of them looked up to gaze at the surrounding trees. It made them feel extremely small and insignificant. It was eerily silent.
Fred seemed to survey the clearing with added intensity; a grin grew on his face.
'Hey George, perfect size isn't it?' He asked of his brother. Heather looked between them puzzled, George looked around the clearing as well, he seemed to know what his brother was talking about.
'I think it would be better than the orchard…' he said finally at length.
'What are you talking about? Heather exasperated.
'We have an orchard at home, but we agree that this is a better size,' Fred grinned. Heather crossed her arms, but smiled.
'Well maybe I should be the judge of that,' she told them loftily. She had never really flirted before; she supposed this was how it was done though from what she had seen in the movies. George moved closer to her.
'Why would we want to show you our orchard,' George placed his hands on the picnic table diplomatically, he had a flirtatious smile and Heather could tell that he had done this many times before. Flirted that is, not show girls the orchard. Then again, she thought, perhaps he had. Her heart started to beat a little faster.
'I showed you mine, now you show me yours,' she countered, sounding a lot more confident than she felt.
She could see Fred grinning opposite her; she felt the blood rush to her cheeks and hoped to god that she wasn't sweating and that she wouldn't say something stupid or laugh like a maniac.
Suddenly George's manner changed, he had been slowly getting closer to her, but now he slid back along the park bench and grew a little stern.
'Mum will be wondering where we are Fred,' he said to his brother. Heather was perplexed, were they not just engaged in conversation? She felt like waving her hand in front of George's face and saying 'Uhh hello? I'm still here…' she refrained.
Fred sighed,
'I guess so, I wish we could show you the orchard Heather but duty calls,' he grinned and dipped his head towards her. Heather opened her mouth to speak, to say that she wanted to see the orchard, that it wasn't fair. She bit her tongue; it was hardly flirtatious, hardly mature of her eighteen years in fact. She smiled grimly.
'Will I see you around?' she asked hopefully. Not daring to ask for another meeting.
Fred and George exchanged nervous glances, she realised that they were having difficultly coming to a decision. She decided to spare them.
'See you then,' she said as cheerily as she could manage and hugged them both in turn. They seemed relieved.
'Cya Heather,' the winked and trotted off in the direction they had come. Heather sat at the picnic table, trying to wrap her head around what happened. The thought suddenly occurred to her that they might not know the way back. They'd hardly been gone a minute. She knew she'd find them along the path.
She made her way back onto the path, it was still very quiet. She frowned, it seemed odd. She walked along the path quickly, thinking she should come across them any minute.
Then, she was back at the village. There was no sign of the fiery heads that were the twins. She bit her nails, perhaps they had gone the wrong way? She shook herself. Stop being so silly she thought, it wouldn't be the first time you lost track of time day dreaming.
She turned back around; now taking the path to the left that would lead her home. She didn't stop at the kitchen to say hello to her siblings or parents, who gave her curious looks as she went straight to her attic bedroom.
She trudged to her wardrobe, feeling suddenly lethargic. She reached to the top of it, and pulled out an old easel, it was clunky and wooden.
'Eurgh,' she struggled to release it, finally she hoisted it off and onto the ground. She wiped sweat from her forehead.
She then went to the end of her bed, where a stack of presents from yesterday were still waiting. She smiled as she found the set of oil paints Melody had gotten her. She placed them by her easel before going back once again to her bed and pulling out a cotton canvas from underneath it.
Heather didn't consider herself talented at much, she loved cooking but would hardly attempt a meal without her mother close by, and she never excelled in school and was glad when it was finished. She had never felt a desire to go to university as Ophelia had done, nor felt comfortable enough to continue a comfortable life in the village as Daphne had done.
She loved oil painting though. She didn't know what sparked such an interest, she loved the porcelain figures of Johannes Vermeer, she had often tried reading classics; she was so in love with the beautiful women, romantic men and whimsical notions. She'd never the patience or ability to quite finish an Austen though. Instead she told her own stories through oil paints, slowly developing her style through the years.
With a piece of charcoal, she gently outlined the clearing from this afternoon, a winter afternoon that wasn't yet touched by snow. Instead of a wooden park bench she drew a wrought iron table and chair, and a lone figure in old fashioned clothing of centuries before hers. She sighed, nearly content with what she would soon paint.
'Dinner Heather!' she heard Ophelia call. Heather set her charcoal down, and ran downstairs to join her family.
