Chapter 40

Rowan slept long into the next morning. It had rained in the night, and Roger had bailed the rainwater out of Scarab and had nearly finished doing the same to Swallow when she wandered out carrying two mugs of steaming tea. Her hair was tousled and darkened with washing, and just touching the collar of her aertex shirt. Mugs of tea and wet hair aside, she looked very similar to the first time he had met her. Somehow this was the real Rowan; lovely as ever, but with her rightful confidence reclaimed. She had never lacked determination.

"How's the head?"

"Better than I deserve." Rowan gave a wry smile.

The little wooden jetty wasn't completely dry, but it was good enough to sit on companionably with their arms around each other, dabbing feet in the cold clear water.

"There's one egg left, but we used the bacon last night. There's plenty of bread though and some potatoes to fry."

"That sounds good."

"Let's finish our tea first."

"Are you sure? It looks as if you've been up ages already. Well, I know you must have been, because a cup of tea appeared. I hope I was awake enough to say thank you. I can't remember."

"You were. At least, I'm sure fthannnoooo must mean thankyou in some language somewhere," Roger said.

Rowan laughed.

"We never actually settled what we were going to do today. I take it that whatever it is, you don't want masses of walking," he said.

"Busman's holiday – sort of. Roger?"

"Ummhum?"

"How are you off for petrol?"

"Oodles of it. Well not actually oodles, but doing pretty well. We can certainly ride out somewhere if you want."

"It doesn't have to be all that far," Rowan said, "but it would be nice to go further from the Lake than I've already been. The other thing is, I'd quite like to have a go at fishing. For trout I mean. If you wouldn't mind showing me."

Roger gave her an extra squeeze. "Really? You're not just saying that to be polite because you know I like fishing?"

"Really. I might not like it, of course, but if I don't try I'll never find out."

"Today would be a good day to try," Roger said. "I think it's best just after rain, although some people say otherwise. And we don't have to stick to round the Lake. There's a pretty steep road going out of the next valley westwards, if you don't mind being jolted around a bit, and then if you turn off it there's a small tarn that's good for trout. At least, Nancy says her uncle said it's just about the best place for trout, but I didn't get to try it because there are the ruins of a Roman fort a bit further on and the others were far keener on seeing that. This was before the war, of course, when the Blacketts still had Rattletrap and only Nancy could drive. Then things got busy a few years later and I never got to try it myself. Care to give it a go? If you don't like it we can carry on to the coast or try the Roman fort."

"So how do you know which flies to use?" Rowan peered into the small hinged tin, which had once contained throat lozenges.

"I don't. Not definitely. I mean I'll try one and see; if nothing bites, I'll try something different. It rained quite heavily though, last night, so I'm starting off with some of the brighter coloured flies. Trout for supper would be a rather good idea," Roger explained. "Okay, the next thing is to teach you how to cast. It's probably better if I show you first. At least there aren't any trees to worry about."

Rowan watched carefully, failed in her first cast - "I've seen worse tangles," Roger assured her – and succeeded more or less on her second.

"So how are you enjoying it?"

"Quite a lot really." Rowan said. "We aren't going to get much supper, though, like this. I'd probably better hand over to you. Do you mind if I walk a little way further up and have a look at the fort?"

"Of course not. I'd be a bit careful on some of the stones though. I seem to remember they were quite slippery in the dry, and it's been wet. We can get back on the bike and go further on if you like, though."

"No, that's fine. Unless you want to, of course. I won't spend too long poking at the remains."

Rowan had thought, and considered, and mulled things over. The usual routine of farm work left all too much time for brooding over things. And brooding, after all, had not made things better.

She would apply for any job going, in south Oxfordshire, or in Oxford itself. Surely there would be something to start with. She'd find out the names of the local papers and see if she could have them posted to her and apply for any job going that she had the faintest chance of getting. She'd write letters to likely employers on the off chance. Her savings had grown, rather than shrunk, during her time with the Dixons. She was employable. She was hard working, well-educated, had her school certificate. She was presentable and quick to learn. She would find something, if she wasn't too fussy. And, that being the case, was there any point at all in refusing to give Roger a definite answer now?

Rowan set off back down the pass to the tarn. If anyone had asked her anything about the fort, she would have had nothing to say.

A/N: With many, many thanks to Fergus for fishing information

A/N: I've blended several different bits of Lake District here, in the Ransome manner. This isn't quite Hardknott, but neither is it totally different.