LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘Exhale and bend your left knee over the left ankle, so that the shin is perpendicular to the floor. Anchor yourself strongly. Well done.’

      Barbara glanced at the other women. They were all facing a huge window, their arms stretched out, waving in the air like a bunch of flapping flamingos, balanced precariously on the front foot. She made her body into some sort of scarecrow position, copying Yvonne. Hayley seemed pleased with the class.

      ‘Now, turn your head to the left and look out over the fingers. Exhale. Relax in the position now. Think of yourself as Shiva the warrior, solid and grounded. You are Virabhadra with a thousand heads, a thousand eyes.’

      Barbara managed not to make a comment, although she felt silly and thought the pose was daft. The thousand eyes were turned on the grimy window. The room was silent. She thought she heard someone wobble behind her. Dulcie passed wind again. Then an almost-naked young man in tight jeans filled the windowpane, a chamois leather cloth in his hand. His face was serious as he swished water onto the window and rubbed the glass. The cold clearly didn’t bother him: he was working strenuously, his body gleaming with sweat.

      The thousand eyes of Virabhadra took in the shape of the young man, his broad shoulders, his long damp curls, his bare chest. The eyes gazed at the perspiration that shone on his torso, the tangle of hairs that appeared to extend beyond his flat stomach and at the taut muscles in his arms. The eyes moved in unison back to his stunningly beautiful face, with its high cheekbones, soft lips, dark eyes beneath strong brows.

      The young man in his mid-twenties didn’t seem to notice the gaze of several enamoured Shivas or their concentrated examination of the water droplets that were running down his neck and across his naked chest, onto the waistband of his denims. He had no idea that the warriors in the room were assessing his physical talents and imagining the level balance of his straddled legs below, unfortunately out of view.

      Suddenly someone from the front, probably the woman with the hair in various shades of scarlet, muttered, ‘Oh my God – just look at him.’

      Another voice whispered, ‘Amen to that.’

      Barbara wondered if it was Chrissie the vicar. Then there was a crashing sound, and all the warriors synchronised a turn of their heads in the opposite direction, to stare at Phyllis, whose knee had given way; she’d come hurtling down onto her mat. Hayley called, ‘I’m here, Phyllis. Everyone, please just sit down and take five.’

      Dutifully, the women had collapsed down and their gaze moved in perfect synchronicity back to the window. The young man had gone, and they were staring at a clean window and a thousand gleaming droplets of water. Yvonne leaned over to Barbara and whispered, ‘Who on earth was that?’

      Dr Natalie sat upright on her rug. ‘He’s the new odd-job man. He’s done the windows at the surgery. I think he’s from Milton Rogus.’

      ‘Mmm.’ The sound of pleasure came from the red-haired woman next to Pauline. ‘He can do my windows any time.’

      Hayley helped a loudly protesting Phyllis into a comfortable position and was fanning her with a sheet of paper. ‘I’ll make sure Kostas isn’t on window cleaning duties at this time next week, shall I?’

      There were murmurs of good-natured disapproval and Pauline turned around to smile encouragingly at her sister. The yoga had made her feel relaxed, expansive and strong: she was enjoying the company of the local women, happy to feel a part of a powerful group and the Kostas incident had made her smile. She wondered if it had melted some of Barbara’s frostiness; it would be a good thing if she’d started to feel at home, accepted by the people of Winsley Green, part of the community. Pauline imagined the prospect of Barbara making friends in the village during her stay. That, in itself, gave her a warm feeling of success.

      But Barbara was still staring blankly through the window, a perplexed look on her face. Yoga was definitely not for her. She wouldn’t go again. She was confused by life in this village, where women met to share an activity, to laugh together and to gaze in rapt admiration at a man cleaning windows.

      She had to admit, he was easy on the eye. But everything was all so different from her own life in Cambridge, where she took holidays in order to meet people and spent the rest of the time by herself, reading, hiking, listening to the radio. It was all very strange, an alien lifestyle. Yet something was stirring inside, from a place which felt familiar yet distant and neglected, and as she thought about Pauline and her yoga friends, she wondered if she had been missing out on something quite important.

      5

      Pauline lay awake that night, wondering if it had been a good idea to welcome Barbara into her home so readily. Of course, they were sisters, family, and Pauline wanted somehow to try to close the gap between them that had stretched over the years. They were both in their seventies now: she’d hoped Barbara would have mellowed. But she might never change.

      That evening, she’d made them a delicious dinner, opened a bottle of wine and chatted nostalgically about their childhood. She’d reminisced about their parents, her beloved father, a holiday in Bournemouth, and for a moment she thought the ice was beginning to melt. Then Barbara had said she didn’t like overcooked potatoes; she remembered the weather in Bournemouth had been dismal that week and now, all these years later, look where they were now: both alone and both old.

      Pauline clamped her lips together in the darkness: if Barbara became too difficult, she would simply ask her to leave. After all, it was her home. She closed her eyes and dragged her thoughts to the summer. It was always fun in Winsley Green during the summer; cricket matches and dancing and fetes. She smiled and drifted into sleep.

      During the early hours the temperature plummeted, and it snowed heavily. When Pauline woke at eight, someone was banging on the front door. She pulled on her dressing gown and padded downstairs. She pushed the door open onto a rigid bank of drifted snow. Shivering, she stared into the bright eyes of Len Chatfield. He had a huge piece of mobile farm machinery parked by her gate, a sort of tractor with a digger at the front.

      ‘Len?’

      He nodded, rubbing his whiskers with a flat hand. ‘Expected snow today. Cleared the path for you. Thought you might need to get your car out, drive into Winsley Green, get groceries. Brought you this. Not much left in the shops.’ He stretched out a stiff arm, clutching a carton of milk. ‘Panic buyers got most of it already, I reckon.’

      Pauline smiled and pushed a hand over her hair, still in its clip and dishevelled. ‘You were right about the snow in April.’ They stared at each other for a moment. ‘Well, thanks, Len. That’s thoughtful. How much do I owe you?’

      ‘Oh, no…’ he began and was cut off by a shrieking voice behind Pauline.

      ‘For goodness sake, shut the door. It’s like Siberia in here as it is.’

      Pauline shrugged. ‘Ah, Len – my sister, Barb—’

      Barbara pushed forwards, stood behind her sister, her hands on her hips, and stared at Len, taking in his shabby overcoat, the carton of milk and the digger at the gate.

      ‘I must say, they go to all sorts of lengths here to do the milk round. Well, come in if you’re going to. Don’t freeze us all to death.’

      Len pushed the milk into Pauline’s hand. ‘No. No time. Got work to do. Sheep. Lambs. Digger.’ He turned and shuffled away, his boots making deep prints in the pure snow.

      Barbara boomed, ‘How very strange. Why on earth do they make the farmers deliver milk around here? And in cartons too. It’s quite incredible. And he’s cleared the pathway for us. How useful.’

      ‘He’s a nice man.’ Pauline murmured to herself, watching him clamber into the tractor by the gate. She eased herself to her full height.

      ‘Right, Barbara. Let’s make a fire in the wood burner, get a good blaze going and have some breakfast.’

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