Running for Cover
K C Murdarasi


Copyright 2012 K C Murdarasi
Smashwords Edition


Cover image copyright Magnus Manske 2009
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Contents
Running for Cover
Also by this author
About K C Murdarasi

Running for Cover

Isla jabbed irritably at the remote control. Coverage of the Olympics, news about the Olympics, documentaries about the Olympics. The only other options were repeats of antiques programmes, or the shopping channels. She got up from the sofa and grabbed her jacket. Her ankle didn’t hurt at all now when she put weight on it, but she was still constantly aware of it. 
Outside, it wasn’t any better. As soon as she got to the end of her street she was faced with the Olympics again. There were adverts for companies sponsoring Team GB on billboards and the sides of buses. TVs in the electronics shop showed track events. Excited people walked by with t-shirts that read, ‘I’m supporting Team GB!’ ‘It’s not fair!’ Isla wanted to cry. Isla Petrie was no longer part of Team GB. She had torn a ligament in her ankle eight weeks earlier, at the final qualifying stages.
Another happy, smiley Team GB advert sailed by on the side of a bus, and Isla couldn’t take it any longer. She saw a travel agents and darted inside.
‘I want to get away from London. Away from the Olympics. What can you offer me?’
The travel agent smiled sympathetically. The customer was clearly not a sports fan.
‘I have some cheap deals to Zante or Majorca. No? Well how about a B&B in Derbyshire. It’s a darling little cottage on top of a hill, wonderful walks and wildlife. The only thing is, it’s a bit cut off. No TV, and the nearest phone is at the local pub.’
‘It sounds perfect,’ said Isla. ‘When can I go?’

Two days later Isla picked up her bag and stepped down from the train into the tiny station at Haddleford. In front of her was an old-fashioned, stone-built stationmaster’s office - now a waiting room - and behind it towered the great Derbyshire hills. Isla liked it already. She climbed the hill from the station to the village’s main road. There was a tea room-cum-craft shop; a post office-cum-general store; a tiny antiques shop, which was closed; and at the end of the street, the village pub, the Haddleford Arms.
Isla put her bag down on the pavement and looked at the map on the information leaflet. It was anything but clear. She tried turning it around to make it resemble what she could see, but she was getting nowhere when a voice startled her.
‘You must be t’guest at ‘illtop. Marjorie told me to look out for you. Wait ‘ere and I’ll fetch t’car.’ The speaker was an elderly gentleman with dramatic tufts of nasal hair. He rushed off without waiting for a reply and disappeared behind the pub. The door of the tea room opened and a middle-aged lady nodded to Isla in a friendly way. Isla racked her brains; could she know this woman in deepest Derbyshire? She was distracted by a woman wheeling a pram down the narrow pavement.
‘’Scuse me, love.’ Isla moved her bag out of the way and the woman gave her a friendly smile. ‘You must be the girl that’s staying at ‘illtop.’
‘Um, yes,’ she replied, bewildered by the unwonted social contact. She was rescued from further conversation by the arrival of a 4x4 that had seen a good bit of use.
‘Jump in then!’ said the elderly gent.
‘Sorry – who are you?’ asked Isla.
‘Oh, I beg yer pardon, love, I should have introduced meself. I’m Ted.’ He looked at her confidently, as if that answered all questions. The lady in the tea room and the woman with the pram were also watching her. Normally Isla would never have got into a car with a strange man, but she was aware that she risked offending the whole village in her first five minutes. She got in.
The drive only took five minutes, but Isla was grateful for the lift. Hilltop was well named, and the road was so steep she could see why you would want a 4x4. Ted chatted the whole way, oblivious to the fact that Isla was not talking back.
‘Marjorie and John have been running this place for years, they like a bit of company. Weather’s been good lately, ‘ope it’s going to ‘old. Well that’s us ‘ere. You ‘ave a good stay. Give my love to Marjorie. Don’t see her about much, not keeping too well these days.’
Isla thanked Ted and climbed out of the car with a sigh of relief, but he had not finished.
‘Tomorrow’s Tuesday, isn’t it? That’s pub quiz night down at the Arms. You should come along, probably put t’rest of us to shame!’ he chortled as he backed out of the long driveway.
Isla looked at her residence for the next ten days. It was a simple stone cottage with a slate roof and a chimney. She could imagine it on a Christmas card, covered with snow. There were weather-beaten rose bushes, and what she assumed was a herb garden although she couldn’t tell one herb from another. A stout lady in her early sixties came out of the door, drying her hands on a tea towel.
‘Miss Petrie? Welcome to Hilltop. It’s lovely to have you!’ Marjorie Hinchcliffe looked as if she really meant it, her face beaming an enormous smile. Isla couldn’t help smiling back. This would be a good break.
Weighed down by a huge dinner and sponge pudding, Isla went early to bed on her first night in Derbyshire, and treated herself to a lie-in the next day. She was on holiday, after all. John Hinchcliffe had already gone to the nearby market town of Bakewell, where he ran a small accountant’s firm, but Marjorie was baking at the Aga. She helped Isla to several of the still-warm crumpets, asked several times if she wouldn’t like a cooked breakfast, and then asked,
‘What are you thinking of doing today?’ Isla hadn’t really thought about it.
‘Perhaps a walk?’
‘Aye, that’s an excellent idea. I’ll look out John’s OS maps and make you a packed lunch.’ 
The day was beautiful, and Isla enjoyed her walk for the first hour or so. She took pictures of the little stone village nestling in the crook of the River Haddle. She breathed the clean, fresh air and enjoyed the stretch in her muscles as she tackled the steep hills. After that she started to wonder, what do I do for the rest of the day? She climbed the brow of the hill and looked at the view on the other side; ate her lunch, slowly; walked back to see if she could get mobile signal on the top of the hill; waved her phone around in the air to no avail. Eventually Isla admitted defeat and turned back towards the cottage.
Whatever angle one approached from, Hilltop always seemed to be uphill. Isla was panting when she arrived, and she had started to feel a twinge in her bad ankle again.
‘You look tired out! I’ve put the kettle on, and we’ll have some scones,’ was Marjorie’s greeting. The scones were homemade and slathered with cream and jam. Marjorie scraped a little jam and cream off hers on to the side of her plate.
‘The doctor says I’ve got to watch my cholesterol,’ she explained, eating her third scone.

For the rest of the afternoon, Isla read her e-book reader and politely declined Marjorie’s offers of more tea and scones. After dinner, however, her eyes were tired from reading.
‘Someone told me it’s the pub quiz tonight,’ she told Marjorie and John. ‘I think I’ll go down and have a punt.’
John gave her a lift down to the village and, upon Isla’s assurance that she could make her own way back, gave her a torch.
‘During the day you’re probably quicker going through the fields, it’s more direct, but by night best stick to the road,’ he advised her before he left.
Isla walked confidently into the Haddleford Arms, but to her surprise there was no sign of a pub quiz. Instead, there was a TV in the corner above the bar showing – what else? – highlights from the Olympics. It was the hurdles, Isla’s event. Trying to ignore it, she asked the barman about the quiz.
‘Quiz? No, there’s no quiz, sorry. What’ll you have?’
Isla ordered a gin and tonic, earning her a raised eyebrow from the barman, and chose a seat as far from the TV, and as far from other people, as possible. She had determined that she would just finish her drink and then meander slowly up the hill, when someone sat down opposite her. It was a man in his mid thirties with thick, slightly messy brown hair, strong eyebrows and a sardonic grin crinkling the corners of his eyes.
‘If you’ve come to Haddleford for privacy, you’ve chosen the wrong place. We’re a nosy lot round here.’ He gestured with his hand to the rest of the pub’s clientele who were watching her with differing degrees of openness. Isla said nothing. Perhaps if she ignored him he would go away.
‘I’m Roger,’ the man continued. ‘This is my pub.’ No reply. ‘Welcome to Haddleford,’ he persevered. ‘How are you enjoying Hilltop?’
‘It’s fine,’ Isla said, giving in. The man obviously wasn’t drunk. Perhaps this was just how people behaved in the North.
‘John told me you’re from London. You must be having a bit of culture shock up here,’ Roger said, as if reading her thoughts. ‘Talking to strangers is a shooting offence there, isn’t it?’ He smiled, to show her he meant no offence.
‘Yes, it is,’ agreed Isla, finally cracking a tiny smile, ‘and I’ll report you the Metropolitan Police as soon as I can get any mobile reception!’ Roger laughed, and asked what had brought her to the Arms.
‘The pub quiz? We haven’t had a pub quiz since Barry left two years ago. Who told you that? Oh, Ted. Well that explains it. Ted would forget his own name if he didn’t have it written on his labels. I sometimes think he’s forgotten he owns the antiques shop; I never see it open.’
Isla smiled, and accepted Roger’s offer of another drink. She was surprised to find that she was actually enjoying herself. The sound of loud cheering from the TV brought her back down to earth. Someone from Team GB had won a medal in the women’s hurdles – someone else. She thought again about leaving, but suddenly the TV flicked over to a detective programme.
‘I like this programme,’ Roger explained as he returned from the bar. ‘Owner’s privilege.’ He hardly looked at the screen for the rest of the evening, though, keeping Isla amused with stories from the village, and introducing her to folk from time to time. She was shocked when the barman rang the wooden-handled brass bell for last orders. Somehow, the evening had flown by.
‘Thanks for the drinks, Roger.’
‘It was my pleasure. I’d offer you a lift, but…’ he gestured to the pint glass on the table. Isla shook her head.
‘No problem. Night night.’
The night air was refreshing, although the climb was long and steep. Isla was afraid that she would have to wake Marjorie and John, as she had no key, but the front door had been left open. Roger wasn’t wrong about culture shock! she thought, as she closed it quietly behind her.

The next day, after a huge fry-up with Marjorie, Isla descended the hill and explored Haddleford. It took about ten minutes. Coffee and a browse in the tea room-cum-craft shop used up another half hour, but eventually Isla realised that she would have to broach the subject of cutting short her visit; she was bored. She mentioned the problem to Marjorie over a lunch of French toast and homemade chutney.
‘Oh, you should have said! John would have taken you into Bakewell. You never run out of things to do in Bakewell.’ Isla doubted it, but she accepted the offer of a trip to Bakewell the next day. She decided she would talk to Marjorie again after that. She wondered if she would bump into Roger again before she left. She hoped so.
Isla had planned to spend the afternoon reading ebooks again, since she had nothing else to do, but her plans were suddenly changed by a loud crash from the kitchen.
‘Marjorie? Is everything all right?’ Isla thought she heard a groan. Rushing to the kitchen, she found Marjorie slumped against the Aga, her pan and wooden spoon beside her. Isla knelt down in front of the older woman. Her lips looked a little blue and she was clearly in pain.
‘Marjorie, can you talk to me? Where does it hurt?’
‘…chest,’ she gasped.
Isla knew she had to act quickly. She lay Marjorie on the floor with a towel under her head, then dashed through to get her mobile phone. No reception. There was no house phone and John was in Bakewell with the car. There was nothing else for it.
‘I’m going to get an ambulance. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
Without waiting to pick up a jacket, Isla flew out of the front door. She started in the direction of the road before she remembered what John had said about the fields being quicker. Straight down the hill, over the fields, she could see Haddleford.  She ran for the first fence, ignoring the stile, and cleared it in one practised bound.
Isla felt her muscles loosening up as she ran. She knew that she would pay later for not warming up, but for the moment she just concentrated on not turning her ankle on the uneven ground. She cleared the next fence without breaking stride, her years of training at hurdles coming into its own. At the bottom of the hill she could see someone outside the pub. Another field, another fence, and the man at the pub was joined by two others, one of them pointing. Distracted by the spectators, Isla came down hard on her bad ankle after the fourth fence, and felt the familiar pain in the ligament. She sucked her breath in sharply and stumbled. The pub was only two hundred yards away. She knew she should walk the rest slowly, but Marjorie might not have much time. Placing her weight gingerly, she set off again. The pain increased with each step, but now she could see the faces of the people waiting. Roger was among them.
‘Ambulance, ambulance!’ she gasped. Only one fence and she would be in the village. Gritting her teeth, she tried to take off on the damaged ankle, but it wouldn’t hold and her elegant leap turned into a drunken flail. Roger ran towards her and caught her arms before she went face-first into the mud.
‘Ambulance! Hilltop! Marjorie!’ Isla panted.
‘Is it her heart?’ Roger asked. Isla nodded, faint with the pain in her ankle. Roger turned and shouted to the barman to make the phone call.
‘And then bring some ice in a towel!’ Isla heard him say as she passed out.
When she came to, Isla was lying on a leather couch in the Haddleford Arms. Roger was holding a very cold towel to her ankle.
‘Has the ambulance come?’ she asked.
‘Been and gone,’ Roger replied. ‘You were out for a while, there. I was worried about you.’
‘And Marjorie?’
‘Ted drove up to wait with her. The paramedics told him they had got to her in time; Marjorie won’t be up to waiting on guests for a while, but she should be fine.’
Isla sighed with relief, and pushed herself up so she could see her swollen ankle.
‘It doesn’t look great, does it?’ Roger said. ‘If you’re feeling up to it I’ll drive you to the hospital to get it looked at. You might have damaged that ligament again.’
‘How do you know it’s the ligament? Are you a doctor?’ Isla asked.
‘No, I’m a sports fan. The only reason Isla Petrie would be holidaying in a Derbyshire village instead of winning the hurdles is because she tore a ligament in the qualifiers.’ He smiled. ‘I told you we’re a nosy lot.’
Isla looked at him quizzically.
‘And when were you going to tell me that you know who I am?’
‘Not until you’d succumbed to my charms,’ Roger joked. ‘Seriously though, I thought you’d come here for some peace and quiet.’
‘Well I certainly found it. I don’t think I’m cut out for the country life.’
‘You’re not cut out for downhill, cross-country hurdling, that’s true. But as for Derbyshire, you’ve only been here two days - you haven’t given it a chance.’
‘Maybe not,’ Isla admitted.
‘And what about the famous northern hospitality?’ Roger added, ‘For instance, I know a local businessman who would let an injured, homeless athlete stay above his pub and ferry her around Derbyshire’s many attractions, for almost no payment.’
‘Almost no payment?’ Isla asked.
‘You would have to laugh at my jokes.’ Isla smiled and thought for a moment.
‘Ok, that sounds like a good offer to me.’
Roger’s face creased with that sardonic smile Isla found she really rather liked. ‘I knew you’d agree.’
‘Oh yes?’ she replied, raising an eyebrow.
‘Yes,’ said Roger. ‘The Olympics aren’t over for another week.’


###
 Also by this author....



“Quite a page-turner” - Dr John Blanchard

“K C Murdarasi … writes beautifully and deeply theologically for young people.” - Baptist Union of Scotland

Albania, 1991: The Communist government falls and Leda, an ordinary Albanian girl, hears about Jesus Christ for the first time. Over the years that follow Albania will see many changes and Leda will have to question what she believes, and why.

When Albania plunges into the violent Chaos of 1997, Leda and her best friend Suela find themselves on the run together. Alone in the wild mountains between Albania and Greece, Leda will be forced to rely on only her faith. Will her God come through when it matters most?

Leda is available as a paperback and ebook. The paperback can be ordered from any bookshop and is also available direct from the publisher with free postage. The ebook is available from all major ebook stores, including Amazon and iTunes.

For more information and glowing reviews, see kcmurdarasi.com/leda.

ISBN: 9781780881331

Also by this author....



“Really well recommended. Like.”  - John A, Glasgow
 
“Great fun with lots of giggles. A definite must have!” - Christina R, London

Have you ever wondered...

If your boss disappeared, would anyone notice?
How do you know your organisation really exists? 
What's the company policy on screaming?

Office Life (and Death), a collection of sharp, funny short stories for anyone who has ever worked in an office. Perfect for your daily commute.
The book contains five stories, including the prize-winning "A Recipe for Summer".

Available at Smashwords and all major ebook stores. For more information see kcmurdarasi.com/office-life-and-death

ISBN: 9781476039671

About K C Murdarasi

K C Murdarasi is a Scottish author based in Glasgow. She has published short stories in a number of magazines and anthologies, from the well known to the very obscure.
After graduating from the University of St Andrews (the best university in the world), she spent a number of years in Albania as a missionary. She hopes to return to live in Albania at some point. 
Don't know anything about Albania? You can find out more by reading Leda by K C Murdarasi.

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