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Tomorrow was Friday. For the weekend I had other plans involving an abbey. ‘So I might not see you again?’
‘Oh, I’ll catch up on Saturday. Then I need to move on.’
I braced myself. ‘Back to London?’
He shook his head. ‘God, no. I’ll soldier on. Far as I’m concerned nothing has changed. I’ll paint Bolton.’
I stood. ‘You love being out and about on your own.’ I stepped off the blanket. ‘I get it.’
The shadow descended on his forehead; the sun was moving below the tree line. The timing couldn’t have been more poignant. He rose and dusted the loose grass from his spotless jeans.
‘I never anticipated company, Robyn. It’s been a pleasure getting to know you…’ He fumbled with his pockets.
I had come to the campsite with the clearly unrealistic ambition of revealing to Joseph what I had actually experienced at Middleham Castle, and instead, we had retreated behind our ramparts.
‘Why did you come up to the top of the tower?’ I asked.
He stiffened. ‘I thought you were in trouble.’
‘But you could barely stand being up there. And I wasn’t exactly in trouble. I felt dizzy… I get dizzy when I…’ I shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘What doesn’t matter?’
‘If I told you, you’d definitely wouldn’t want to follow me to Helmsley, or Pickering. They’re next on my list.’
The snatch of breath was audible. ‘They’re on mine too. You know they are.’
‘But you’re on the verge of saying goodbye—’
‘You implied I like being on my own, and I think you do too.’
I inched back onto the blanket. ‘I can wait for you to catch up. I’m going to Rievaulx Abbey this weekend. I’ve always fancied seeing it. You have your own route planned… so...’
‘Honestly, I don’t mind. I’m not that much in a rush. I’ll go to Bolton, and we can meet up on Monday. Is it Pickering or Helmsley next for you?’
‘Er. Helmsley and Pickering. Then I’ve booked a few days by the coast at Scarborough. Just for a break. Then York.’
‘York.’ He scratched the invisible stubble. ‘I guess I can hold off going to York after Pickering. Have you ever been to Whitby?’
I shook my head.
‘The abbey there is a good place for photographs.’
We were face to face, searching each other’s faces for clues. I had lost track of my own emotions. The last few minutes had been a rollercoaster of excitement combined with trepidation of not knowing what to ask him, or tell him. As it was, I had achieved nothing, and Joseph was equally defensive.
The smoke from the barbecue billowed in a death throe, its dying heat brushing against my bare ankles. I had forgotten what kicked off this rapid exchange, but Joseph hadn’t.
‘What doesn’t matter?’ he asked. ‘You said something doesn’t matter. But clearly it does.’
‘It’s nothing to do with the project.’
‘But it made you feel ill, up there? Was it like a flashback?’
Yes, I nearly said, but I realised he didn’t mean what I read into that term. He was thinking of traumatic flashbacks, the PTSD kind. I recalled the ashen pallor of his face, the tremble of his hand and stumbling feet barely able to move. He was referring to himself. He was the one who dreaded telling me something.
‘No,’ I said, carefully. ‘It was a funny turn, that’s all. I should have taken my time on those stairs.’
I had lied again. It was starting to become a habit.
