by Martin Cornwell
They was waiting to check in at reception when we first see them, this young couple. Me and the missus was going back up to the room after breakfast at the time. They had some hefty great bags with em and didn’t look too happy about having to stand there waiting. I thought the best thing was to leave em to it, but of course the missus was straight over there dinging on the bell and calling shop to the receptionist out the back. If it weren’t for my wife I wouldna made half as many friends as I have in my life; mind you I wouldna made half as many enemies neither. That’s what I always tell her. Anyhow that’s when we got talking to this young pair. Welsh they were. Course, they was in the Lakes for the hiking, just like we was. The wife got it out of them that this was a holiday for their ninth anniversary together. Nine years together at that young age, she said. Not something you see much of these days. The fella agreed but the girl didn’t say nothing. Instead she started rattling around in the bags looking for their reservations. When she got the papers out she unfolded them on the counter. Well, after nine years you’re in the right place, the wife said, and pointed at the name of the B&B at the top of the form the girl had open: The Lovers Inn. The girl give the missus a little smile, but this time she was all shy like. Surprised you’d need to go to England for mountains, coming from Wales! I said. Yeah but sometimes it feels like we’ve seen all the hills in Wales, the fella said. We’re just hoping to find something new. The girl give him this look when he said that, and she looked like she was about to say something, but then the receptionist came out so we said our goodbyes and went back upstairs.
–
Martin Cornwell lives in London and is currently writing his first novel.
The Pygmy Giant 