I trudge up the hill. He’s already at the top, looking down at me.
“You OK,” he calls.
“Yes thanks.” I force a smile. “I just stopped for a moment to admire the view.”
“The view’s much better from here and just you wait until you look at what’s on the other side.”
I try to speed up. My heart pounds in my ears. Why on earth did I knock ten years off when I told him how old I was? I didn’t want to lose him, I suppose. He’s so much younger than me and knowing my age would probably have put him off. I heave forwards and am at the top at last. But where is my Greek God? He has disappeared.
Breathlessly, I call his name. “John, John!”
There’s no reply and then I see him, spread-eagled on his stomach, among the heather, unmoving. I fall to my knees beside him, a knot of fear in my chest.
“Come on, John, don’t play games. You’re right, it is wonderful up here.”
I half expect, I hope, that he will leap up and take me in his arms. Instead, he gives a small moan. Terror grips me. I try to turn him over but fail. The part of his face I can see is ash-pale. I reach into my pocket for my mobile.
The air-ambulance didn’t take long to arrive.
Now I sit by John’s hospital bed. He looks smaller, older, somehow, laced up, as he is, with tubes and wires. At least the bleeps from the monitor are even. He opens his eyes and sees me.
“I love you,” he says and drops back to sleep.
He loves me, I think as I squeeze his hand gently.
A doctor comes in. “Mr Forreston has had a heart attack but he is stable now,” he says. “He’s out of danger and needs to rest. I have every hope that he will make a full recovery.”
Relief floods me and I thank him. John is going to be all right and he loves me. I follow the doctor out in search of a coffee and meet a nurse outside John’s room.
“Aah, I just want to check something with you, please. You said 16.04.1964 was John Forreston’s date of birth. We have a record of a John Forreston at the address you gave, but his date of birth is 16.04.54. Did I mishear you or was it just a slip of the tongue?”
Astonishment renders me speechless for a moment and then, to the nurse’s obvious surprise, I laugh. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say. “It was a mistake. It was most certainly a very, very stupid slip of my tongue.”
“You OK,” he calls.
“Yes thanks.” I force a smile. “I just stopped for a moment to admire the view.”
“The view’s much better from here and just you wait until you look at what’s on the other side.”
I try to speed up. My heart pounds in my ears. Why on earth did I knock ten years off when I told him how old I was? I didn’t want to lose him, I suppose. He’s so much younger than me and knowing my age would probably have put him off. I heave forwards and am at the top at last. But where is my Greek God? He has disappeared.
Breathlessly, I call his name. “John, John!”
There’s no reply and then I see him, spread-eagled on his stomach, among the heather, unmoving. I fall to my knees beside him, a knot of fear in my chest.
“Come on, John, don’t play games. You’re right, it is wonderful up here.”
I half expect, I hope, that he will leap up and take me in his arms. Instead, he gives a small moan. Terror grips me. I try to turn him over but fail. The part of his face I can see is ash-pale. I reach into my pocket for my mobile.
The air-ambulance didn’t take long to arrive.
Now I sit by John’s hospital bed. He looks smaller, older, somehow, laced up, as he is, with tubes and wires. At least the bleeps from the monitor are even. He opens his eyes and sees me.
“I love you,” he says and drops back to sleep.
He loves me, I think as I squeeze his hand gently.
A doctor comes in. “Mr Forreston has had a heart attack but he is stable now,” he says. “He’s out of danger and needs to rest. I have every hope that he will make a full recovery.”
Relief floods me and I thank him. John is going to be all right and he loves me. I follow the doctor out in search of a coffee and meet a nurse outside John’s room.
“Aah, I just want to check something with you, please. You said 16.04.1964 was John Forreston’s date of birth. We have a record of a John Forreston at the address you gave, but his date of birth is 16.04.54. Did I mishear you or was it just a slip of the tongue?”
Astonishment renders me speechless for a moment and then, to the nurse’s obvious surprise, I laugh. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say. “It was a mistake. It was most certainly a very, very stupid slip of my tongue.”