Heroine...

Perhaps next week I’ll go back to murdering more characters, but for today a little bit of nonsense can be good for the soul.

The hills gently rolled and stretched as far as the eye could see – and then beyond that too. Molly Evans swept along the well-trampled path, her head tilted up to enjoy the warm spring brightness. The splutter of morning sunshine had brought the tourists out faster than a hive of ants converging upon a spilt ice cream cone. Intent on quiet solitude Molly had moved further and further away from the sickening romantic display of sweethearts walking hand-in-hand or gazing at one another over a picnic hamper. Problematically she was now miles away from anywhere and a damp fizzle had replaced any previous sunshine.

Determined to not let this ruin her precious hours of holiday, Molly let herself drift amongst idle thoughts. Here she was roaming rocky peaks like Jane Eyre, skirts catching in the breeze as she tried to run from the past. She was like Elizabeth Bennett traipsing about the countryside with a pair of fine eyes. She was like... Well she was actually more like someone’s bedraggled laundry. Her hair whipped painfully across her skin and her face was bright red and perspiring from the unintended hike.

Searching for a dry patch Molly plonked herself down on the grass. She rubbed distractedly at the stitch in her side, whilst she attempted to stop wheezing like her asthmatic hoover did back home. Deciding this was as good a time as any to have a tea-break she reached for the gingerbread stowed in her bag. The biscuit gave a satisfying snap as she broke off a small piece. Without warning she felt herself being pushed and with a startled yelp she tumbled down the hill.

Stunned and disorientated she lay still, her body trembling from the shock as each little twinge and bruise made itself known. As she blinked rapidly she found herself looking up into a pair of solemn brown eyes. A ribbon of drool hit her cheek making her flinch. The hairy face continued to look down at her with great interest.

“Mw-argh-ah!” She gasped, crushed under the weight of the biggest dog she’d ever seen.

“Pilot!” A cross voice called out sharply. The dog peeked over its shoulder before looking guiltily back at Molly. Pilot? She thought, wondering why the name seemed so familiar. The dog, which was roughly the size of a Shetland pony, shuffled back and sat on the ground beside her. Tentatively she sat up, running her hand over her body to check all her limbs were still intact. She now found herself in a better position to see the dog’s master. A man was striding quickly toward them. He wasn’t at all good looking. It’s not like she found the whole tall, dark and handsome thing attractive.

Her brain suddenly made the connection it had been seeking. She glanced between the dog and its owner. Pilot – Jane Eyre – Mr Rochester...

“Oh God.” Molly moaned plaintively to herself. She was about to meet her very own Mr Rochester with mud smeared across her face and wet grass sticking to her bottom. As he came nearer, however, she realised that he wasn’t glowering, brooding or sneering. He was in fact smiling apologetically. He was no Mr Rochester, just as she was no heroine. They were just a man, a woman and a very big dog.