Livora Gracely

The presents could wait. Her hand came first.

Almost There

“Your other hand, Arthur.”

Grandpa looked down. He had offered Grandma the end of a ribbon.

She stood on the biscuit step below him, one eyebrow raised. The ribbon belonged to a parcel he had taken out of his backpack to check. Its bow had survived the climb rather better than his hair.

“Oh,” he said.

“Unless you’re planning to wrap me.”

Above them, two small figures waved from the summit. Beside the children stood a bright collection of birthday presents, their paper catching the sunlight.

Arthur tucked the parcel away.

“We’re nearly there,” he called.

“I’m nearly here,” Grandma said. “It’s a different place.”

The Corner Piece

Arthur had wrapped the present himself. Nell had watched him measure the paper, fold each corner, and reject a bow she thought perfectly respectable.

Their granddaughter had once kept a ribbon from one of his parcels for an entire year. He had discovered it tied around her favourite bear’s neck. Since then, he had taken bows seriously.

Now, just below Nell’s boot, a golden crumb broke away and bounced down the mountain.

She shifted her weight back onto the broad biscuit behind her.

“This edge is rather short.”

Arthur turned to look. From above, the next step had seemed easy enough. From where she stood, its corner was mostly air.

He put his backpack well back on the wide slab beside him and came closer.

“Here?”

“A little lower.”

He bent his knees and held out his hand.

Nell took it. Her fingers were warm, with a dusting of fine crumbs along the side of her thumb.

“Now you’ve got me,” she said.

Their Own Pace

She stepped onto the middle of the biscuit, bringing her other foot beside his. For a moment, they stood shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the warm, buttery air.

Arthur brushed a crumb from her sleeve.

“Saving that?”

“I hadn’t decided.”

He picked up the backpack, and they looked towards the children. Their grandson was pointing out a route with both arms, apparently unaware that his left hand and his right were recommending different directions.

Nell laughed.

“We used to get instructions like that from his mother.”

“Usually from the top of something.”

They started again. Arthur waited while Nell chose her next foothold; farther up, she waited while he stopped to settle the backpack more comfortably.

She could see the top now. Their granddaughter had put on the paper crown they had made together last week. One point folded over her ear. Nell had expected her to choose the shiny crown from the party shop instead.

The child caught her looking and touched the bent point proudly.

“I kept it!”

“I can see.”

Nell lifted her free hand to wave.

Something for Tea

The children met them on the last broad biscuit. There were embraces before Arthur could take off his backpack, and the birthday girl had her fingers beneath its flap before he had found somewhere to sit.

“Carefully,” he said. “There’s a bow.”

“I know.”

She lifted out the parcel and touched the ribbon before looking at the label.

Beside him, Nell sat down with a small sigh. From here, she could see biscuit ridges disappearing into the pale distance. Her grandson offered her a cup from the little picnic tray.

“Tea?”

“Lovely.” She took it in both hands. “Have we anything to eat with it?”

The boy looked at the step beneath her shoes, then at the golden mountain stretching below them.

“Which one would you like?”