I thought I might propose some prose.

“Indian’s Head,” she said, out of the blue. “that’s where I want you to scatter my ashes, son.”

I almost dropped the tea I’d brought, about her twentieth that night; surprised just as much at the fact she was talking about death at all, let alone her own.

“Indian’s Head? I didn’t know you’d ever…”

“I think it was the happiest day of my life - apart from when you children were born, of course,” she added hastily. She’d that far-away smile she often adopted when talking about the past; her Irish childhood, what fun the war was, that sort of thing.

 “We had a picnic, and walked to the top. Arthur drew a picture. Think I’ve still got it somewhere.”

She sighed, meaningfully. I didn’t have my mam down as one of nature’s hikers.

It had been an odd night. Dawn, by the time we’d finished talking - her favourite pastime, though this had been a marathon. I think she’d known, even before the ambulance dash and the doctor’s sombre confirmation, that now might be the time to reveal those things she had kept to herself for so long.

This ‘Arthur’ had cropped up irregularly throughout our childhood, after dad had left, as an occasional, wistful comment, like a child with an imaginary friend: “Oh, Arthur, where are you now?”

I found the picture after she’d gone, and it took me straight back to that conversation. She had gone on to recount how they met at Cossor’s factory when doing “war work”. He was one of the managers.

“You’d have liked Arthur, son.” Ignoring the fact that, had they gone on to be married, I never could have met him, I smiled an appreciation of her apparent love for him, and ruminated on the irony. I mean, for decades I had tramped up and down this iconic landmark overlooking Dovestones reservoir with no idea that my little old mum had ever set foot there.

It was the start of my life as a walker. Hiking, we called it then. First, camping ‘up Chew Valley’, carrying all our gear in army kitbags, pitching a leaky tent on an island in Chew Brook, that disappeared with the heavy rain; exploring the old Scout hut, countless walks along the ridge to Chew Reservoir and on to Crowden or Tintwhistle. How often had she listened to me tell her about my Sunday walks on Indian’s Head. And never once let on about her special day.

Now, with the cat out of the bag, she’d gone on to tell me the whole story. Sleep could wait.

“He joined up and I went to see him when he was stationed in London. He was so intelligent, interesting. Took me to art galleries and museums. I had a wonderful time. There was none of that, you know, not in those days. He was a  proper gentleman. We walked arm-in-arm and I looked up at him and knew this was the man for me.”

I was up Indian’s Head the other day, the rare sun gleaming on the snow that still decorated the tops. Gazing over to Pots and Pans, I smiled at Arthur’s romantic, stylised view of that lovely hill; and remembered how the rest of her story ended, that tea-soaked night: “He dashed off and bought me some magazines, handed them to me through the train window and said, ‘see you tomorrow’. That was the last time I ever saw him.”

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