Abigail really was something. If she wasn’t asking me questions, as if I was being interrogated, then she was completely silent. She wanted to know everything about me, but I knew hardly anything about her, other than she was 17, her name was Abigail and she was absolutely dazzling. She was very ‘English’ in her appearance; with her auburn hair that glowed in the sunlight but would look glamorous even at night and her emerald green eyes that rivalled the grass or the leaves of a tree for colour.
She suddenly stopped in her tracks, and I looked at her inquisitively. She smiled shyly. “This is Knightsbury.” She told me. And I looked forwards. It was small, and had the kind of beauty that those little English towns do, totally different to American towns of the same size, that seem to be full of red-neck confederates, who hate everything foreign. I looked at the people moving around, interacting with each other and suddenly thought: Wow, this feels like a real home. Even for me.
I was pulled out of my thoughts by Abigail’s voice rapidly speaking.
“If you go forwards and follow the road, you’ll soon come to the Town Hall. You can’t miss it; it’s the biggest building here for miles. I saw some military men there yesterday.” She told me, and turned to the right. I suddenly realised that we were in the middle of a cross-roads.
“Where are you going?” I asked, and she smiled at me like I was simple.
“I’m going home.” She told me, and I nodded. I held my hand out to her.
“Well thank you for all of your help, miss. Maybe I’ll see you around town.” I said to her. She carefully put her tiny hand in mine and smiled wryly.
“Maybe.” She said, and pushed her bike up the hill to the right, and disappeared from sight.
That night, while I was lying on the floor of the room that we had been allowed to stay in for the autumn, I could think of nothing but that strange girl who had been so kind to me.