I exhale heavily. I do not fucking believe this.
‘It’s not my fault,’ she protests.
‘Didn’t say it was.’
‘But you thought it.’
‘I’m just hacked off, that’s all.’
‘The plus side is that we don’t have to share a tent,’ she points out in that typically helpful Lydia way.
‘That’s certainly a big plus in the scheme of not having a tent.’ My voice is full of snarky sarcasm. ‘So, what have we got?’
Chapter Ten LYDIA
When Tom and I examine our kit, it turns out that between us we have two groundsheets, a couple of bungy cords, one sleeping bag (in our hurry to get off the coach we left the other one behind), one bag of tent pegs, two enamel billycans with enamel mugs, four plates, four knives, four forks, two thermos flasks – both empty – four packs of unidentified dehydrated meals, a handful of energy bars, water sterilisation tablets, two first-aid kits, two microfibre towels and two identical maps. He doesn’t need to know about my squirrel hoard, although I might break open the digestives later.
There’s also one glaring omission. Shit, the phone. It must have fallen out on the coach. I decide that now is not the time to confess this to Tom, given that he’s already irritated by the lack of tent, although that is hardly my fault.
Instead I focus on the first rule of survival, which I know from prodigious reading and reality TV shows is to build a shelter and get a fire going. When I point this out, Tom growls, ‘No shit, Sherlock. You’re not the only one who’s watched The Island with Bear Grylls.’
‘Fine. You sort the fire out and I’ll make a start on a shelter.’ Gosh I sound as if I know what I’m doing. Ha! As if I had the first clue but I’m hoping if he buggers off and leaves me to it, I can work something out.
‘I hate to point this out, but I don’t have the tin with the matches and the firelighters. Do you?’
‘No, but there’s plenty of sheep’s wool. There are enough of them about.’
‘Sheep’s wool. Fuck me, you’re not expecting me to rub two sticks together to make fire, are you? I’m not a bloody Boy Scout.’
‘Shocker, I’d have thought you were.’
‘I was about ten years ago. However I’m not any longer and nor do I carry my dib dib dib dob dob dob kit around with me.’
‘You surprise me.’ I say before pulling out the bundle of wool fibre from my pocket and holding it aloft. ‘Will this help?’
He scowls at me. ‘Great, aren’t you a smartarse? Have you also got a handy magnifying glass in your other pocket?’ he asks with a theatrical squint up at the rapidly greying sky.
‘No, but I do have this.’ From my other pocket I produce a blue plastic cigarette lighter.
‘You smoke?’
I shake my head.
‘But you just happen to have a lighter on you.’ He looks suspicious.
I shrug.
‘I’ll go and collect some firewood,’ he says and stomps off.
I lick my finger and strike it through the air. One point to me. I’m not going to lie, the feeling of superiority warms me right through. I’m bossing this outdoor lark. Teamwork, not so much. We still hate each other.
Who knew watching so much TV and reading Swallows and Amazons so many times would come in this useful? In no time at all I’ve gathered armful after armful of sweet-smelling brown bracken and piled it up between two rocks. I figure we can lie on the bracken, use one of the ground sheets as a cover and the other as shelter. See? This outdoor stuff is a breeze.
The rain holds off although darkness has fallen, bringing with it an autumnal chill, but it’s okay as we’re sitting in front of a fire, tucking into extremely welcome foil bags of rehydrated spaghetti bolognese. It’s almost cosy apart from the company.
‘Enjoying that?’ Tom asks, poking his fork at the brown mix and munching with barely concealed disgust.
I shrug even as I’m wolfing mine down. It’s food. It’s hot.
‘It’s okay.’
‘Okay? Do you own any tastebuds? It’s rank.’ His whole face scrunches up as he pulls a ‘yuk’ expression.
I glare at him. ‘You ought to finish it.’
‘I’d rather eat my own shoes than this crap.’
When he tosses the pack aside my fingers tense around the fork I’m holding. I will not stab him. I will not stab him. But it’s bloody tempting.
He catches sight of my face and throws the pack my way. ‘Fill your boots, love.’
I hate him at that moment. So much that a ferocious, sharp pierce of hot, white rage burns through me.
Adept at hiding my feelings after years of practice when I was a kid, I pick up the pack and with a calm casualness that belies my inner fury, I shake the contents into my own foil sachet while he watches, trying to work out if I’m taking the piss. His hand makes a slight grabby move as if he now regrets the action. All we’ve had since breakfast is one cold bacon roll.
Too late. I carefully take slow mouthful after mouthful until it’s all gone. It’s a point of principle. I never leave or waste food. He watches every bite, the scowl on his face deepening and then when I finish and crumple up the pack, a sneer twists his lips and he looks down his nose.
