‘Good,’ he says in peremptory fashion. ‘Let me know if you want a break.’ We’ve barely spoken to one another and I don’t know if he’s been as lost in his own thoughts as I have.
‘Yeah, thanks.’
‘This is so fucking miserable,’ he says, walking alongside me. It’s the most we’ve spoken since we left the shelter.
Tom heaves a heavy sigh and tugs on the shoulder straps of his rucksack.
We travel on in silence, but it feels a bit more companionable as we’re side by side, walking in tandem. The straps of my rucksack feel like they’re trying to separate my shoulders from my neck and I keep fidgeting surreptitiously with them to try and get more comfortable.
‘Do you want to stop for a while?’ Tom asks.
‘No.’ I swivel around to view the landscape, which is a wasted effort. It feels as if we're inside the raincloud, visibility is so poor. ‘There’s nowhere to stop. We might as well keep going.’
‘Are you sure? How are the feet?’
‘They’re fine,’ I say.
He smiles a grim smile. ‘And you wouldn’t say otherwise. Honestly, Lydia, you are … something else.’ He shakes his head. ‘I don’t want you to be in pain.’
The simple statement lances through all my defences. My heart does an unfamiliar bunny hop in my chest and I stare at him. This is beyond my experience and I have no idea what to do with it. I swallow a lump which has crept into my throat, sneaky bugger. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Okay. If you say so. Then I suggest we head for those trees up ahead.’
I can just about make out a cluster of trunks in the gloom.
‘Maybe it’ll be a bit dryer and we can make a shelter for the night,’ he adds.
It seems churlish to ask him, what with? Especially when he’s been so … so what? Kind, lovely, caring, considerate. It shakes me up inside. I’m not used to people being concerned for my welfare.
As we near the forest, he nudges me and points to a field in a valley to the left. ‘Look.’
Through the misty mizzle I can just make out a structure. At this distance it isn’t obvious what it is, but it has part of a roof and it looks like shelter.
We both pick up speed and after a boggy trek across the lumpy field strewn with boulders, we reach a gate and what was once a cottage. Half the roof is open to the sky, the exposed beams blackened from what was obviously a catastrophic fire, but one part still retains some slates. Ancient, tattered net curtains, sodden with rain, slap half-heartedly in the wind against the rotten window frames of the second floor like ghouls.
The front door is solid but when we reach it, there’s a heavy padlock securing it.
‘Fuck,’ says Tom. ‘There must be a way inside.’
We ditch the rucksacks and circle the building. The windows on the ground floor have all been boarded up. Tom tries to peel his fingers under one of the rough hardwood sheets but they’ve been well and truly nailed down.
A broken gutter sends a splashy cascade down the side of the building where a green slimy mould stains the wall and soaks the wooden board, but despite that it holds firm.
‘Shit,’ he says after another attempt when he comes away with a bloody finger.
I’ll give him an A plus for persistence. He keeps trying and looking for a way in and I’m his faithful supporter. We find rocks to try and bash the wood in, use sticks as levers to try and lift the boards away. Nothing works.
We return to the front door and Tom gives into his frustration and kicks the heavy door a couple of times.
‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.’
He goes back for one last kick and as he does something falls to the ground from the lintel above. He’s too busy venting to notice and I crouch down and pick up the small silver key with a quick grin.
‘Er, Tom,’ I say but he’s still busy, kicking the door and swearing at it.
So I take the key, push him out of the way and insert it in the padlock. Smooth as proverbial silk, it turns and the hasp pops open.
Tom stops and stares as I turn back to him.
‘How did you do that?’
I hold up the key and nod towards the lintel where it had obviously been stored.
‘I don’t fucking believe it. Lydia, you’re a genius.’
I’m more than happy to take credit where it’s not due, so I grin at him. Whereupon he throws his arms around me and hugs me. Then he steps back as if surprised by this uncharacteristic demonstration of elation, confusion evident in his eyes, but I’m still grinning up at him. He grins back and for a second we stand there smiling at each other like complete fools. He sweeps a hand in front of him. ‘After you, madam.’
My trusty torch flickers over what was once a kitchen, the only room in the house with a ceiling. The rest of the space is unsheltered, those burnt rafters like black skeletal fingers against the darkening sky. Across the hall, there’s a drawing room, the walls crumbling around a chimney breast. In this room, a scar on one wall attests to the spot where there once would have been a range, but all that’s left now is a crumbling 1960s kitchen dresser, a broken table and several chairs which I wouldn’t trust with my weight. I also suspect we might be sharing the floorspace with sundry rodents but I’m not sure I care overmuch. It’s dry, and at this moment in time that is all that matters.
‘What a dump,’ says Tom, surveying the room.
I peel off my wet coat and shiver a little but I hang it up on a hook on the back of the door before starting to explore. I open a door to what was once the pantry, shining my torch into the black void. There are dilapidated floor-to-ceiling shelves, home to few unsightly, rusty tins as well as a couple of assorted flabby grey cardboard boxes, which have been nibbled at the corners. I nudge one of them with curious wariness.
‘Candles!’ I shout, as the box collapses and several wax candles roll out. I make a grab at them, suddenly grinning.
‘Marvellous,’ says Tom from over my shoulder. ‘Now we can clearly see what a shithole we’re in.’
I examine the other boxes. More candles. Sadly, no handy firelighters or anything vaguely useful. I don’t think thirty-year-old gravy salt, which is an indeterminate grey, is going to get us very far.
