‘Han Solo.’
He’s surprised by my alacrity. ‘But you’ve never seen it.’
‘It’s Harrison Ford. What’s not to like?’
He rolls his eyes.
‘Who’s your favourite character then?’
‘Obi-wan Kenobi, Leia Organa, Bobo Fett.’
‘That’s three.’
‘Obi watched the man that trained and raised him be killed in front of him and still managed to avenge him despite Darth Maul being way more powerful. He was forced to kill the man he called a brother for the greater good, and gave up the love of his life for the Jedi. He’s selfless to the end and still a master of the force. Princess Leia was willing to die and be tortured before giving up rebel secrets. Watched her home planet destroyed in front of her, and then despite no war experience stepped up to become a general in the rebel alliance. She never once let being a woman stand in her way, despite being surrounded by men who doubted her. Held her own in the Battle of Endor without proper combat experience. Never once complained that her brother inherited the force and was painted as the one who brought all the balance, despite all that she did. And Boba Fett, well … he had cool armour.’
I burst out laughing at the serious expression on his face, although his answer gives a lot away about his character and his values. I’m particularly impressed by his choice and description of Leia. I’m coming to realise there’s a lot more depth to Tom Dereborn than I’d originally given him credit for.
‘So?’ I ask, still pondering his heartfelt response.
‘So, what?’
‘How would you judge me?’
He smirks. ‘Actually, you’d get okay marks for Han Solo. He’s cool and has the best quips.’
‘Well, that is a relief,’ I tease. ‘I’d hate to have got it wrong.’
‘Do you get things wrong?’ he asks, and it doesn’t sound like an idle question.
‘I try not to,’ I say because it’s the truth.
‘Me too, but it doesn’t always work out.’ His mouth twists in wry resignation and I suddenly want to reach out and reassure him, but I have no idea what to say.
Chapter Fourteen LYDIA
Despite the heat of the fire, it’s a long, uncomfortable night. Tom tried to insist that I had the sleeping bag, but in the end we both lie on top of it, a good distance apart.
I doze, off and on, but we’re both constantly on fire duty, getting up to add a log whenever it dies right back. Despite being physically exhausted, I can’t get comfortable on the hard floor, no matter which way I turn. When daylight starts to filter around the edge of the boarded-up windows, I finally give up and sit upright. In the gloom, the kitchen with its layer of grime, shaggy cobwebs and debris is far more depressing than it was by candlelight. Tom groans and winces as he sits up. The fire has died down to embers but quickly roars back into life when he tosses one of the logs from the dwindling pile onto it.
I get up and busy myself boiling water and gathering up the clothes that are now dry.
‘What are you doing?’ asks Tom, catching me stashing candles in my rucksack.
‘In case we need them again.’
‘Good thought, although I hope to fuck we get to the motorway today. Not sure I can stand another night like this.’ He gestures around the room and suddenly I really want to get out of the squalid surroundings.
‘I need to get some fresh air,’ I mutter, leaving him to sort out making coffee. I’ve fought too hard to escape this, and I don’t like the memories it’s bringing back.
Outside the contrast to the previous day is almost unbelievable. A brisk wind lifts and tosses my hair across my face and I lift a hand to hold it back to take in the view. The bright, glorious morning is full of sunshine and hope. It’s a million miles from yesterday’s dank, grey hours of unrelenting misery. I take a deep breath, relief flooding through me, although I can’t contain a shudder. I would kill for a shower and to be clean.
I hear Tom’s footsteps. He hands me a cup of coffee and we both lean on the wall in front of the cottage, taking in the wide sweep and rise of majestic hills, crowned with outcrops of grey crags and sliced by verdant valleys. There’s not a soul in sight and the only sound is the distant call of a bird, a lonely echo across the field.
‘Cheers,’ he says lifting his cup and taking an enthusiastic sip. ‘Heaven in a cup. I’ll never knock instant coffee again. Thank God that you’re a cheapskate and pinched a load from the hotel.’
‘I call it thrifty.’
‘Whatever. I’m extremely grateful for your forethought.’
I’m quietly satisfied by the praise but I revert to inanities because I don’t know what else to say.
‘It’s a gorgeous morning.’
‘Thank fuck. There was a point yesterday where if I’d seen one of those bloody orange Land Rovers, I’d have run towards it begging them to capture us.’
‘Good job we didn’t then. I’m a great believer in tomorrow’s another day. Things can only get better.’
He gives me a thoughtful look and nods before returning his gaze to the view.
Our silence for once is companionable.
‘Well,’ he says decisively. ‘We’re almost home and dry. I reckon another six or seven miles this morning – we can do that in a couple of hours. It’s seven now. Once we get to the slip road, we can hitch a ride and potentially be back in civilisation by this evening if we’re lucky.’
He swigs his coffee.
‘I need a wazz.’
‘Right. I’ll go tidy up and get ready.’ Reluctantly I leave the daylight and the clean air and go back into the kitchen, where I quickly chuck another log on the fire and put some more water onto boil.
