Oliver nods. ‘You crave all this time and space, and then you get it and don’t know what to do with yourself.’
‘Exactly. So, you mentioned you’re moving?’ I prompt him.
‘Yeah. I’ve been working on some projects down south but there’s something up here I really want to get my teeth into—’
‘The beaver project?’ I cut in, and he nods.
‘That’s it. We’ve reintroduced them to other areas really successfully. A family near here hope to do the same on their land—’ He stops, catching himself. ‘God, don’t let me get started on the project …’
‘I’d love to hear about it,’ I say truthfully.
‘Really? I can show you the site if you like. I mean, where we’ve build the lodge—’
‘The lodge?’
‘A home for beavers, built from sticks and undergrowth.’
‘Oh, I see!’
He chuckles. ‘Honestly, enough about that. So, Suki mentioned that you’re a librarian?’
‘Yep, nothing as exciting as reintroducing threatened indigenous species …’
‘See, you do know about beavers!’
I smile. ‘We have a natural history society that meets up in the library. Sometimes I sidle over, just to make sure that’s really what they’re up to with their hushed conversations and intense minute-taking …’
‘They’re not out and about, discovering nature in the wild?’
‘They do that too, but we have a brilliant natural history section. Lots of rare out-of-print volumes on wildlife and ecology and …’ I cut off. ‘Now listen tome, going on!’
‘Sounds great,’ Oliver enthuses. ‘I should meet them, if I’m ever in the area.’
‘Oh, they’re terrifying. Mostly in their late seventies – even eighties, some of them – but they reckon they run the library. We moved their table once because there was leak above it. “Carly,”’ I start, mimicking Thelma Campbell’s strident tone, ‘“we’re really not sure about the repositioning and the strong consensus is that it should be put right back where it was!”’
Oliver laughs. ‘“Natural History Society outraged by table move.”’
‘Exactly. You’d think we’d put it in the toilets for all the furore it caused.’
‘So itallgoes on in your library,’ he suggests.
‘Like you wouldn’t believe,’ I say as we make a start on our picnic, looking out over the loch. And so the hours pass. We drive on for a while, stopping at any spots that take our fancy. Eventually, we enter a country estate, where we park at a stable block and then step carefully along a narrow path through the woods.
Finally we arrive at the river. The late afternoon is cooling now, the sky darkening as heavy clouds gather. We finish the remains of the picnic and perch on a fallen tree at the water’s edge. Here, beavers have dammed the river to create a pool of still, calm water. We sit and watch as dragonflies skim across it, their iridescence catching the light. And finally a beaver emerges from the mound of sticks – the lodge – and plops into the water.
‘Oh, wow,’ I breathe, transfixed.
‘We’re lucky,’ Oliver whispers. ‘They usually only start to come out at dusk.’ We watch as the beaver glides majestically, head slicked wet, held just above water. Another emerges, and I feel as if I am barely breathing as we take in the scene.
My head is swimming with the sights of the day as we pick our way back through the forest. ‘So, did you enjoy your day?’ he asks later as he parks up at the cabins.
‘It was wonderful,’ I say truthfully. A small pause settles as we climb out of his Land Rover.
‘Look, um …’ he starts, seeming suddenly awkward. ‘I don’t want to pry, but …’
‘What about?’ My chest seems to tighten.
‘You, uh … you mentioned that Eddie moved out in January, didn’t you?’
