I tucked Tilly’s sobs under my chin. ‘I don’t know. She’s a bit upset.’
‘There might be some biscuits over there,’ he said vaguely.
Tilly’s head came up, nudging mine back, and a bleary voice repeated, ‘Biscuits?’
‘Mmm. If the contractors have left me any. There definitely were some, earlier this morning.’
Her head went a little higher. ‘Ice cream?’
‘Probably not, no.’
‘Wants ice cream.’
‘You might have to settle for chocolate digestives.’ Ross didn’t put on that high-pitched voice either, I noted. That ‘talking to small children, the elderly and cute pets’ voice that David had used whenever he’d communicated with his daughter. Small, short words delivered as though being posted into a brain that couldn’t cope with anything complicated, or at a tone only audible to bats.
I found I was actually starting tolikeRoss.
‘I suppose we could go, if biscuits are involved,’ I said and, in my arms, Tilly bounced.
‘It’s not far. I mean, it is, by road, but there’s a shortcut along this path… Oh bugger, it’s here somewhere, where is it? Ah. This path here.’ Ross prodded some undergrowth until it yielded.
I looked dubiously. ‘Reallynot far? Or not far to someone who’s not carrying an infant whose boots may well spontaneously detach?’
Under my chin Tilly muttered, ‘Bugger,’ tasting the word like a sweet of a new flavour. I decided not to react on this occasion.
‘Really not far. I’ve just come over, once I got the delivery unloaded.’ He held a strand of spiky leaves aside for me to get past. ‘For biscuits though, it’s got to be worth it, surely.’
‘Isobel gave us biscuits.’ I sounded a bit sulky as I realised that we hadn’t eaten them.
‘Then a few more can’t hurt,’ Ross said cheerfully. ‘Come on.’
And he led us on the way through the woods.
13
It wasn’t really a path, it was just a track that had been beaten down through the leaf-dropping brambles and the ropes of nettles, clambering over tree roots and windfall branches. It probably felt longer to me as I was carrying Tilly, who had stopped crying and started staring around her, occasionally grabbing out to grip at a whippy stem as it flicked past.
Ross held branches aside and walked slowly, so I couldn’t rage at him. I wasn’t sure whether Iwantedto rage at him anyway or whether there would be any point; there was something very contained about Ross Ventriss. As though you could bounce bowling balls off his personality. All his anxiety seemed to be self-generated and saved for worrying about Elm Cottage and its outcome, rather than searching around for something to attach to, which was reassuring in its way. He was also wearing very practical large boots, walking gaiters and practical trousers tucked in under that big jacket. Just as well, given the fact that lumps were still dropping away from him like chains from a newly launched ship. I felt my face get hot again with the embarrassment of having a small child and all the unpredictability that involved.
‘You will have to say sorry to Ross, Tils,’ I said to her as we negotiated another fallen branch. ‘You shouldn’t have thrown the leaves at him, and made him all muddy.’
I didn’t mention the horse poo. I had enough to contend with without all the two-year-old amusement that the wordpoocould generate and Idefinitelydidn’t need her shouting ‘Poo!’ on repeat, with glee.
I changed my grip and shifted Tilly to my other hip. Ross held an enormous stick aside to aid my passage. I had no idea how I would have managed this walk alone, but then I probably wouldn’t have even tried it alone. Why would I? There was no planet in this solar system on which going for a walk carrying a small child would ever be anything other than hard work. If Tilly didn’t go under her own steam, we didn’t go.
And yet, here I was, trudging through a maze of obstacles and enough mud to clog my boots and double my bodyweight. Why? Because Tilly had been bribed with biscuits? Curiosity? Or just because Ross seemed… because he made me feel… because he wasthere?
‘Ah, here we are.’ We finally burst from the undergrowth like something out ofI’m a Celebrityand into a clearing at the edge of the wood. Beyond the immediate trees I could see farmland: a field edged by stone walling and occupied by ponies, which curved gently upwards to where the moors stammered into existence in occasional patches of dried heather and stunted gorse.
A short run of trackway had been created as a spur from the actual road, which I could see off to one side. This was mostly made from broken brick and a yellow dust, and was deeply rutted with lorry tyre tracks, and led to a couple of huge metal containers, as though a merchant shipping vessel had passed by and dropped some of its load, incongruous and smugly man-made among the nature and pastoral background.
Beside them was a small hut, to which Ross led us, unlocking the padlock and swinging the door open with what seemed to be pride. ‘This is my site office. The containers are where I’m storing a lot of the gear, ready to get started.’ He went into the shed. It contained a collection of garden chairs, a portable radio, stacks of random paperwork and a kettle sitting on a gas camping stove which reminded me uncomfortably of Isobel’s facilities, and smelled of hot wood and damp newspapers. ‘It’s where the guys come for a brew when they’re delivering or waiting for me to tell them what to do next,’ he went on.
‘Yes.’ I followed him into the hut and, after a quick risk assessment about electricity, glass, rodents, protruding nails and bags of poisonous chemicals, put Tilly down with relief. My spine felt bowed sideways. ‘Very nice. Why are we here?’
‘Biscuits!’ Tilly chimed in, seeing a packet on the little folding table. Ross undid the packet and handed it down.
‘Oh, no, you have to…’ I tried, but it was too late. Tilly took an enormous handful of the biscuits and then crawled under the table to eat them. ‘…ration them,’ I ended, feebly. ‘Tils…’
