“Down here!”
A few steps to my left, the edge of the path gives way to a short but sharp drop into a collection of rocks by the loch’s edge. There, a university-age lad from the night before is lying on the ground, his leg stretches out at an awkward angle, his bag beneath him. He’s wet, and looks profoundly uncomfortable and more than a little embarrassed, his face red under his buzzcut.
“You alright?”
“Er, no. Not really.” He gestures at himself, frowning as if it’s obvious. Which it is, now I think about it. “Not really. Ankle’s a bit fucked and my bag’s stuck on something, so I can’t get myself up. Do you think you could maybe… help me?”
“Oh, right! Yes, of course.”
I shuck my bag and lower myself beside him, crouching to examine the problem. Somehow, a tree root has wedged itself through the strap of his bag; and with the way he’s lying, there’sno way he can either free himself from the root or get the bag off, rendering him stuck.
It takes a few tries, but I eventually manage to pull the offending tree root out and we both stagger upright; standing, he doesn’t look like much, scrawny in the way young men can be, before they’ve finished growing into themselves, and deathly pale, although that could have been the fall and the shock.
“Thanks,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Owe you one.”
“No problem.” I shuffle my feet.
He asked for help. I’ve given him help. Our contract is over, our mutual activity passed. What do I have to say to a 20-year-old? For that matter, what does he have to say to me?
“Took you a while though.” He laughs. “Didn’t think you were going to stop actually.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, well, I was calling you for ages. All the way since you passed that tree. You nearly walked right past me. Guess you were a bit lost in your own world, yeah. Really into nature and all that, are you?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks as I remember exactly what distracted me. “Uh, yeah,” I say. “I love nature. Wildlife, especially. Scotland’s, uh, stunning.”
“Isn’t it?” His eyes light up. “I had no idea that nature could be, like, so overwhelming beautiful, you know? Like, that loch? The slow ripples of the water with the sunlight on them? Sick. Caleb used to tell me, but I didn’t really believe him. I thought it is made up, like on TV. But… Man.” He shakes his head, and then looks at his boots, embarrassed. “Hard, though. This walking thing. I thought I’d be alright as I’m pretty good at football and all, but it’s so long. Just keeps going. My feet are covered in blisters, and now…”
He pulls the bottom of his trousers up so I can see his ankle, which is swelling rapidly, the fabric of his sock straining over the top of his boot in a way that makes me feel a little sick.
“Are you sure you can walk on that?”
I fight down a bit of bile as he gingerly places it on the ground and takes a hesitant step. His face goes white as bones left out in the sun, and a small bead of sweat forms at his temple.
“Yeah, it’s fine, yeah.”
It is very clearly not fine, which becomes even more obvious to both of us when he tries to take another step and staggers sideways instead.
I catch his arm, as together we heave him upright.
“Alright, maybe it’s not so fine.” The words come out bitterly, almost angrily. “But what else am I meant to do? I’m due in at Beinglas tonight. I already paid and everything.”
“Your health is worth more than a night’s camping fee. It’s not that far back to Milarochy from here, if you wanted to—”
“—give up? Fuck no!” He balks like a startled horse.
Marnie would have a field day with this – she’d immediately lecture him about how real men talk about their feelings, and how the healthiest thing is to know your limits and respect them, and not push on through when you’re feeling shit – but I’m not Marnie. So instead, I hold up my hands up as if he’s a wild animal, as if he needs placating. “Oh, no. Of course not,” I say. “In that case, you need a stick.”
“A stick?”
“To lean on?” I hunt around in the underbrush until I find one that I think will work: thick, not too knobbly, the height of my armpit from the ground, so it should be tall enough for… “What’s your name?”
“Ewan.” His expression darkens. “Before you start, no I don’t go baaaa, and I’ve never had a shearing, and I don’t even like sheep, alright?”
A wave of sympathy sweeps through me. “Get that a lot growing up, did you?”
He rolls his eyes. “You’ve no idea.”
