By the time I calmed down, Mick had thankfully buggered off back to his farm, leaving the sheep as my only witnesses. They’ve shuffled further away, probably deciding I’m too much of a liability to be anywhere near them.
Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, I manage to click the second pole into place and pull the frame up, coaxing it into something resembling a tent. I tie the sides to the poles and voila, my new home is standing proud in the Dorset countryside.
“Aha!” I cheer triumphantly. It’s a two-man tent, but with my massive arse and my overpacked backpack, I need every square inch of space.
“Oh shit.” A strong breeze catches the tent, lifting it off the ground. I lunge to press it back down without destroyingwhat I built. I should have done the pegs first! The tent flaps angrily in the wind, mocking me, and I swear I hear the sheep chuckling from a distance.
Desperately, I hold it in place with one hand while unzipping the entrance with the other. Another gust nearly takes me with it, and I swear under my breath. Autumn’s definitely on its way, and this wind is its sassy little herald.
Still holding the tent down, I stretch towards my backpack, which is agonisingly just out of reach. I can’t let go of the tent or it’ll end up in the next field, but I need the bloody bag to weigh it down while I pitch the pegs. “Come on,” I mutter, stretching so hard my muscles start to cramp. The strap is right there, so close, just an inch from my fingertips.
And then, because I am a genius, I lose my balance. With a yelp, I topple over, dragging the tent with me. Brilliant. Just brilliant. For a second, I just lie there, staring up at the inside of the tent and letting my idiocy wash over me. Why didn’t I just carry the tent over to the bag? It’s not pitched yet! I’m such a numpty.
I can’t help it, I start laughing. Proper, uncontrollable, belly-aching laughter. I’m sprawled on the ground, holding up the tent like I want to juggle with it, and it’s all so ridiculous I can’t stop. The sheep look on in judgmental silence as I crawl out from under the mess, still giggling.
Scrambling to my feet, I grab the tent and my backpack and lug them back to the flat patch of ground I’d chosen earlier. This time, I shove the backpack into the tent’s entrance with a triumphant grunt and zip it up tight. There. The tent is finally weighted down, and I can take my time putting the pegs in without the wind staging another coup.
I straighten up, wipe the dirt off my jeans, and glare at the tent like it’s a naughty child. “Right,” I say to no one but the sheep. “Let’s finish this.”
25
Hopalong and the Queen
Theo
I’ve been looking forwardto this week away from work, but now, instead of enjoying a few days of just me and Lucy, I’m worrying about Ivy.
My eyes drift to the kitchen window as I unpack the food into the fridge. Dark clouds are gathering in the distance.
She’ll be fine.The trouble with Ivy is that she never says when she’s not fine. I know she was putting on a brave face when I dropped her off at the campsite but I could see the doubt in her eyes. As much as she protests, she’s not exactly the outdoorsy type. She grew up in London, and I’ve no doubt she can handle whatever the city throws at her, but alone in a little tent? That’s different.
“Daddy, I found a new friend!”
Lucy’s voice pipes up behind me. I turn to see her standing in the doorway, her small hand stretched out, palm flat. A tiny, unsteady moth clings to her skin.
“I think it’s ill,” she frowns.
I don’t need to be an expert to see that one of its wings is broken.
“Ladybug, I think its wing is hurt.” I kneel beside her, watching the little creature hobble about on her hand.
“Oh. I’ll call him Hopalong,” she grins, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that Hopalong won’t be hopping for long.
“That’s a lovely name. Maybe take him outside and put him next to the roses in the flower box,” I suggest gently.
“Okay,” she says and skips off.
Through the window, I watch as she carefully places the moth on the soil, her lips moving in quiet conversation. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but knowing Lucy, she’s probably reassuring him that everything will be alright.
I love how peaceful it is out here, just farmland and open space. No roads, no traffic, no other people. The only way in is a long gravel path leading from the farm that manages the cottage.
Up here, Lucy can play outside without me having to worry. There’s nothing around that could harm her.
“Madam Lucy, how about some afternoon tea?” I say in my best posh voice as I step onto the patio.
“Yes!” she shouts, then quickly adds, “please,” when I raise an eyebrow.
“Good manners,” I nod approvingly. “Strawberry or raspberry tea?”
