Chapter Seventeen
Angus
A groan rips from me as I sit on the ground, reaching my hands towards my outstretched leg.
It took us almost twelve hours to walk to Kinlochleven, and I can feel every single one of them in my tense, clusterfuck of a hamstring.
I hate stretching – find it boring – but there is nothing else for it.
If I don’t do this now, I’ll be in agony tomorrow.
Across the campsite, Rowan has finished setting up her tent, and is crouched over her stove, staring at it with the furious concentration of someone who has been given a test they know they are about to fail.
I try not to laugh as she stands up again, pacing in a circle around the metal contraption like a tiger assessing suspicious meat, and then crouches once more on the other side.
I’ve already given her my lighter, but it is clear the woman needs more help.
She did well today. Better than I expected. Gritted her teeth and got on with it, even though I could see how desperately she wanted to quit.
She’s strong. Stronger than she realises.
And her face at the top. That grin, her nose crinkled in delight. It was hard not to hug her, not to pick her up and squeeze her to me in celebration.
Fuck. These are deep waters I’m swimming in.
Rowan flicks the lighter at the stove and then jumps back with a small squeal.
I sigh and let go of my foot.
“Need a hand?” I call.
“No.”
She flicks the lighter again. Nothing happens.
“Alright, I’m coming over.”
“I told you – I’m fine.” Rowan’s hands are on her hips, her chin raised.
I strive to keep a straight face. She’s cute when she gets feisty.
“Great.” I cross my own arms. Two can play at that game. “Then I’ll watch you light that stove, shall I? Seeing as you’re fine.”
“Don’t be such a helicopter parent,” Rowan snaps, kneeling. “How am I meant to concentrate with you hovering over me?”
My thoughts drift to the many ways we could have fun together with her in that position. I haul them back. Down boy. I’m helping her out. That’s it.
“You’re not working with rocket fuel here, London. It’s a camping stove. Shouldn’t need that much concentration.”
Rowan grumbles under her breath and fiddles with the lighter again.
I kneel behind her, my knees fitting neatly on either side of her hips and take the lighter from her with a smirk.
“You’ve got to turn the gas on first,” I say softly into her ear as I reach over and thumb the knob on the side of the gas canister. “Otherwise there’s nothing for the spark to light.”
This time, when I try, a small flame roars into life. I let it flicker for a moment, then turn the dial to closed and hand Rowan back the lighter. This close, the smell of her is inescapable: warm summer sun, heather, a hint of coconut from her shampoo.
“Your turn.”
I brush off my knees and saunter back to my own tent to resume my stretching, waiting for her inevitable retort. Which takes only three, two, one…
“I know how to light a bloody stove, Angus!”
“You do now,” I shoot back. “And you’re welcome!”
* * *
Once my legs are as limber as I can get them, I set to cooking my own dinner: another appetising meal of spiced lentil mush that gives me about as much pleasure as chewing cardboard. Never mind. Tomorrow night we’ll be in Fort William and I’ll treat myself to a bowl of mussels the size of my head.
One more day.
It isn’t enough.
Most years, the five days feel like plenty, time to recentre myself, to reconnect with feelings and my thoughts.
The last few years, it’s let me remember Da the way I want to, the way he was before, but this year it’s all gone by in a rush.
I’m not ready for it to be over. I want more time.
More time with the walk, with the dirt and the grass and the gorse, more time with the clouds scudding low over the mountain tops.
After tomorrow it’s back to the farm, back to worrying about balance sheets and whether this wedding is something we can really pull off.
Back to a list of jobs longer than I am – fixing the barn roof, and the new tyre for the tractor, the nail that needs hammering in by the guest bedroom door, and always more forms, taxes and invoices and spreadsheets to watch our fortunes tick up and down, each season worse than the last.
Stuart’s investment has saved us for now, but one wedding won’t be enough to put us back in the black.
We need more: more reviews, more bookings, more word-of-mouth, and it will be years before I feel safe, before I won’t be looking over my shoulder every month, afraid that this is the one that will see us sink.
The weight of it bows my shoulders even now. A pressure so deep it runs through my bones. I’ve been carrying it for so long, I’ve forgotten what it feels like to set it down.
A few scattered drops of rain plink into my bowl, and I look up, finally noticing the fast-gathering clouds.
Judging by their dark, almost bruised, tops, we’re in for one hell of a storm.
The wind picks up quickly as I gather the rest of my things and throw them into the tent, staggering over to the campsite kitchen to wash my plate and bowl.
By the time I’m done, everyone else has hunkered down, and I can see why. The rain whips my exposed face and hands with icy sharp needles, and even the short walk is enough to soak me to my skin.
As I’m settling into my inner compartment, Rowan’s tent zip lowers, and she emerges, phone torch in hand. I can’t make out exactly what she’s doing through the screen, but she appears to be scanning her tent, poking the outer lining.
And every second she’s getting wetter.
“What the fuck are you doing, London?” I hiss.
She jumps, searching behind her for where the noise has come from. Idiot. Of course she can’t see me: I’m behind two layers of fabric without a light on. Then she returns to her frantic search.
“Are you out of your mind?” I lean out of my own tent, shining my torch towards her. “Go back inside!”
She spins around. She still has no raincoat. Her hair is plastered over her face and neck. Even from here I can tell she’s shivering.
“I can’t! I have to find the leak in my tent.”
Well, shit.
If there is a leak, there’s no way she’ll find it in these conditions. And even if she does, what is she planning to do? Sew it shut?
“How bad is it?”
She won’t meet my gaze. “It’s pretty bad.”
“All the way inside?”
She nods. A stream of water runs down her forehead and she wipes it out of her eye with one hand.
Every inch of her is dripping. If her tent is wet, there is no way she’ll be sleeping tonight.
And even if she does, she’ll be miserable.
She isn’t coming out of this without at least a cold, if not something else.
There’s no other option.
“Get your things.”
“What?”
“Grab everything that isn’t completely soaked and get over here.”
“And do what?”
“London!”
“Stop calling me that! I have a name!”
I slap a hand over my face. She still isn’t moving, and her shivering is getting worse. I pull on my own waterproofs, resisting the urge to shudder as wet plastic touches damp skin. Why the fuck am I doing this to myself?
Then my boots are on and I’m squelching over to her, ignoring the surprise on her face as I stomp around the other side of her tent, throw open the flap, and grab her bag with one hand and her sleeping roll with the other.
Both are swimming in at least an inch of water, which is pouring in like a broken tap.
I’m half-tempted to pick her up and throw her into my tent along with the rest of her stuff, but I draw the line at non-consensual manhandling.
No matter how obstinate she is being.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping.” I chuck her things inside and stomp back over for the next load. Luckily, she hasn’t really unpacked, so her blow-up pillow, stove, and a half-open bag of clothes are all that’s left.
“By stealing my things?”
“For the love of god, London.” I squelch to a stop. “Will you let me fucking help you? You are not sleeping in that freezing swamp tonight. You’re bunking with me. End of discussion.”
“Angus, I… I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
I can see her panicking as she looks between me and the small, enclosed space we’re about to be stuck in. It’s the same fear that I feel. There’s something between us. A spark. Tension stretches tight as an elastic band.
And what we’re about to do?
Destined to snap it.
“Get in the tent.”
“Angus—”
“Get in the tent!” The shout comes from the next plot along, where an old lady is peeking her head out her own zip. She looks me up and down. “If you don’t, I will.”
Another light comes on to our left. “Would y’all please keep it down? Some of us are trying to sleep?”
“Get in the tent!” A new voice joins the chorus.
I throw the rest of her things inside and turn to face her, hands on hips. “So what’s it going to be? Are you coming willingly, or am I throwing you in too?”
Turns out I’m not above manhandling her, after all.