Firepit
They sat outside in the smoky air and played Gin Rummy. They played Whist and Double Solitaire and silly games like Shithead and Spit. Like talking to waiters, the manner in which someone plays cards was a litmus test for Marnie. In both scenarios, Neil had turned into Caligula, capricious and spiteful, and his grin as he laid down his winning cards made her want to pin his hand to the table with a dagger. Michael did not bray or preen when he won, there was no whining or questioning the shuffle when he lost, and he was just competitive enough for it to be fun. Still, she should remember, ‘better than Neil’ was the very lowest of bars to set.
The field in which the tents were pitched was a kind of mantelpiece – not the proper term – over the valley and in between games they watched the sun set, lights coming on in the scattered cottages below. Dogs barking, wood smoke. With darkness came the cold, and Marnie was obliged to put on the last of her clean clothes and some dirty clothes too. Michael set and lit the fire and they sat in folding chairs, muffled up against the night air, drinking the cheap jammy wine they’d bought from the landlady, along with baked potatoes, pulpy and buttery and delicious. The fire was warm on her face and while the sadness of the day was still present it did not feel inappropriate, this contentment. Someone outside a neighbouring tent was picking at an acoustic guitar. ‘Do you mind?’ he shouted across the darkness and Marnie, who had a horror of anything folky, said that she did not.
Eventually it became too hard to see the cards and, with their devices charging in the kitchen, she had the new experience of being outside at night away from the city. Was she supposed to look at the stars? They were bright and lovely, she supposed, but she wished they would dance or shoot or something. At least the firelight was flattering – she could tell by glancing at Michael, who had, she thought, a Gabriel Oak thing going on and might at any moment put his finger to his ear and sing of bonnie banks and loved ones ’cross the sea. As if he’d heard the thought, he turned to her. Quick, say something.
‘I think,’ she said, ‘I’d be a lousy cavewoman. Apart from the cold and brutality, once you’ve got the nuts and berries, what d’you do of an evening?’
‘Tell stories by the campfire.’
‘I’d edit other people’s. “You mentioned five mammoths but earlier it was three.” You, on the other hand, you’d fit right in.’
‘Thank you. Is it this?’ he said, scratching at the beard.
‘Maybe. How long have you had it?’
‘Only a couple of years. I got this scar,’ and he traced his finger along his jaw. ‘You’ve probably noticed.’
‘I have. But scars are cool.’
‘It didn’t feel cool at the time.’
‘What happened?’ she said. ‘Unless you don’t want to talk about it.’
He frowned. ‘I don’t come out of it well, I should say.’
‘I’m sure that’s not the case.’
‘Well. You’ll see. So …’