‘That’s better,’ he says. ‘Now we’re like proper mountaineers.’
‘They use ropes,’ I say.
‘I know. And crampons, whatever they are. But we’ll have to do the best with what we have.’
He turns and looks back the way we’ve come. ‘It’s a good thing your mum didn’t know we were coming here today.’
I follow his gaze. ‘What do you mean?’
‘She’d find it pretty easy to track us.’
‘She is a bit like a bloodhound,’ I agree.
‘Like Cuthbert.’
‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘First, he has to go into the kiln.’
‘True. He has a busy couple of days ahead of him. I only hope he’ll survive the baking process.’
‘He’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘Unless he has a bubble in him.’
‘A bubble?’
‘Yes, it’s important to work the clay to get all the air out of it before it goes into the kiln. Otherwise, it might explode.’
He stops dead. ‘That’s it! I’m going back to rescue him.’
I tug at his arm. ‘I was only teasing. He’ll be fine. He’ll be ready for his bloodhound duties in no time. Not that it would take a trained bloodhound. Those tracks are as clear as day.’
‘True,’ he says. ‘You can see where we came off the path over there. Your footprints are the smaller ones going in a completely straight line. The footprints of a woman who knows exactly where she’s going.’
I squint against the rays of the setting sun. ‘They didn’t go in a straight line for long. Look at that messy patch of snow. That’s where I disappeared down the hole.’
‘And where I carried out my daring rescue,’ he adds. ‘If it hadn’t been for me, you’d have been stranded here all night.’
‘We’re on the main path now,’ I say. ‘So, you can stop worrying.’
‘I’m still not letting go,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t feel safe. There could be wild animals around.’
‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve already told you I wasn’t raised in the countryside. Wolves, probably. And badgers.’
‘Badgers?’
‘I thought you’d read The Wind in the Willows,’ he says. ‘As soon as it goes dark, there’ll be stoats and weasels and goodness knows what appearing and planning to attack us. We’ll have to light a fire.’
I point towards a snow-covered pile of rocks. ‘That’s exactly what I intend to do.’
He gives me a suspicious look. ‘I can’t tell whether you’re joking.’
‘I’m not. My dad keeps a pile of single-use barbeques in the garage. I swiped one this morning when he wasn’t looking.’
‘You’re a marvel,’ he says. ‘But what are we going to cook? Don’t say that it’s my job to fashion a makeshift bow and arrow and stalk some innocent squirrel or pigeon?’
‘Of course not.’ I open my backpack and pull out the barbecue. ‘It won’t be terribly traditional. Mum would have had asked questions if I’d tried to take a steak or sausages. She always knows exactly what she has in the fridge.’
He brushes the snow off the flattest rock and perches on it. ‘Now I really am intrigued. What did you manage to bring?’