What next? I have to leave. Now.
‘I … I should be going,’ she says, coaxing Thistle from the rug.
Dylan looks surprised. ‘Aren’t you going to drink your tea?’
‘It’s late. I hadn’t realized. I have work I should be getting on with. I’m sorry.’
‘Me too,’ he says, just as his uncle comes back into the room.
‘Most peculiar. I’ve had that clock, ooh, twenty years or more, and it’s been completely reliable. In these last few weeks however … Oh, are you on your way?’
‘I should be in my studio. I’ve rather a lot to catch up with, you know, what with the move…’
‘Of course. Here, why don’t you borrow these?’ He hands her the two books he had selected for her, and then quickly takes another from a high shelf. ‘And this one, I think,’ he says, nodding to himself. ‘Yes, I think this might have something of what you are looking for.’
‘Thank you. You’ve been really helpful.’ Tilda hurries to the front door and struggles into her running shoes and fleece as quickly as she can. Thistle, too, seems eager to go, and fidgets as she tries to clip on her pink leash. ‘Stand still, daft dog.’
Dylan has followed them into the hall. ‘I wouldn’t want to wear that, either.’
‘It was the only color they had,’ she lies.
‘Dog like that wants to run, anyway. I don’t expect she really needs to be on a lead, do you, girl?’ He reaches out slowly and carefully but Thistle moves away with another quiet but alarming growl.
Tilda experiences the embarrassment of being the parent of an ill-mannered child and can’t stop herself explaining. ‘She’s been badly treated. I think she’s nervous of men. They hurt her.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he says, but when he speaks he is looking not at Thistle, but at Tilda.
Outside, the day has brightened and instinctively Tilda flinches as the sunshine hits her eyes. As she reaches the garden gate Dylan calls after her. ‘Come to the dig. If you’re interested. I’ll show you around.’
She pauses, hand on the latch, and manages a polite smile. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘That would be … lovely.’ She fumbles with the gate and hurries on her way.
Lovely? Hardly the word for looking for ancient bones. Get a grip, girl.
By the time they reach the field below the cottage both Tilda and Thistle are puffing small clouds of warm breath into the frosty air. They slow to a walk, and Tilda wonders if the skinny dog hasn’t overdone things a little for her first proper run. She considers an idea, biting her bottom lip, and then pulls gently on the lead.
‘Come here, little one. I’m told you don’t need a lead. What d’you think about that, eh? Let’s have this off you, shall we?’ So saying, she undoes the collar and slips it from the dog’s neck. Thistle shakes herself briskly and gives a brief wag of her tail.
The two of them continue their journey, and Tilda decides it is rather pleasing to have the willing company of a trusting hound. Just as the thought forms in her mind, she sees Thistle’s head shoot up, ears pricked. She follows the direction of her sightline and sees what it is that has her so transfixed. A large, brown hare stands motionless on the path in front of them, not more than a dozen paces away. Tilda has never seen a hare close up before, and is struck by the wild, ancient look of the thing. This is not some timid, fluffy bunny, but a creature of the mountains, something knowing and wise. Its enormous, bright eyes do not flicker as it takes in the odd pair who have happened upon it.
What a wonderful thing. A truly wonderful thing.
Too late, Tilda remembers what manner of dog she has at her side. And that that dog is no longer on the lead. In another heartbeat, Thistle is racing forward, any hint of fatigue vanished, all the animal’s instincts telling it to chase, chase, chase!
‘Thistle, no! Stop!’ Tilda shouts, but her cries are pointless. The hare turns and bounds away, its powerful hind legs propelling it across the hard ground with astonishing speed. Thistle is a dog possessed of a single thought now, and soon closes the gap between herself and her prey. The hare jinks and twists, leading its pursuer in zigzags up and down the hill. Tilda runs after them, hampered by the heavy books she is carrying, and with little hope of either catching the dog or getting it to listen to her. The hare darts off the path and around a corner, so that in an instant both creatures are out of sight. Limbs aching, muscles burning from the effort, Tilda forces herself to follow as fast as she is able. She rounds the bend, dreading what she might find, half expecting to see her dog savaging the defenseless hare, tearing it limb from limb, its beautiful fur bloodstained and gory. Never in her wildest imaginings could she have conjured up the scene that greets her. The hare has stopped running and sits, apparently unperturbed, as Thistle bounces around it playfully, tail wagging, clearly having no intention of hurting it. Tilda stares at the bizarre spectacle of a lurcher, a dog bred over centuries for hunting hares, rolling on the sparse meadow grass, ears flat, paws outstretched toward its new playmate in an attitude of utter submission and friendliness, while the hare sits inches away, calmly washing its whiskers with its tiny paws. Tilda stands stock-still as the hare slowly lollops toward her. It comes closer and closer, until at last it is only inches in front of her, and Tilda has the strangest sensation that it is somehow studying her. Just as she wonders if she could reach out and touch it, the hare leaps in the air, twisting so that it lands facing in the opposite direction, speeds off back down the hill and disappears through the hedge at the bottom of the field. Thistle comes panting to stand next to her mistress.