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“Mum packed a feast. We are set for food but …” Tom stared at the floor. “You’ll have to stay in the hut.”
I nodded, watching Tom fill the billy and then hang it on a hook so it could heat over the fire, and then grabbed an old towel and rubbed down the dogs.
Sleet pelted the two windows either side of the front door.
Stay in the hut…
My eyes strayed around the old hut. The old timber slab walls were lined with lino on one side, and plywood on another in an effort to make it less draughty. The floor was flat stones set in packed earth and the Turners had two rugs in the tiny space to take the edge off the freezing cold floor.
A rat-and-possum-proof cabinet had been attached above a slab bench against a wall for simple food prep. All cooking was to be done on the fire. Two old and threadbare mid-century armchairs faced the warmth and there was old timber kitchen chair.
On the opposite wall was a wooden platform with a foam mattress and even pillows.
“They’re clean. We keep the mattress and pillows underneath in vermin-proof storage.”
The bed platform though was … small. Bigger than a single but smaller than a double bed. And Tom’s sleeping bag lay on top.
This place didn’t have a couch either.
“One bed.”
I cursed under my breath, catching Tom’s eye. At least he looked as awkward as I felt.
“Soup,” he said, grabbing a Thermos container. He waved at another. “Or stew. You must be hungry.”
I hesitated, too cold to choose. Tom opened the container in his hands and the smell of bacon, tomato and veggie soup made my mouth instantly water, and my eyes.
I quickly dabbed my eyes.An Italian getting emotional over food, how stereotypical of me.
Tom immediately put down the soup container. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe in here.”
“I’m crying over soup,” I whimpered, swiping at my eyes again.
“It’s one of Mum’s best. I’m pretty emotional about her soup, too.”
He gently placed his hands on my shoulders, and I glanced up and found Tom smiling and I couldn’t help but smile back.
He squeezed my shoulders. “Shit, Rosie. You’re freezing. You need to get into dry clothes.”
Tom immediately went to his pack, retrieving a knitted jumper and fleece pants from his pack, and handed them to me.
“Get out of your wet gear and put this on,” he insisted, placing the jumper in my hands. “I mean, not like now. I’ll leave you to it. The billy should be hot enough for a quick wash, if you want. I hate smelling like horse after riding.”
He fetched a face cloth, soap, and a sports towel from his pack and then half-filled a tin bucket from under the food prep slab with tank water and placed it on the dog towel.
“A bucket bath is all I can offer.” Tom poured the billy water into the bucket. “You can let the water drip on the dog towel. Use my towel. Mum packed like three million tea towels with all the food so I can use one of those for me.”
I stood dumbly before him, now not shivering but still cold. The idea of washing myself off with soap and warm water was heaven.
But I just couldn’t shake the thought he must think I was an idiot for what happened with my pack.
“I know how to find a suitable campsite. That tree must have been rotten or something but I know not to set up camp under trees that might fall.”
Tom blinked. “I don’t blame you for the tree.”
“I know. I’m just saying I do know how to camp.”
Ugh.Why did I feel like I had to justify myself to him? To everyone and anyone? The effect that Richard had on me, desperate for his approval and validation, would be hard to shake.
