“Sorry?” says Demeter, and I realize I’m muttering, “I can’t,” under my breath.
“Just doing a Vedari chant,” I say hastily. “Helps me focus. Now, keep your eyes peeled for voles.”
“Voles!” exclaims Demeter.
“They’re tiny creatures, rather like mice, but much more special.” I nod. “And there are stacks of them in this field.”
There’s no chance that she’ll catch sight of a vole, but at least it’ll keep her off my case for a bit. Sure enough, we walk on in silence, Demeter determinedly scanning the ground.
“So!” As we arrive at the edge of the woods, I turn like a tour leader. “Welcome to Ansters Woods. In here we’ll find a biodiverse world of animals, plants, and even fish, all working together in harmony.”
“Fish?” queries Demeter, and I nod.
“There are streams and ponds in the woods which are home to several very rare species.”
Which is, you know. Probably true. Whatever.
I’ve deliberately headed toward the thickest, most tangled part of the wood, and Demeter’s eyeing the brambles nervously. Well, what an idiot she is, wearing shorts.
“Ow!” Demeter’s voice suddenly rings out. “I’ve been stung by a nettle!”
“Bad luck,” I say blandly. As we walk on, I can’t help adding, “The trick with nettles is to grasp them. Grasp the nettle and everything will be OK. Don’t you agree?”
I can’t tell if Demeter gets the reference or not. She’s staring at the overgrown path ahead and seems unnerved.
“Don’t worry,” I say reassuringly. “I’ll cut us through the undergrowth. Keep close behind me and that way you’ll find it easier.”
I take a long, whippy stick and start slashing through the bushes, accidentally on purpose using such a vigorous, wheeling motion that I catch Demeter on the leg too.
“Ow!” she says.
“Oh, sorry,” I say in an innocent tone. “I totally didn’t mean to do that. Let’s carry on. Look around and you’ll see birch, ash, and sycamore trees, as well as oaks.” I give her about thirty seconds to peer at the trees, then continue: “So, what are you up to tonight, Demeter? It’s just you and the kids, isn’t it? You must be feeling so sad that your husband’s gone. So lonely, all alone in your yurt. Just you, no one else.”
As I speak, I feel resentment simmering. Look at her, in her denim shorts, catching some sun, revving up for a night of torrid sex.
“I know; it’s a shame. Just one of those things,” says Demeter with a shrug. She’s peering at the trees around us. “So, which is the sycamore?”
“I mean, you came here as a family.” I smile so hard, my cheeks start to tremble. “With your lovely husband who you made those special vows to. How long have you been married?”
“What?” Demeter looks puzzled. “Um…eighteen years. No, nineteen.”
“Nineteen years! Congratulations! You must really, really love him!”
“Er…yes,” says Demeter, looking bemused. “I mean, we have our ups and downs….”
“Of course you do. Don’t we all?” I give a shrill laugh. All this time, I’ve managed to keep outwardly calm around Demeter. But today I’m losing it a bit.
“So are there many interesting bird species in the woods?” asks Demeter, with her “alert and intelligent” expression that really rubs me the wrong way.
“Oh yes,” I say, breathing hard. “Definitely.” As a crow flutters out of a tree, I point upward. “Look! Did you see that?”
“No!” says Demeter, and immediately cranes upward too. “What was it?”
“A very rare bird,” I say. “Very rare indeed. The great crested…boaster.”
I nearly said, The great crested Demeter.
“It’s related to the warbler but much more rare,” I say. “Very predatory. Very toxic, nasty bird.”
“Really?” Demeter sounds fascinated.
“Oh yes.” I’m on a roll now. “It pushes the younger females out of the way and it won’t let them thrive. You wouldn’t want to come across it in the wild. It’s vicious. Selfish. I mean, it looks good. It has very sleek plumage. But it’s very crafty. Very pretentious.”
“How can a bird be pretentious?” Demeter sounds puzzled.
“It preens itself all the time,” I say after a pause. “And then it gouges out the other birds’ eyes.”
“Oh my God.” Demeter looks like she might be sick.
“Because it’s got to be top bird. It’s got to have everything. It doesn’t care if the other birds in the wood are struggling.” I pause. “But then, when it’s off guard and vulnerable, the other birds take revenge on it.”
“How?” Demeter looks utterly gripped.
“They have their means,” I say with a bland smile. I wait for Demeter to ask another question, but she doesn’t. Instead, she gives me a weird, appraising look.
“I was reading a book about local birds last night,” she says slowly. “It didn’t mention the great crested boaster.”
“Well, like I say, it’s very rare. One of our rarest. Shall we?”
I motion for us to carry on, but Demeter doesn’t follow. Her eyes are running over me as though for the first time. Oh God, she doesn’t suspect something, does she? Was the great crested boaster a step too far?