‘Oh good, I’m sure I’ll be fine. Don’t forget your keys,’ I say, scooping them up from where they’re nestled behind his keyboard. ‘Have you got your phone?’
‘Yep.’ He pats the pocket on his shirt and smiles at me before turning to leave. ‘See you later then, hon. Good luck.’
‘Thanks. You too.’
I feel excited as I go back to my desk. In fact, I want to jump up and down and squeal. This will be my first solo interview for the Hawksley Gazette. I started working here six months ago, and every other time I’ve been shadowing Phil or one of the other reporters. But I feel like I’m ready and I’m pretty sure it won’t be taxing. It’s just a short interview with a guy who’s photographing otters down by the river. My biggest concern is not being able to find the farm where we’re supposed to meet. How unprofessional would it be if I turn up late to my first proper assignment? Or miss the appointment altogether? My stomach tightens with nerves as it gets closer to the time to leave, and I go to the toilet to check my appearance and reapply my lipstick.
I know I look younger than my twenty-two years. When I got the job, I had my long blonde curly hair cut so I’d look more professional, but the short bob has made me look like a schoolgirl. I don’t want this photographer to think I’m on a work placement or something. Having the job title of trainee reporter is bad enough. Not that I don’t love the job or anything. I do. I really do. Every morning when I walk through the big glass doors into the building, I feel so happy I could do a twirl like Maria Von Trapp on a mountain. I suspect it might not go down too well with our ferocious receptionist though, so I never do. But it’s my first job after graduating, and I feel so lucky to be working here. It may only be the local paper, serving Hawksley, a small rural town in central England that no one’s heard of, but I know it’s great experience.
After applying another coat of mascara and some blusher, I give my stupidly short hair one final rake through with my fingers. It’s no good, I still look about 16. And it’s not just the hair; my freckles don’t do me any favours either. Nor my big, wide-set eyes. Mum says they make me look like a doll, which is hardly the image I want to project in my job. I fish out my black-rimmed glasses and put them on. I feel foolish wearing them when I have 20:20 vision (they’re just clear glass lenses), but I think they make me look more intelligent. I slip them on and look at myself, before pushing them up to my forehead. On or off? I spend another couple of minutes pushing them up and down, trying to decide, then I pout a little and frown to see if that helps make me look less innocent. I’m just baring my teeth in a fierce snarl when the door opens and Chrissie from accounts comes in.
She stops and looks at me in surprise. ‘You okay, love? What’s up?’
‘Nothing! I’m fine. Just off to interview a photographer,’ I say, slightly hysterically.
‘Oh, great.’ Her face clears. ‘Good luck!’
‘Thanks.’
She goes into a cubicle and I roll my eyes at myself in the mirror. It’s time to go. I shove the glasses back in my bag, decision made. I’m not wearing them. I don’t want to have to worry about them on top of my first solo assignment.
Hawksley is quite a new town, made up mostly of redbrick buildings and a pedestrianised town square with a good quota of high-street shops. There’s still the odd original black-and-white timber building nestled in with the new, but mostly this town now belongs to the young couples and new families that are moving here in droves. The residents in the surrounding villages are furious about how Hawksley has grown in recent years, eating into the surrounding countryside as developers build new housing estates and schools to meet demand. I feel slightly bewildered by it myself; having lived here practically all my life, I can’t wait to get out of the place. To see all these people moving in is weird. But then looking at it through their eyes I can see the attraction. House prices are lower than the nearby cities, and the town has a semi-rural but touristy feel about it, mostly due to the river that winds round the outskirts of the town centre.
The village where the photographer is staying is only a twenty-minute drive away, but I leave early to give myself plenty of time to find Lark Rise Farm where he said to meet. I’ve programmed my sat nav, but from past experience, I’m not overly confident it will find a farm. As luck would have it, once I’m through the village, Lark Rise Farm is the first place I see, and indicating right, I pull into the driveway and park in a neat stone courtyard next to an old red pick-up truck. Several chickens are pecking around near the house, and even though I’m ten minutes early, I climb out and head up to the front door, ready to interview Aiden Byrne.
A plump, smiling lady of about 50 answers, and I’m surprised by how well she fits the stereotypical image of a farmer’s wife. Her dark hair is drawn back into a bun and she’s wearing an apron with her sleeves rolled up, and flour all the way up to her elbows.
‘Hi,’ I say brightly. ‘I’m here to see Aiden Byrne. He should be expecting me.’
‘Oh, he’s not here, my love. He’s down by the river.’ She raises a floured hand and points to a gate at the corner of the courtyard. ‘If you go through there and down the hill, you’ll find him.’
‘Oh, great. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome, my love. And you can tell him I’m making scones if he wants one later. They’re his favourite.’
‘Okay. Will do.’ I grin as I leave her standing in the doorway, and head down towards the gate. I’m slightly alarmed by the steepness of the path down to the river, not to mention the muddiness, and looking down at my heeled patent leather Chelsea boots, suspect that I may not have chosen the most sensible footwear for interviewing a wildlife photographer.
Still, at least they’re boots and not stiletto heels. Bravely, I make my way down the path, which is lined with purple foxgloves and tall, overgrown shrubbery with spindly foliage that snags on my clothes and catches my hair. A sheep baas suddenly from the field on the other side of the bushes, making my heart leap in fear. Clutching my chest, I laugh breathlessly and carry on down, holding on to branches as I go so as not to slip on the slimy earth. I’m relieved when I reach the bottom and find the ground flat and dry beneath my feet, sheltered by the trees that tower above me. I see the river glinting ahead, but no sign of Aiden Byrne. For some reason, I’d expected him to be waiting for me at the bottom, ready and waiting for his interview. I look around before spotting a khaki-coloured bell tent nestled between the trees.
‘Hello?’ I call, my voice sounding too loud in the quiet forest. A crow caws above me before taking flight, causing bits of greenery to fall from the tree.
I wait for an answer but there is nothing but birdsong and the rush of the river. Confused, I take another look around me before walking over to the tent.
‘Hello? Mr Byrne?’
The tent flap is open and I can’t help but see what’s inside. There’s a camp bed with a sleeping bag and two canvas storage cupboards; one with clothes spilling from its shelves, the other neatly stacked with pots and pans and tins of soup. A basket of vegetables sits on the floor and a folded-up camp chair lies on its side. Surely he doesn’t live here? I stare for a moment, shocked that anyone can live so sparsely. I don’t mind camping, but I like to have a few home comforts. There’s not even a tent carpet on the floor, just a plastic groundsheet. I wince and back away, realising I’m intruding on his personal space.