Erica wished that the tent had not been in a wood. From her earliest childhood she had been fearless by nature (the kind of child of whom older people say out hunting: not a nerve in her body), but there was no denying that she didn't like woods. She liked to see a long way away. And though the stream ran bright and clear and merry in the sunlight, the pool in the hollow was still and deep and forbidding. One of those sudden, secret cups of black water more common in Sussex than in Kent.
As she came across the clearing carrying the little dancer in her hand, a dog rushed out at her, shattering the quiet with hysterical protest. And at the noise a woman came to the tent door and stood there watching Erica as she came. She was a very tall woman, broad-shouldered and straight, and Erica had the mad feeling that this long approach to her over an open floor should end in a curtsey.
"Good afternoon," she called, cheerfully, above the clamor of the dog. But the woman waited without moving. "I have a piece of china — can't you make that dog be quiet?" She was face-to-face with her now, only the noise of the dog between them.
The woman lifted a foot to the animal's ribs, and the high yelling died into silence. The murmur of the stream came back.
Erica showed the broken porcelain figure.
"Harry!" called the woman, her black inquisitive eyes not leaving Erica. And Harry came to the tent door: a small weaselish man with bloodshot eyes, and evidently in the worst of tempers. "A job for you."
"I'm not working," said Harry, and spat.
"Oh. I'm sorry. I heard you were very good at mending things."
The woman took the figure and broken piece from Erica's hands. "He's working, all right," she said.
Harry spat again, and took the pieces. "Have you the money to pay?" he asked, angrily.