Half an hour later, she was riding pillion on his motorbike, whipping past branches and slewing into sand holes. They reached high, hard ground in the track and she grabbed at his oilskin jacket and hung on, the wind stinging her face. The dogs ran like ghostly, lean hunters beside them.
As the bike stood clicking with heat, he lifted the bonnet of her car. Sal went to the tray to check the state of the fish. They were still covered in a thin sheet of ice. She unscrewed the icebox bung and let out the excess water, stepping back as it sluiced through the tail gate and splashed into the black puddle.
“Okay, start her up,” he shouted.
The car roared into life when she turned the key. She leaned out the window as he slammed down the bonnet. “What did you do?”
“Put your battery lead back on. Musta shaken loose.”
She worked the gear into first and eased the car out of the water. Once on higher ground, she put it into neutral and stepped out, the car rumbling and dripping water on the track. He waved to her as he kicked over his bike. The dogs leapt to their feet and galloped after their owner, his hair flying, along the track.