‘There’s never much green out here is there?’ said Bobby, reaching out to pinch the thorn end of a twig. The bush had rooted into one of the fissures running along the face of the valley and Bobby could see its thin, grey roots spidering outwards in tendrils.
He twisted his hand and the twig crumbled.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered and dusted the debris away.
He turned and walked the fifty yards back to his car.
The boot was still open, the spade inside.
‘I should have found somewhere nicer,’ he muttered, gripping the handle. ‘You would have preferred somewhere green.’