She bends down. Her baby-fine hair falls, a feathered fan around her head. She picks up the spade, and straightens. I watch her hair fall back into place. Her face is strong and square, and when she smiles, you know you can trust her.
Come on, she says. Let’s get this done.
The workman’s overalls amplify her muscles. She moves like a lioness prowling the plains, her concentration fixed, and her stride sleek and stealthy.
Here will do, she says, and she begins to dig. Her hair sweeps forwards and backwards, forwards and backwards, falling forwards and back into place with every move. It glows angelic in the moonlight.
How deep do you think? Her voice is distorted by the effort of digging.
We don’t want the foxes to dig him up, I say, but I know I’m not being much help. So I stand back and watch. The girl with baby-fine hair goes on digging, goes on doing; goes on solving my problem. And I cross my fingers and hope that it’s true.
I hope it’s true. I hope I can trust her.