How many of you are there? I shouted.
He wore dark clothes, a fleece, jeans tucked into wellingtons. Odd, wearing wellingtons upstairs. Must be a tramp.
I kept the torchlight on his face. He came down slowly.
What are you doing in our cottage? I demanded.
He wasn't very tall, about Adam's age; straggly, greasy hair, pale face streaked with dirt.
It's not your cottage!
We've rented it for Christmas, I said. Why are you here?
Only dry place I could find, he said. I couldn't camp out in one of the caravans.