There is a madness in the air. The land has hurled itself into spring with a kind of reckless abandonment, like a young lover careless of all consequences. Everything is growing, faster than I can keep up with. There’s a feral whiff of sex in the air too, musky and earthy. When I walked along to Farm late one afternoon, I noticed a new addition in the field nearest the house: a bull, thickset, solid, burnished reddish-brown. Its bulk was so dense it made me think of black holes, or whatever it is in the universe that is so compact, so heavy, that it sucks everything else into it. I could see the muscles bunched under its taut skin and my eyes fell inevitably to the tuft of hair on its belly and to the enormous penis that hung like a bell-pull, dragged down by gravity. I felt a tingling in my breasts, a tightening in my groin, and with a flash remembered when, as a young girl, I would watch the bull mounting a cow, its hips bunching and thrusting. It had excited me. How ridiculous.
Thick breath on my neck. ‘Fine bit of flesh, eh?’
I spun round, feeling the flush rise from my chest to my face.
‘Badger. You startled me.’
‘Getting more cows see? Her idea. Came from old man Hardling. E’ll do the business. Look at the balls on ‘im.’
‘I thought it was all done by artificial insemination nowadays,’ I said, immediately wishing I could take the words back, looking swiftly away across the field, more nettles and docks than grass.
‘Don’t hold with that. Not natural is it? No, you need a bit of the old jiggery-pokery.’ And he raised his hands, square and thick, the fingers tinged yellow from tobacco, and thrust his solid thumb in and out of a ring made with the index finger and thumb of his other hand. My cheeks burned.
“Well, I must get on with my walk. Give my love to Hazel.’
‘Love eh?’ He laughed coarsely. ‘You don’ wanna love ‘er.’ I turned and walked off as briskly as I could, feeling his eyes following my hips down the road.

When I got back, I found Ben in the kitchen, finishing off grouting the tiles. He smiled easily and I felt my heart give a flutter as I caught sight of his arms, bulkier than Aidan’s but strong and with that easy tan of olive skin.
‘Looking good.’
‘Nearly done.’ He rubbed in a final line of grout and stepped back.
‘I’m happy. Are you?’
‘More than happy. It’s fabulous.’
‘I’ll get on my way then. See you in the morning.’
‘Yes, sure.’ I paused.
‘You OK?’
‘Yes. I was just wondering….do you fancy a glass of something?’
‘I should be going. I’ve left Monty at home.’
‘It’s organic.’ I don’t know why I said that. I laughed and he gave a broad grin.
‘Oh, OK. So it doesn’t get you drunk?’
‘Well, it’s supposed not to give you such a bad hangover. No conveners or whatever.’
‘So….’ He paused and then shrugged and picked up two glasses and moved over to the new French doors.
‘Are we intending to get drunk so we can test out the theory?’
I shrugged in return. ‘Why not? I’ve got a case of the stuff.’
We drank the first bottle very quickly. I’d never seen Ben do anything so hastily before – usually he moves through life in a strictly measured way.
‘Shall I get another bottle?’
‘No, better not,’ he said, his voice a tone lower than usual. He looked uncertain and a little uncertainty in a strong man is a very attractive trait.

I leaned towards him. He looked at me and I couldn’t break his gaze. I tried to think of Aidan. I tried to remember that I was married but, at that moment, all I wanted in the world was to feel his arms around me, to taste that smooth olive skin. A slight frown thickened around his forehead. I drew back, trying to read him. Then, as if on cue, a voice came chiming from the front door.
‘Helloooo. Anyone there?’
Judith. Well, who else would have such impeccable timing?


Thank God she came when she did. What was I thinking of? I go cold, imagining what would have happened if we’d kissed, if we’d gone to bed. Judith looked mightily disappointed that she hadn’t found us in a compromising situation. A juicy bit of gossip like that would have made her year. She was collecting for something or other and I shoved a fiver in her tin and bundled her off, ignoring her pointed glances at the wine bottle and strong hints about it being a warm evening.
‘I must be going,’ said Ben, smiling tautly.
‘Of course.’
He was almost out of the door when he stopped. For one moment I thought he was going to change his mind, ask to stay. I felt panic rising up in my throat.
‘Ben…’ I put out my hand, palm facing him, as if to warn him off.
‘No, no…it’s just that I meant to say….. I brought that cradle down. I thought I might give it a quick clean.’
I froze. Did he know?
‘I’m not sure I want it, Ben. I thought I might sell it.’
He looked stunned. ‘But it’s living history. It belongs to this house.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘I know what you mean,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘when I cleaned the carving I found something really strange. Come and look.’

Reluctantly I followed him into the sitting room. The cradle sat, squat, like a toad, in the centre of the rug. Maybe it was my imagination but the atmosphere seemed heavy, thick.
‘Look here. I don’t know if it is some kind of mistake. It must be.’
I bent down and saw immediately what he meant.
Now the grime had been cleared from the inscription you could see a distinct line between the R and the Y making the wording stray somewhat from the biblical quotation.
The cot now read: ‘Suffer – ye little children.’
‘Ugh, that’s horrible.’
‘I know. But it can’t have been intentional, can it?’
‘I don’t know. But I don’t want it here.’

He looked puzzled and I fought the urge to tell him everything. But how do you admit that you’re infertile to a man you’ve so nearly kissed? I shook my head and moved away from the crib.
‘Well, it’s yours to do with as you wish. It’s a nice piece though. Would fetch a fair price, I’d think.’
And with a brisk smile, he turned and went.

The sitting room felt horrible. I couldn’t relax in there with the crib. Every time I sat down and tried to read I could feel it there, at the periphery of my vision. Once or twice I thought I heard a creak, imagined I saw it starting to rock. But of course there was nothing. I couldn’t face touching it either, to move it out of the way. I couldn’t shake off the idea that it was evil, contaminated.
So I sat in the kitchen instead.

The scrabbling was getting worse. Starting earlier. It was no longer confined to the attic either – it now seemed as though the walls were seething with life. Chewing, scratching, biting. It was horrible. Rommel was becoming more and more reluctant to be in the house. Left to himself, he’d sit outside the front door. When I called him in, he would creep, belly low to the ground, ears flat back, tail (what there was of it) squashed between his legs).
I turned the music up louder to drown out the sound. Roxy Music – uplifting, bright, breezy. The Cure and Joy Division were too gloomy, far too reminiscent of my mood. I ought to have eaten something but my appetite was vanishing. Instead I opened the other bottle of red.

I am drinking too much. I know that. Initially I found it helped with my sleeping. It stopped the dreams and would hurl me into oblivion with a blessed speed. But it’s not as effective as it was now. I’ll go to sleep alright but will wake a few hours later, heart pounding, thoughts whirring. By then the noises would be nearly deafening. It felt like at any moment they would break out from the walls and spill into the room, a moving tide of dark fur.
So I’ve started taking sleeping tablets. Aidan has a constant prescription and he’d left a packet behind. I suppose I should go to the doctor’s but the surgery is about seven miles away and I don’t want to ask anyone for a lift. Anyway, I don’t think there is anything really wrong with me. Just stress. Why am I such a fool? I should call a cab and get on the next train up to town. Make it up with Aidan. Sell this bloody house and everything in it.

Aidan has barely been here. I’m not sure I care really. Except that the dreams are worse when he’s not here. Ben has nearly finished the kitchen and it’s fabulous. He doesn’t say anything but he must know that my husband has, to all intents and purposes, abandoned me here. He’ll offer me a trip to the supermarket on the pretext that he has to get something or other from the builders’ merchants. Sometimes I catch myself staring at him. How ridiculous.
Since I heard about my ‘condition’ I haven’t seen so much of Jane. I’ve been avoiding her and I know she’s hurt. She doesn’t understand what she’s done wrong. How can I tell her that what she’s done wrong is to have a happily family; how can I tell her that to see her hug her children would feel like being stabbed through the heart right now?
Instead I’ve been splitting my spare time between Camilla and Hazel. Hazel and I garden mainly, or tramp the hills checking on sheep. We don’t talk much and it’s soothing being with someone who doesn’t ask questions, who doesn’t demand explanations. Occasionally she’ll break the silence and give me some gem of local folklore or nugget of gossip, but usually from way back in time.
‘That farm there,’ she said, pointing to a burned-out shell, ‘belonged to a man wanted to build a caravan park here.’ She laughed shortly.
‘What happened?’
‘He got drunk one night and burnt him to the ground. They reckons it was a cigarette started it.’
‘How horrible.’
‘Not really. Thought it was a blessing, meself. Nasty bit of work. He’d have concreted over all those fields. Big road threading through.’
‘Well, OK, I can see that wouldn’t have been good. But burning to death?’
She didn’t seem to see it remotely. I begin to think she sees people as totally expendable if they step out of line. Just as she won’t think twice about wringing the neck of a hen that stops laying, and popping it in the pot. I don’t think people count that much to her. She sees animals as having much more use, of being far more worthy of her care and attention.
Camilla is another story. Her home is beautiful, a manor house but not remotely offputting. It’s low-slung and long, even more ancient than our own house and with more detailing in the stonework and a grander porch to mark its precedence. Behind the house is a large cobbled yard, with beautiful old stables, carefully renovated (yes, Ben’s work), each stall with an alert head poking out, nuzzling one another or stamping impatiently. I have rediscovered riding, the sheer joy and freedom of it. Camilla lends me a chestnut mare, a neat trim horse with a definite touch of Arab in her. She’s called Trinity and I’m more than half in love with her. She is kind and sensible, no silly tricks, no rolling eyes. Yet take her up onto the moor and give her her head and she kicks up her heels and flies over the short grass, in love with speed, ears pricked, tail aloft like a banner.
Sometimes I ride alone and I find it soothing. I keep mainly to the bridleways, finding my way around this place, getting my interior map in place. You see things on a horse you’d never see on foot. One day we passed within maybe ten feet of a herd of deer, quietly cropping the grass. They looked up, gauged we were no risk and carried on.

Other times Camilla joins me and we explore more widely – she shows me the shortcuts and where the local farmers are happy for us to cut across their fields and woodlands. She’s a lovely person, softly spoken and quite retiring. Unlike Hazel, she doesn’t gossip at all, won’t say bad things about anyone. Used as I have been to sharp London tongues, it’s refreshing to hear someone try always to find the best in others. There is something else though that really bonds me to her. She too wanted children – very much – but it never happened. Ashley, her husband, refused to have any investigations carried out – seemed he wasn’t too bothered. I found myself getting indignant – what about what Camilla wanted? But she smiled gently (though sadly) and said they had found themselves other distractions. Horses for her and for him the development of a small but select shoot and various business interests that took him to London and abroad at regular intervals.
‘I don’t mind,’ she said with a smile. ‘He’s gregarious. I’m not. He needs more company, more sophistication than he gets here.’
‘But what about you?’
‘I hate London. And I’m phobic about flying. I don’t want to go. I don’t need the….stimulation.’
There was a note in her voice that urged confidences. I looked at her and nodded my head… ‘And?’
‘And yes, he does.’ An unusual shard of bitterness soured her voice. ‘Yes, he has a mistress. He’s had dozens of them over the years.’
I couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath. I wasn’t surprised but her matter-of-face acceptance was surprising.
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Of course I mind. Well, I did. Now I’m not sure if I care or not. Anyhow, nothing to be done. Fancy a canter up this hill?’
She pulled in her reins, turned her big bay and set off at a crisp trot before breaking into an easy canter.

I went to church. I really didn’t think I would, not without Aidan there to chivvy me. But I found myself, nonetheless, walking in a stiff wind, skirt flapping round my legs like a flag.
Maura was there, looking pale and drained. Next to her was an unhealthy-looking man: bow-chested, long lank fair hair pulled back into a ponytail. Long black coat so I couldn’t see the infamous hips. He spent the entire service tapping on his mobile.
Camilla was there too, also with her (I assume) husband. A tall man in a smart tweed jacket and pressed cords. Good-looking, without a shadow of a doubt, but with thin lips that curled occasionally into a sardonic hint of a smile, as if he were thinking of something amusing, some wry joke. Occasionally he’d let his eyes rove over the congregation, as if looking for distraction, amusement. He caught my eye and held it a moment too long. Then raised his eyebrow ever so slightly and that curl of the lip again. One of those then. Poor Camilla.
I had realised, as I walked briskly along the lane, that I was coming to church to pray. Or to try to. I’m not a religious person but many people seem to find comfort in God, from joining others in a church, so I thought I would at least give it a try. But there was no solace there for me. I felt painfully aware of my body, not my soul. I felt the harsh itchy wool of the hassock as we knelt; I felt the chill of the old building not remotely touched by the calor gas heaters squatting in the aisles. My nose sniffed the habitual musty damp mingled with incense and the sweet sickly scent of lilies – tradition had obviously won out.
It was, if I’m not mistaken, Palm Sunday. But there were no processions of small children waving palms or other greenery.

When the service ended I dodged away, head firmly down, escaping from the mindless chit-chat; ignoring hands raised, my name being called. I trotted as fast as I could down the lane, slipping through a fence and cutting across the fields (wrecking my boots) rather than run the risk of being overtaken, offered a lift.

Back home, the house closed in on me like a shroud. I gave Rommel his food and wondered how to spend the afternoon. I tried calling some of my London friends, but it all seemed a bit pointless. I didn’t want to talk about the baby business and I didn’t really want to hear about their latest deals or wild parties or successes. I could hear, in their voices, the almost pity of those ‘in the know’, in the swim of things, when talking to one who has fallen out of the loop. If I didn’t return to London soon, I would have to start my life there almost from the start. It depressed me even more.

I was just contemplating whether to eat baked beans or scrambled eggs on toast for Sunday lunch when there was a knock on the door. Rommel behaved weirdly – instead of either hurling himself at the door in a kind of ‘let me at ‘em’ way or wagging his tail furiously, he slunk back, ears flat against his head. Not scared exactly, but cautious. Who on earth was it?
I opened the door warily, already making up excuses for why I couldn’t do this or join that. But no need. It was Eden, the strange jackdaw of a woman from the hut in the forest.
‘Oh, hello.’
She just looked appraisingly.
‘Would you like to come in?’ Well, what else could I say?
‘No, thank you. I can’t trespass in Epiphany. It is not my place.’
There was a dog at her heel: slim, sandy-coloured with pricked up ears. It stared at me as if it were reading my soul. I had to drop my ears from its gaze, very disconcerting.
‘I thought you would come to see me. I’ve been waiting.’ Her voice was low.
I almost blurted out that I had, indeed, been to see her house. But kept quiet. She gave a twisted smile, as she knew exactly what I had and hadn’t done.
‘My house is safe.’
‘What do you mean, ‘safe’?’
She shrugged.
‘Walls listen. Walls watch.’
‘I beg your pardon? There’s nobody here.’ I paused. ‘Except the rats of course.’
‘Rats?’
‘Rats. They keep me awake half the night.’
‘There are no rats at Epiphany. Your dog would have sorted that.’
‘Well, whatever. Look, you said there was something you had to talk to me about, that day in the village hall. What was it?’
She looked around her, as if waiting for something to pounce on her from the shadows. The dog watched too, as if guarding her back. They gave me the creeps.
‘We can’t talk here. Come to my house. It’s….’
‘Safe. Yes, I know. But I can’t. I’ve….’ I paused… ‘got lunch cooking.’
She tilted her head, as if sniffing the air.
‘Well, we’ll walk a little then.’
I should have told her to get lost but I was intrigued, so I pulled on a jacket and boots and followed her. She wore misery like a cloak; an aura of doom and darkness that swished around her as she walked. For some time we walked in silence. I wasn’t going to make small talk; wasn’t going to make it easy for her.
Eventually we reached the river bank and she stopped. Bent down and picked up a piece of wild garlic. Chewed it. Then bent again and picked a bunch, tucking it carefully into a small canvas bag slung across her rake thin body.
It was on the tip of my tongue to say that this was my river, my wild garlic, but I knew just what she’d say – that it was its own, belonging to no-one, and I suppose she would have a point. Hazel had been getting to me with her green ideas – about how we borrow the earth, how we should learn to live in harmony with the wild. Quite the little eco-warrior, our Hazel.
She stood, staring at the river and spoke swiftly, in a low deep voice.
‘This is not a good place to have children. You should know that. I sense you want children. I sense things.’
I took a step back. Anger flushed my face red. I fought to control my words.
‘Er, it’s none of your business whether I want children or whether I have children or whether I don’t.’
‘This place is my business. Children are my business.’
How dare she? After what she’d done with Maura. I was so angry I could barely spit the words out.
‘Look, if it makes you happy, there won’t be any bloody children. OK?’
She looked at me sharply. Clearly she hadn’t expected that response. In some small faraway part of myself I felt pleased, as if I’d scored a point.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean what I say. There won’t be any children. I can’t have children. Happy?’
I willed the tears to stay away; focused on the anger to keep me strong, glaring at her. I saw all manner of emotions flit across her face, or so it seemed: surprise, shock, puzzlement, pity, relief?
‘I’m sorry. I truly am. But are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘I’m surprised. But, my dear, it is for the best, truly it is. I was going to warn you to leave. But,’ she shrugged again, her shoulders sticking up through the thin fabric of her coat, ‘Maybe it’s not necessary. Maybe it will pass over this time.’
‘What will pass over? What are you talking about?’
‘The curse. Maybe this time it doesn’t need to happen.’
And, without any farewells, any more conversation, she pulled her coat around her like a pantomime villain and stalked off into the woods.

For the last few days Aidan and I have been circling each other warily, like dogs, hackles half-raised, unsure whether to fight or accept. He kept to his room, to his computer and phone while I worked outside, trying to lose myself in the quiet earth.
There was a message from Dr F’s office on the phone, asking if we would like to make an appointment for counselling. I pressed Delete. I didn’t tell Aidan.
Jane called but I put her off, declining an invitation to Sunday lunch. I know I’ll have to deal with it some time but not now, not yet. I’m not ready to watch people play Happy Families, to witness the careless caress of a head, the perfect small fingers of children entwining through older hands. Instead I spent my spare time with Hazel.
There was something soothing about it, knowing she wouldn’t pry, wouldn’t offer false comfort. She didn’t. There was no sitting around moping over the kitchen table; she put me to work. I relearned old skills and learned some new ones too. I helped her fix gaps in the hedges, mend fences, chainsaw fallen trees. Lambing was over and we would check up on the straggle-legged lambs bobbing about the fields, watched keenly by Erin and Shee.

Badger barely lifted a finger. He seemed to spend most of his day in the barn or down the pub. Occasionally he’d head off to check the sheep, whistling the dogs to him. He had his own names for them – Meg and Jep – and they shrank, cowed, towards him – obedience warring with the deepest reluctance and fear.

Come dusk he’d set a light on his quad and head off, shotgun over the handlebars, to ‘lamp’ for foxes. Hazel shuddered and I would make my excuses and head home, for another supper of cold cuts or spaghetti with shop-bought sauce. The fire was left unlit – the cold and silent hearth.

Ben worked quietly, unobtrusively, picking up on the atmosphere as if by osmosis. I hadn’t the heart to tell him we might not stay, that all his hard work and loving care could be enjoyed (or ripped apart) by some other people.
He had found the crib in the attic and started talking about it. Something about the inscription. But then, noticing my face, had stopped. He’s a sensitive man, an observant man. He quietly and deftly changed the subject and started talking animatedly about the warbler on the bird feeder, pointing out the window, allowing me to regain my composure, to hastily wipe away the traitorous tears.

Spring comes late here but, once started, there is no stopping it. Everything is new, fresh, thrusting, bursting out, pushing up, eager for birth, for life. The irony is not lost on me.
I try to lose myself in the evenings in a good book. I am glad I’ve finished The Stolen Child with its changeling children banished to the woods, with its vulnerable babies. I’ve started Louise Erdrich’s The Painted Drum and it seems to fit my mood – introspective, melancholic. So far it has no babies in it, only ravens and mad dogs and strange, uncommunicative relationships.
This morning I woke up alone. It’s not unusual: Aidan has been sleeping in the so-called guest room – not that it’s had any guests. But this morning, the moment I awoke, I knew immediately that he had gone. Rommel and I were alone in the house (apart from the rats/mice/whatever).
There was some quality of the air that told me so. Sure enough, there was a terse note on the kitchen table.
‘Gone back to London. Will call. A.’

I wasn’t sure if I should go to the Knitting Circle or not. It was such a stunning day that I really wanted to crack on in the garden. Also, while Aidan was here, I thought I might persuade him to take a run out to a garden centre. I needed tools and seeds and, well….gardening things. I suppose I felt a bit of a need to shop.
But Aidan frowned when I suggested it over breakfast and said he’d be tied up pretty much all day. I tried to lose myself in the garden but I couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said. Move back to London?
I should be over the moon. So why was I feeling, well, depressed? I was sitting on the bench, watching a fat thrush tugging at a worm, when I heard a car drawing up outside. Jane marched round with a menacing look on her face.
‘You’re not thinking of bunking off?’
‘Hmm, well….it’s a lovely day and I’ve got tons to do.’
‘Looks like it,’ she said, casting a beady eye on me, the bench, the clearly unturned earth. ‘Come on. Grab your stuff. You need some company.’
‘But Aidan’s here.’
‘Exactly. Go on. Hurry up.’
Lord she was bossy.

It was a much diminished group. No Maura, for which I was profoundly grateful. No Judith, which was surprising but, as it turned out, really a blessing. Without her bossiness, everyone loosened up and Camilla really came into her own. She possesses a wry, sardonic sense of humour and a very fine intellect, marred only by a crushing lack of self-esteem. Her passion, it turns out, is her horses.
‘Do you ride?’ she asked.
There was a tone on the word ‘ride’ that reminded me of my youth, when the question actually meant ‘do you hunt?’
‘My mother was joint-master of foxhounds,’ I said, which didn’t really answer any question. But Camilla obviously understood for she smiled right up to her eyes.
‘I’ll lend you a horse. It’s good riding country. No hedges, not much jumping, but challenging, very challenging.’
I thanked her and said I might just take her up on that offer. What a funny thought. How would it feel to get up on a horse after all these years?

On the whole, the conversation was light and pleasant. I realised, as I walked home (having turned down the offer of a lift from Jane) that I hadn’t once thought about Aidan and London. But, as I looked at the banks - bursting with green, young nettles and cleavers and aconite like starbursts – it all came crowding back to me. I was confused. Move back to London?
Isn’t it funny what a difference a month makes? If he’d said it even a fortnight ago, I’d have bitten his hand off with impatience. But now? I wasn’t sure. The house was coming together. It still didn’t feel entirely ‘mine’; still had uneasy corners, snags of discord, as if it still clutched onto old dark secrets. But what old house doesn’t have its secrets, its dark moments? Ben was teaching me patience. Showing me that you can’t just race in, that slash and burn isn’t the way with old houses. You have to nibble at the edges, to tease out the problems, like softly untangling yarn. I was no longer in such a rush. I wanted to discover its past, but slowly, cautiously, one stitch at a time.
The garden was all mine though and I loved it. Could I bear not to see my flowers bloom? Not eat the vegetables I was lovingly planting? I was making friends too. Jane of course, but also Camilla, and Ben and even Hazel too, in her funny way. And - how could I have forgotten -
Rommel? He wasn’t a city dog. He couldn’t live cooped up in an apartment, go for walkies in some neat urban park. Could I abandon him?

Aidan was closeted in his office when I got back. I could hear his voice, raised, on the phone. Angry. Barely containing his temper in fact. I retreated quietly to the kitchen and started preparing lunch. Ten minutes or so later he stormed in.
‘Bloody idiots. All bloody incompetent.’ He was white with rage.
‘What’s up hon?’
‘You wouldn’t bloody understand,’ he snapped, slamming his hand on the table.
‘I’m not a fool, Aidan.’ I was surprised at how sharp my voice sounded. So, I think, was Aidan.
‘I’m not saying you are, darling. It’s just….it’s complicated.’
‘Try me.’
‘Boring, darling, boring. It’s nothing I can’t sort out once we’re back in London.’
A deep shaft of sunlight was ploughing a furrow of light across the flagstones, dust motes dancing in its path. Rommel was curled up by the Aga, giving every appearance of sleep but with ears pricked, slightly twitching at the shifts in our voices.
‘I’m not sure I want to go.’
‘What?’
‘I thought you’d be pleased. You’ve wanted this so much. I think we need to give it a bit longer. A year at least. I don’t want to give up so easily.’
‘A year?’ He virtually spat it out. ‘But you hate it.’
I shrugged, feeling a little foolish.
‘Maybe I don’t hate it quite so much any more.’
‘This is ridiculous. You’ve been moaning about it ever since we got here.’ He was still angry – I could see it around the corners of his mouth, set hard.
‘I’ve changed my mind. It’s allowed, isn’t it? Anyhow, what about my novel? I’m making really good progress. And what about the babies? I thought we’d agreed this move was about us, about us as a family, about us having babies.’
Aidan glared at me and I couldn’t read his face at all. Then he spat out the most horrible sentence I have ever heard.
‘There won’t be any bloody babies.’


I stared at him in sheer amazement. My hands started shaking.
‘What on earth do you mean?’
He gazed at the floor, plucking at a hang-nail. How funny. Aidan is always so well-groomed, so fastidious – how had he got a hang-nail? How ridiculous that I should notice something so tiny, so inconsequential, so totally trivial at such a horrible, life-changing moment.
Thoughts hurled themselves round my head. I felt sick and dizzy.
‘What do you mean?’ I repeated, my voice sounding cracked and discordant.
He couldn’t meet my eyes. He’d obviously not meant to blurt out what he’d said – but there was no taking back those words.
‘I..er….well.’
‘For God’s sake, Aidan, you have to tell me what you mean. Are you ending it? Are we over? Is that it? You’ve got someone else?’
All those trips to London suddenly seemed clear, crystal clear. I could feel the bile rising, swallowed desperately.
‘No. No. Nothing like that. God no. Row, I love you, you know I do. There’s nobody else. How could you think that?’
‘Well, what did you mean?’
‘I…it’s just…. I don’t know how to tell you this. Well, I had a call from Dr F…’
The fertility specialist.
‘Why?’
‘I went to see him when I was in London. Got him to do some more tests on me.’
‘Lord, Aidan. What did he find?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’
‘But that’s good.’
‘Well…..’
Then he told me. Pulling each word out of a dark dark place, explaining that the doctor had been reviewing our files, rechecking our results and a mistake had been made. I didn’t take it all in; I don’t really want to talk about it. I just watched the shapes his mouth made, found myself thinking about how strange speech is, how curious that we developed it. When I hauled myself back to his words, I understood the bottom line all too well. No wonder he hadn’t meant to blurt it out. No wonder he didn’t want to tell me. Aidan isn’t the problem. I am. The doctor thinks it’s highly unlikely I will ever have children naturally.
‘I don’t believe it. I want to see him. I want more tests.’ My voice was shaking.
‘Of course you do, darling. So do I. We’ll look at it when we go to London. Though we can’t see Dr F for a while yet – he was going off on some conference in Florida.’
I burst into tears. I couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop them. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. Aidan tried to comfort me, but he isn’t good at comforting. He dislikes overt displays of extreme emotion.
‘Darling. It’s not the end of the world, truly it isn’t. I know it’s a shock but it’ll be fine. We’ll go back to London, get our old life back. We could think about other options. If it comes to it, we could always adopt.’
‘I don’t want to adopt. I want my own children.’
‘Darling, please.’ But I was sobbing too hard to hear. I thought I’d never stop.

I walked to the very edges of the garden, where the compost heap lies smouldering. Where the nettles muscle in, where the brambles tangle. It’s where the beginnings of cultivation end and the wilderness begins. A threshold, an inbetween place, liminal, neither here nor there. Just how I felt. I burrowed myself into a place in the bank, between the stiff rods of elder; pushing aside the willow. This had once been a dry stone wall, but the moss had long ago claimed it. I poked at it with my toe, peeling off a mat of thick springy green moss. The green was everywhere, trying to take over the entire valley. Grass, moss and lichen raced, almost barging each other aside, to cover stones, branches, bones. Who knew what lay hidden under their green cover?
For some stupid reason I thought about Judith. She moans endlessly about the way everything here goes green. I could hear her voice in my head, high-pitched and strident, droning on about how you could paint your house white the previous summer and it would take on an unmistakable greenish hue by the following spring. Slates on the roof, she grimaced, would be grouted with moss. She had to get the whole place power-hosed at the first hint of sun.
The woman is ludicrous of course, but I had the uneasy feeling that, were I to sit still too long, the moss and lichen would climb up over me, transforming me into a statue of green until I would elide with the hills and became no more.
I heard Aidan’s voice, calling round the house, out into the garden. But I couldn’t see him, couldn’t talk to him. I slunk away, through the fields, like an injured animal going to ground.

I haven’t blogged for a while. I haven’t really been in the mood. Aidan returned unexpectedly from London (is he checking up on me? Have to say the idea flashed through my head). Sorry to disappoint you all but he found me on my knees, up to my elbows in earth, planting all manner of vegetables, pure as a nun at prayer.
I’ve been keeping myself very busy – and find that walking can take you into people’s lives as easily and naturally as child or dog. I have been studiously avoiding the hollow way to Maura’s caravan and the woodland path to Eden’s Hansel and Gretel cottage. I don’t know what the two of them have cooked up, and I really don’t want to know – so I’ve been keeping out of their way until it’s all done and dusted. I just hope Maura doesn’t want to confide in me, to expunge her guilt or whatever. Anyhow, with those two routes barred, I’ve been heading off down the lane and onto the footpaths that lead to and around Farm.
Hazel fascinates me. How can anyone so young be so unworldly? How can she be content with such a limited life, such closed horizons? How can she throw away her youth on someone as uncouth as Badger?
I’ve contrived to ‘bump into’ her several times in the last week and, as politeness demands a brew, have had a few chances to draw her out. It’s hard work. She still won’t talk much and clams up if I try to ask about her relationship or children.
‘Do you want children, Hazel?’ I asked pretending innocence of her story.
‘Me? What will be, will be,’ she said vaguely, gazing at the floor.
‘Well, I suppose you’re very young. There’s plenty of time.’
‘Some creatures are not meant to have young. Some are barren, see.’
‘Crikey, Hazel. You’re not a ewe or a cow.’
She flashed a quick smile.
‘I wouldn’t keep a ewe or cow that couldn’t bear young.’
‘But people aren’t animals. Women aren’t animals.’
She gave me a look as if to say, are you so sure?
‘Does Badger want children?’
‘What Badger wants and what Badger gets are two different things.’
She furrowed her brow and I felt inordinately sorry for her. Imagine having that great oaf pressing himself onto you, into you. I couldn’t help a moue of distaste flicker over my mouth.
Maybe she has more social graces than I give her credit for, because she deftly changed the subject and talked about the fox earth up behind the hedge line.
‘Don’t you worry about the chickens?’
She shook her head. ‘Not me. Badger does, mind. Shoots foxes if he gets the chance. Puts ‘em on his gibbet. I like the wild creatures, as much as the tame. ‘Twas their place afore ours.’

The idea of Badger with a gun wasn’t a pleasant one and I muttered about getting on. But she waved a small hand airily, as if reading my mind.
‘Badger won’t be home a-while yet. Come on out the back. I’ll fetch you something to set off your garden. Alright?’

She is a wonderful gardener, incredibly knowledgeable about nature altogether really. She knows every bird at her feeders and can tell you the name of every single wildflower, every form of moss, every different tree. She knows how to tap birch for wine; how to pick the best mushrooms for an omelette; how to store vegetables and fruit through the long hard winter without a blemish.

She woke in me a desire I didn’t know I had – to rekindle my childhood knowledge of the land: of where to grow and what to grow; of how to find your food for free; of how to live without every last modern day comfort. Don’t worry, I’m not going native. But it is a challenge.

Jane kept me civilised, coming round with a bottle of Sancerre and a tub of olives and hauling me out to sit on the old bench, sipping and chatting as the sun went down – later now of course.
Ben has been going great guns too – the staircase now feels safe at last and he’s already replaced a couple of window frames that were beyond redemption. He says he prefers to repair old wood if he can, and usually can, but these really were wrecked, rotten to the core.
I asked him if he could knock me up some bird feeders and he has – lovely elegant ones of smooth wood and wire. He’d wrapped them up too – said they were house-warming presents – and bought seed and nuts too (from the pet shop in the nearest town; Grace wouldn’t think about feeding birds – she can barely feed humans). So I have them up now and have already managed to identify bluetits, chaffinchs, great tits, some kind of warbler and a great big woodpecker that makes the feeder wobble furiously. It’s quite mesmeric and I find I can waste hours this way.

So, all in all, I’d found an almost pleasant rhythm by the time Aidan returned. He took off his black coat and went to lay it on the bench, then checked himself and said, ‘I’ll just pop this indoors. We’ll have to get some decent garden furniture.’
I don’t know why but it made my blood boil. He’s away for ages and then waltzes in and goes all sniffy, all precious. He came back out with a bottle of wine and two glasses. ‘Come here, have a drink. I’ll get something to put on this rotten old bench.’
‘It doesn’t bother me,’ I said, sitting firmly on the bench. I didn’t really feel like wine, and I really rather wanted to get on with my vegetables, but it seemed churlish not to fall in.
We sat and chatted a bit. He kept asking questions about life down here, like he was looking for something. I told him it was getting better, that maybe I would like it. I didn’t get a chance to say a word about London.
Then he surprised me.
‘We don’t have to stay here.’
‘What?’
‘If you’re unhappy, we don’t have to stay here. We could get the agent in, have the place valued. It’s probably gone up a bit even in the time we’ve been here.’
‘You want to leave?’
‘I’m not saying that, darling. Just that, if you want to go, we can.’

I’m lonely. I never thought I’d say that. I’m not the lonely type. But, in London there were always people around, always someone calling up asking if you fancied the latest film or a quick drink in a bar, or popping over for coffee and a quick natter. This just doesn’t happen here. Yes, Jane is becoming a friend but she has her life, her children, her husband, her work, her ‘causes’. I wouldn’t feel comfortable calling up, it wouldn’t be fair. Also it goes against everything I am. I am not a helpless little girl. I am – or I like to think I am – a strong woman. At work I used to have a reputation as a bit of a tough cookie – if there was a tricky situation they’d send me in to deal with it.

I love bargaining. When Aidan and I went to Egypt he hated the game of haggling, got irritated, bombastic. Whereas I was right in there, sitting on a stool, thick dark coffee in one hand while the other one waved around, fingers flying, eloquent as words. OK, so the salesman had a family of ten to feed – I had a whole orphanage. I adored it.
We ended up with statues of Bast, supposed ancient amulets, papyri and heavy bead necklaces that we didn’t really need or particularly want, but it was the fun of it. It was a game.

But it’s funny that, when it comes to men, I am not a good game-player. Whereas, in my professional life or in the bazaars of Cairo, I can keep a poker-face, my cards clutched close, in my personal life I’m an open book, fair game. I fell for Aidan hook, line and sinker. I slept with him on the first date (easy as apple crumble). I told him I loved him on the third (but only after I’d snuck a look at his Blackberry and read the email where he told his sister that he had found ‘The One’). Love is precious to me. Maybe because my family were not warm, not in any way lovely or loveable.

I had a tough upbringing. As you know, we were farmer’s children, my brother and I – and, to be honest, I never felt more or less than another animal. I don’t know how I was conceived but it wouldn’t remotely surprise me if you told me it was by AI with a large syringe. We were fed enough to thrive but not to grow fat and, as soon as we could walk and understand a simple command, we were set to work. My brother Tim would inherit the farm, of course. I would do….whatever. Marry, work, who cared? Incredible really. Tim worked with the cattle and sheep. My area of duty was the chickens (I can’t look a chicken in the eye to this day), the ducks and pest control. The first time I was handed a shotgun I couldn’t even lift it to my shoulder. But I soon learned. I was paid by the tail – be it rats, moles, rabbits or squirrels, or by the beak – crows, magpies, rooks. I’m a good shot.
Anything that could be eaten was eaten (the blog about ‘tree squirrels’ reminded me all too unpleasantly of this). If we didn’t eat it, we went hungry. We ate everything.

I also learned to ride, almost before I could walk. My mother was not a natural mother but was a very natural horsewoman, born of centaurs, welded to a saddle. There was not a horse she could not ride, not a colt she could not tame. She hunted three days a week during the season and Tim and I were expected to join her, just as soon as we grew large enough to ride ponies long-legged enough to keep up with the field. I was blooded at seven, a year before my brother (which gave me inordinate satisfaction).

Fi and her family were my real refuge. They taught me kindness, they tutored me in love. Otherwise I think I would have become one of those feral children who can never bond. I craved kindness, sucked up intimacy like a sponge. So was it surprising that I saw in Aidan my chance for a new life? A man of my own, a family of my own. I think anyone who has had a childhood bereft of love craves children in a way no pampered, cosseted, adored child can imagine. It surprised my London friends. They were all too busy with their careers. But all I wanted – and still want – was to remake the world as it was meant to be. To give a child all the love in the world. To rewrite history and make it kind.

Sorry, this is a rant. I thought I could write this blog without emotion. But it’s impossible. The deal, I thought, was that we could move down here to start a family. But Aidan is never here. When I spoke to him last night he said that he had to stay in London over the weekend. It’s ridiculous. What is so urgent that it can’t be done over the phone or by conference call? He’s being secretive about it too, which really hacks me off. He was the one who wanted to move here. He was the one who talked about fresh starts, fresh air, fresh opportunities. So how come I’m the one stuck down here in a place that reminds me, all too clearly, of the most unhappy days of my life?

The nightmares were awful last night, truly horrific. I was in a dark place, breathing in blood, my nose pressed into tissue, a slowly pounding heart that beat into my face, cutting off my air until I thought my lungs would burst, then releasing me. Beating slower and slower. Worst of all was the voice, malevolent, whispering fiercely in my ear, hissing a foul chant, over and over.
‘Baby. Bay-bee. Ba-ba. Bee-bay. E-bay. Buy-bay-bee-on-eBay. Get rid of bay-bee. Kill bay-bee.’
I woke up shaking and hugged Rommel to me, crying into his rough oily coat. It was Maura of course, that had triggered it. She had sobbed her heart out, saying she wanted an abortion. Then, catching sight of the horror that must have flashed over my face, shaking her head and saying she didn’t know what to do. Jeremy wanted children, of course he did, but it wasn’t him that would have to go through it all. I suppressed the nasty thought that he would actually have been a good mother – nice child-bearing hips by the sound of it.
It was a horrible place to be, reassuring a woman that if she wanted, really wanted, an abortion, then that was her unalienable right. It wasn’t her fault; she didn’t know me; didn’t know how much I craved a baby. How could she know that, to me, being pregnant would be the most wonderful thing in the world while the very idea of getting rid of a baby was so alien as to be unimaginable.

We took the coffees out and somehow got through the rest of the morning. Camilla, bless her, talked about the flowers for the church at Easter. Inconsequential but we fell on it like starving wolves and debated furiously whether it should be traditional lilies as usual or whether we could break out and consider banks of white tulips for a change. Lord, I don’t even go to church. Except, I forget, I do. God help me. I looked down at my knitting and realised I’d totally lost my place on the pattern and the sleeve was stating to go out instead of in – I’d need to unpick about four inches.

Jane caught me up as I walked down the road, close to tears myself.
‘Hey.’ She put her hand on my shoulder.
‘No. Please don’t. I’ll cry. I can’t bear people being nice to me when I’m upset.’
She smiled and threw up her hands, as if to show they wouldn’t go anywhere near me.
‘Let me guess. She’s pregnant.’
I looked up sharply.
‘How did you know?’
‘Not rocket science. It was either that or bonza boy is having an affair. Frankly, I’d doubt the latter – can’t think of anyone who’d want to jump into the sack with Jeremy Cabburn. Big waste of space.’
‘Why?’
She rolled her eyes.
‘One of those really pathetic men who thinks he’s a cut above the rest of us because he’s a musician. An ‘artist’. I’m not saying he’s not talented; I’m sure he is. But he barely earns a penny as most of the stuff he’s offered is ‘beneath him’. So Maura, poor cow, has to keep the whole sad shebang going.’
‘What kind of musician?’
‘Guitarist. Singer-songwriter,’ she drew little quote marks in the air.
‘Maura’s an accountant – bloody good one too. But of course he thinks that what she does is rubbish. She sits there in that poxy caravan keeping them going while he faffs around. Silly arse.’
I couldn’t help but smile. But it was still a sad smile and Jane, smart as anything picked it up.
‘It’ll happen, you know. Just when you least expect it. You wait and see. We were on the verge of going into IVF and then, out of the blue, woooah, I’m up the duff. Won’t be long – you wait and see.’
‘I don’t think so. It takes two of you to make babies and I’m barely seeing Aidan at the moment. He’s up in town all the time – or so it seems.’

We’d walked right back to the house without realising it, so I invited Jane in for lunch.
Ben was there, replacing floorboards; Rommel watching his every move beadily, like an overseer. He smiled and nodded over towards the kitchen.
‘There’s a quote on the table from Pete, the plumber, for the bathroom. See what you think. Talk it over with Aidan. He’s a good bloke, Pete, neat work and fair. He won’t rook you.’
‘I’m sure it’s fine if you’ve checked it.’
Lord, we were lucky with Ben. He was pretty much taking over the renovation and doing a fantastic job. How come Maura and Jeremy hadn’t used him?
‘Jeremy’s one of those blokes likes to think he knows best,’ said Ben with a rueful smile. ‘He got talking to a bloke down the pub and came away convinced he’d found the best builder in the county. A few people tried to put him straight but he wasn’t having it. Losing face and all, as he’d already offered Nelson the work.’

Ben joined us for lunch and we had a good laugh. Between them they dispersed the sour taste in my mouth left by Maura. After some strong coffee, he offered to drop Jane back in the village to pick up her car and said he needed to get materials so wouldn’t be back until the morning.

I felt restless after they had gone. The house was filthy but there didn’t
seem much point in cleaning it while all the sawing and sanding was going on. It would only get as bad again tomorrow.
I seemed to have hit ‘pause’ on the book and I really needed Aidan to take me to a nursery or garden centre before I could really progress with the garden.
It was too early for a drink, to early for a fire. So I thought I’d go for a walk. All this exercise, I was going to get seriously fit. Who needs a gym when you live in the bloody countryside?


We struck out along the road a little way and then Rommel veered off onto a footpath I hadn’t noticed before. It was a stunning walk, alongside the river, small waterfalls skidding down over rock, sinking into pads of thick moss. A kingfisher dipped, a flash of turquoise, and two snipe rose up and zigzagged away (my father loved shooting snipe - said they were the Red Arrows of the bird world). ‘Any idiot can shoot a pheasant,’ he used to say, ‘But snipe….you have to be fast and smart. Think ahead.’

Everything is so fresh in early spring, so brand new around the edges.
Quite soon we were faced with a choice. The path split into two, one hugging the river, the other turning away in a wide lazy circle. I started along the river path but Rommel fixed me with a beady look and headed firmly the other way, into a wood, possibly a forest. Ah well, whatever. It wasn’t as if I were going anywhere in particular. We walked for maybe another five minutes and suddenly we were into a clearing and ahead of us sat the most bizarre little house.

It looked more like a shed than a house. Clad in wooden boards, with a steeply pitched roof, it perched on a series of stone mushrooms that kept it aloft from the forest floor. Nonetheless, adventurous ivy had somehow managed to make the leap and poked tendrils across the back wall, spreading out slowly, insidiously, like a claw. It was set in a clearing but the trees crowded around, like curious onlookers at the scene of an accident. The bracken was still reddish-brown, stiff and dry. The grass still had that bleached out tinge, the fresh green yet to push through here.

The door was open, a clear welcome, so I climbed carefully up the steep wooden steps and pushed the door, which was painted a surprising electric blue. The little house smelt delicious. Pine resin mingled with woodsmoke and a faint whisper of something exotic, amber perhaps?

It was clean as a whistle but plain, so plain, Shaker-simple but not in an affected way. Plain wooden boards, bleached with scrubbing, formed the floor. The walls were wood too – thick planks of blonde wood, grooved so closely there was no chance of a gap. No curtains, just wooden shutters. It was one large room – an old-fashioned camp bed in one corner, with a neat pile of plaid blankets stacked at the end. A Calor gas stove sat one end of a wooden chest while a small sink perched on the other. There were no taps. At the other end of the room was a wood-burning stove, four-square planted on the floor, a coffee pot sitting on its soft black top. A low armchair, squashy in faded tartan, snuggled up close.
The stove was alight, warming the room, but the place was empty. I stood on the threshold and let out the breath I hadn’t realised I had been holding. I let the silence stroke me. Except it wasn’t silent. The wood was full of sounds, not just the obvious birdsong, but the creaking of branches, the rustling of bracken, and above it all, the sound of water, quite a lot of water, tumbling nearby.

I followed the water-song. It was deceptive and I stumbled down a few dead-ends before finding the screen of ivy, wild honeysuckle and soldier-straight elder, behind the house. I pushed my way gently through and followed a narrow but definite track. A narrow torrent of water spat out from a moss-clad rock-face. A natural shower. Below it someone had dug out just enough of the gravely slate to make a pool. It wasn’t deep enough for a bath but perfect for washing dishes. Not that you’d need a bath because someone had thought of that too. There was a bath, an old-fashioned tub, plonked a short distance from the waterfall. There was even a length of pipe, tucked under a clump of bracken, that would siphon water into the bath. Underneath a fire pit. Clever – you lit a fire which heated the water. But still damn cold. You’d have to be more than Spartan. There was a rough and ready out-house too, once again clean and neat, with a large throne-like toilet and high cistern. Presumably feeding into a cess pit or something.

Who lived here? I knew - well I was pretty sure. It had to be the strange witchy woman, the one who had vanished from church, the one who had marched into the knitting circle and announced she needed to talk to me. Eden. Well, here I was and here she obviously was, though where I wasn’t quite sure. I wandered back to the house and could hear voices. She must have come round the other way. I was on the verge of calling out, but something stopped me. I don’t know what exactly. Maybe it’s because I have Scorpio in my chart, I have a love of secrecy. If I’m honest, I have to confess to occasional bouts of eavesdropping. It’s not a nice trait, I freely admit.
So I paused before climbing the steps, long enough to hear that it *was* Eden, with the dusky voice, and that her guest was Maura. I soon heard enough to realise that this wasn’t the best conversation to interrupt with a cheery ‘yoo hoo’.
‘I can’t keep it.’
‘It would be dangerous. You could harm yourself. You might never be able to conceive again.’
‘I don’t care.’
I slunk away. There are some conversations you shouldn’t hear. They say the eavesdropper never hears good and they (whoever they are) are right.

I thought I’d be horrified that Aidan had vanished up to London again, but honestly I wasn’t that bothered. I seem to have hit my stride here for the moment. I’m not saying for one second that I wouldn’t rather be back in London, but it’s not feeling quite like the life sentence I’d imagined. Maybe it’s Rommel – he really is a very companionable dog. Maybe it’s knowing Jane is on the other end of the phone. Maybe it’s having Ben around. He’s being fantastic, he really is. He’s not only going to do the kitchen but is going to help out on the rest of the house restoration. He says he can’t do all of it but – as is the way with all workmen – he Knows People. He’s also promised that he’ll take me over to the reclamation yard so I can have a say in the materials. To be honest, I’d just as soon let him get on with it (I really don’t have a clue or an opinion on one type of wood over another) but it will make a trip out, and he’s good company.

I’ve been digging over the old kitchen garden, taking over where Aidan gave up. I’d forgotten the steady rhythm of the earth – how you can’t hurry a garden. We seem to have an abundance of thrushes here, and blackbirds and the usual robins, strutting around full of self-importance.
In the evenings I’ve been getting on with Fi’s jumper. I’ve even started writing! I was hoping to write some standard chick-lit (apparently there’s a competition in Cosmo magazine) but at the moment it keeps veering off into a sort of sub-M R James ghost story. Ah well, at least I’m doing something.
I wouldn’t say I’m sleeping well though. The house still creaks and groans and scratches itself – but I’m trying to ignore it. Ear-plugs help a lot or I let myself drift off to sleep with my iPod on shuffle, wending its way through Joy Division, The Passions, Magazine and Young Marble Giants.

Aidan phones, but he sounds distant and distracted. I understand that. He’s in one world; I’m in another. The irony is not lost on me that it should be the other way around. He was the one who wanted the country life; I was more than happy in the city. But presumably it will sort itself out. The country teaches patience, if nothing else.

I could barely believe that a whole week had gone by since the last knitting circle. But Wednesday rolled round again and I woke up early, very early. Now the mornings are light, it seems wrong to be inside, so I get dressed warmly and take Rommel out for a stroll. Yesterday I made my way into the village and then out again, down the lane called Holloway. Presumably it had been an old hollow way – an ancient trackway carved by water, not human endeavour. Some of them date back to the Iron Age, so this could be a pretty ancient place. The original way had obviously been widened into a land, but it was still very narrow and I hoped we wouldn’t meet anything driving along it. The banks were steep, mossy and pricked with primroses and violets. The hedge line had grown out many years ago and the trees arched up high. In summer it would be like walking down a deep green tunnel. But for now there was light enough.
Suddenly there was a break in the bank and a five-bar gate. Rommel shot through it. I waited and then gave a low whistle but he didn’t come. The gate was padlocked so I climbed over, into a broad field. It was in poor nick, with large clumps of gorse and a spreading pall of dead bracken. If whoever owned it didn’t sort it out soon, it would be useless as grazing.
As I walked further in, I noticed a caravan – a smallish white one, clearly not abandoned as someone had strung a line of washing from it to a nearby hawthorn.
The door opened and, don’t ask me why, I dropped down behind the nearest gorse bush. The grass up-close was dew-spangled, each blade beaded.
The caravan door opened slowly, almost slyly, and out came a woman, short, dumpy, edging backwards down the steel ladder, feeling her way gingerly with toes clad in plimsolls. She seemed middle-aged, in her fifties perhaps. Her hair was short but springy, like a really bad perm. Baggy tracksuit bottoms bunched around the ankles, a shapeless sweatshirt appliquéd with horses – grim, grim, grim. But when she turned around I realised she was young – and familiar. It was Maura, from knitting. Her face was actually almost beautiful in repose, calm with wide cheekbones, full lips and large deep-lidded eyes. She stood quite still, like an animal sniffing the air. I thought for one awful moment that she could tell she was hiding there, and I tucked myself still further into the prickled bush.
She kicked off the plimsolls, like a small child. She tensed her toes around the step and then flexed upwards, like a ballerina at the barre. Then she spread her toes, raising them one by one in turn, a Spanish wave of toes. Finally she rose up on one foot and slowly pranced from one foot to the other, as if she were a show pony. She jumped lightly down the steps and looked back at the caravan with a look of…..what? It was hard to tell from that distance but I wondered if I could detect irritation, frustration, even malice. Fanciful.
Then, without warning, she turned abruptly and ran at the circle of grass in front of the caravan. One moment she was running, the next she was circling through the air, hands down into the dew, legs arcing through the morning. And again and again, perfect cartwheels across her grass stage, leaving imprints of fingers and toes, curious animal tracks.
It was so graceful, so perfect, I raised my hands automatically to clap. But stopped dead, as she collapsed on the grass, pummelling her fists into the mossy turf. Her face was contorted in a rictus of fury and despond. I realised all of a sudden that she was screaming, screaming silently over and over again.
Rommel suddenly appeared at my side, nosing my hand. Not caring if I got wet, I crawled away.



I was late getting to the Knitting Circle. Everyone was already sitting and knitting – in what felt like a rather uneasy silence. Judith looked furious and was stabbing her needles as if she were trying to murder the scarf she was knitting. The others looked plain uncomfortable. There were a few subdued ‘Hello’s’ but that was it. I grabbed a chair and placed it next to Jane, sat down, got out my work and let my clickety-click needle rhythm blend in with the established percussion. I snuck the odd glimpse at Maura and she looked grim. Her eyes were red and puffy and she had definitely been crying.
When the time came for coffee I put down my sleeve and followed Maura to the kitchen with a brisk, ‘I’ll give you a hand.’ Jane shot me a glance but I just gave her a shrug.
There was obviously something very wrong but I figured she wasn’t the type to just blurt it out. How wrong can you be?
‘That bloody Judith,’ she snarled, the minute I shut the door, slamming teacups onto saucers. ‘She won’t bloody let me be.’ Swearing sounded funny from Maura – she simply didn’t seem the type and it felt put-on somehow, as if she were a kid trying it out for size, trying to shock her parents.
I gave what I hoped was an ‘I know what you mean’ look.
‘What did she do?’
‘Look, it’s obvious I’m upset but when Jane asked if I was OK, I said yes, I’m fine. Really firmly. She backed right off immediately, because she’s got the sense to do that. But Judith, oh no. She couldn’t let it lie, could she? On and on about how we’re a group; how we support each other; how we should share our problems. I don’t WANT to share my problems. I’m sick to death of everyone talking about my problems. Thanks to bloody Judith the whole bloody village knows about my problems. I’ve made the mistake of unburdening my soul to her before, and before you know it, everyone from foul bloody Grace to bloody Saul in the bloody pub are making sympathetic noises about poor bloody Maura and her pathetic bloody husband.’
She paused to draw breath and I put coffee in the cups, keeping very quiet, not daring to say a word in case it interrupted the flow. Small chance.
‘They laugh about us behind our backs. They do. They all do. Our place was called Folly when we bought it and they think it’s funny that we want to change it. They think it’s funny that we can’t get decent workmen to do the work and that we’re living in that bloody caravan…’

I kept very quiet – if she only knew I’d been crawling behind the gorse bushes watching her.
‘They think Jeremy’s a joke.’ Jeremy? I looked quizzical.
‘My husband. He’s not exactly the most practical of men. He doesn’t make great choices when it comes to workers. Everyone knows ours spend all their time down the bloody pub, drinking the money we give them.’
Heck. That’s tough. I thought of Ben and said a silent prayer to the God of Good Builders (hopeful branch).
‘Anyhow, I yelled at Judith. Told her to mind her own bloody business.’
Oh, good on you girl. Not such a wet blanket then.
She sat down on a stool and looked bleakly at me.
‘I read in some magazine that well-matched couples look like each other. Do you believe that?’
I said I wasn’t too sure but that you shouldn’t believe all you read in women’s magazines.
‘It’s just that Jeremy and I are so different. He’s all long and gangy and I’m….well……’ she grimaced…. ‘all short and squat.’
‘Well, opposites attract…’ I said inanely.
‘Not any more,’ she said, staring at the floor. ‘I think I’m falling out of love with him. In fact, I don’t think I can bear him. His hips are too wide. I hadn’t noticed that when I first met him but now I can’t stop noticing it. Is that awful?’
‘Er, no. I don’t know.’ What the heck was I supposed to say? But I did sort of know what she meant. Wide hips aren’t a good look on a man. Thought it could have been anything really – the way he smiles; the way he butters his toast; the way he fills the dishwasher, the way he keep vanishing up to London (OK discard the last one). But when love dies, Lord it does it in the most humiliating ways. But what was I supposed to say next?
‘I want to leave him.’
Oh heck. I heartily wished someone would come out to the kitchen. Heaven only knows we’d been there long enough. But they obviously weren’t fools; I’d been left with the proverbial hot potato and it was singing my fingers.
‘Well. I suppose if you feel like that…..’
She took one anguished look at me and then burst into heaving sobs.
‘But I can’t. I bloody can’t. I’m pregnant.’

Jane was a breath of fresh air. I phoned her back and she suggested I come over to hers for lunch. She couldn’t believe it when I said I didn’t drive (and Aidan, no great surprise, has buggered off back to London – you saw that one coming, didn’t you?). So, bless her, she drove over and took me back to her house. She lives in a barn conversion, but a nice one, tucked away and with a gorgeous walled garden. You walk in and the sense of light and space and comfort hits you in the face. It’s a warm house, in all sense of the word. Jane and her husband Charlie run a website design company and work from home in a fabulous open-plan office attached to the main house. They’ve got two young children, both at the village school, and about nineteen pets (big dozy Labrador, neat perky Patterdale terrier, three cats and divers hamsters/rabbits/guinea pigs/whatevers).
They moved from London about fifteen years ago and came to this village about three years back. She seems pretty embedded in the local community – governor at the school; giving free ‘get on the web’ sessions at the pub; on the quiz team; doing yoga; going on regular ‘sociable’ rambles. And the knitting of course. Charlie poked his nose round as she prepared lunch and said hello. He seems totally decent too. A teddy bear of a man: tall and broad, tussled light brown hair, broad smile, bit overweight but attractive, like a big comfy sofa. He said he’d ‘leave us to have a gossip’ and whistled the dogs out for a walk.

I have to admit that I splurged a bit. Told her about London and how I hated being stuck down here. She totally understood.
‘I lived in London right through my twenties and I loved it, every minute of it. I partied so hard that I really got it out of my system,’ she said. ‘By the time we moved, I was so ready to get out. I needed the sleep! But it was still a culture shock. It probably took me about two years before I didn’t think of everything in terms of London. But now I wouldn’t move back for the world.’ She gave me hope really. She and Charlie had tried for years upon years before she got pregnant with Toby. Then Seren had come along pretty soon afterwards. They had moved here, and found – as she put it – their niche. I felt like I’d known her for years – isn’t it funny how some people are like that?

After lunch we went for a walk round the village and I have to say it is far nicer than ‘my’ village. It’s not that it’s a particularly pretty place, in fact quite the opposite. It’s really rather workmanlike, plain, down-to-earth, no-nonsense. But incredibly friendly and full of a pleasant bustle. We dropped into the pub for a quick snifter and it is SO different from our gloom-pit. Sunlight streaming through big clean windows. Sofas by the fire. Mismatched tables and chairs with little jam-jars of daffodils. A pool table in one corner and a small huddle of men playing darts. A big noticeboard with local tradesmen and upcoming events. Seems they host a folk night from time to time; they do the usual quizzes and darts matches; they even have a hairdresser who’ll cut your hair once a month (think I’ll still try to get to London but the situation is getting a bit dire).

There was a short robust menu chalked on a blackboard – pea and ham soup; local sausages and garlic mash; shepherd’s pie; veggie lasagne and great big baguettes. ‘All local producers,’ said Jane. ‘They do a fabulous Sunday lunch. You and Aidan should come down and join us. Meet the kids too.’
It’s funny but I’m not sure I want Aidan to meet them. I sort of want to keep them to myself. Maybe I’m worried that, if they become friends with Aidan, they won’t be ‘my’ friends anymore, they’ll become ‘our’ friends or Aidan will take them over. He has a habit of doing that – half my London friends ended up being purloined.
We sat by the fire with brandy (for me) and a malt (for her) and shared a slab of chocolate brownie. I asked her about our village and she wrinkled her nose.
‘Don’t really like it. Sorry.’
‘Oh Lord, don’t apologise. I can’t stand it. But tell me why.’
She said it felt different, had a totally different atmosphere. Maybe because it’s down in a valley it makes it more enclosed, more inward-looking.
‘I find it depressing,’ she said. ‘It’s like a dead place. Full of oldies and saddoes – present company excepted. It’s pretty enough, and got some lovely properties but I wouldn’t live there if you paid me. Apart from anything else, there wouldn’t be anyone for Toby and Seren to play with. No children. It’s mainly doddery ancients or the active retired.’

We finished off with a coffee and then she drove me back. We went the back route, past Farm, and I mentioned Hazel. Jane gave a sort of snort of derision. ‘Unbelievable. Stuck in the bloody Middle Ages. Silly cow. I did offer to teach her IT – get her out of here.’
‘That’s a bit harsh. Maybe she likes farming.’
Jane just rolled her eyes. I bit my lip. OK, so being married to foul old Badger and spending life on a quad bike rounding up ridiculous sheep isn’t my idea of fun. But she seemed reasonably happy with her lot and I thought Jane was being a bit judgmental.
‘I quite liked her,’ I said.
‘Can’t stand her,’ replied Jane.
We both laughed. ‘Can’t agree on everything,’ she said as we rolled bumpily into our yard.
Ben was there, obviously hoping to measure up. Bending over the bonnet of his Landrover giving us a fine view of a very pert bum.
Jane looked at me. ‘But there’s something we can both agree on. That’s one neat arse.’

I don’t blog every day. I don’t want to bore the pants off you (or me) with descriptions of washing up or cleaning the lavatories. It’s why I haven’t described the minutiae of the van coming from W*** with our furniture and rugs - although I have to say they look very fine, especially as I have spent yet more time on my hands and knees scrubbing so we now have acres of gorgeous flagstones. I have skipped the bit where the window cleaner came and spent about five hours cleaning the windows and drank me out of milk with all the cups of tea. The man can gossip for England and I’m not remotely surprised that his wife sounds like a granny with Alzheimer’s – the poor woman would have lost the will to speech years ago.

I suppose I could wax lyrical about the sunlight brazenly shining its heart through the newly cleansed windows. I suppose I might tell you about the three further rats Rommel has dispatched to the great compost heap in the sky. Then again I could ramble on a bit about the organic delivery man (forty-something, thinning on top, doesn’t like this village because of the narrow lanes). Or the contents of said box – carrots, onions, garlic, potatoes, turnips, greens, greens, more greens, a card with some foul-sounding but deeply worthy African bean and root vegetable stew. I could blog about the moon, or the mud, or the funny thing that happened on the way to the shop, or What the Sheep Did Next.

Then again I could regale you with an awful visit from the truly grim Judith, trying to get us to join the 100 Club (you pay out a tenner in the slender hope that you might - though probably won’t – win back a fiver). Having failed dismally there she then had a shot at cajoling us to buy a number for the new church clock (£100? I don’t think so – and it was a choice of either two or eight, neither of which are numbers which particularly call to me). I felt honour-bound to make her a coffee to make up for the disappointment and she did that thing of looking at the mug as if it were an alien species, about to sprout tentacles and bite her.
‘A mug? How delightfully earthy.’ Earthy, my arse.

She was desperate to nose around but I bundled her out into the garden, where Aidan was attempting to dig. It won’t last long – he’ll be hunting for a gardener before long.

Judith didn’t make much headway with him (he doesn’t have a lot of patience for frumpy women) and wandered back inside, asking about the aforementioned sheep. I told her they belonged to Bodger/Badger/Bundle and little girl Hazel. Her eyes opened wide and you could just tell she was dying to Tell a Story. So I asked (it would have been rude not to) and she said, ‘Oh I shouldn’t really,’ and I said, ‘Yes, but why not? I need to know the neighbours’ and we ended up having another mug of coffee and I even broke into the biscotti, and she told me all about Hazel.

Turns out Badger is full on thirty years older than Hazel. Judith couldn’t wait to tell me what is obviously a well-honed village tale: how mean-tempered Badger Shaddacome had caught the sprite of a girl from over the hill. It wasn’t a happy tale – but I think we all knew that. I’m just stunned it can still happen in the modern world. But then usual rules don’t seem to apply down here.

Badger had lived alone since his mother had died and, as I suspected, scratched a living in the old-fashioned way – a small flock of sheep left mainly to fend for themselves on the bracken-choked hills. A cow, a few chickens and a scrawny cockerel. His mother’s vegetable patch had grown a fine crop of waist-high weeds, though the potato bed was kept neat and clear. Badger’s finest product was the potato spirit he distilled in the stone outbuilding that listed as if it too were befuddled by spirits.
‘I know about that,’ I interjected. ‘Or, at least, Aidan does.’

One evening in autumn, an Indian summer, she said, Badger went out with his gun for a little rough-shooting, a couple of rabbits for the pot or maybe a pheasant that had strayed from one of the fancy shoots. Instead he met a different prey: Hazel Lisbrooke, following dust motes, fragile as a moth, barefoot and wearing only her nightie. She smiled at the rough man, smiled gently even though he was a giant of a man, unshaven and rank with sweat, his hands thick with grime, his breath heavy with drink.
‘Good evening, Badger,’ she’d said softly, her voice a mere whisper on the light autumn breeze.
‘Good evening, Missy,’ he’d said, lust prodding in his groin, seeing her body etched against the sky, plainly visible through the thin cheap cotton.
He’d taken her quickly, like a dog, ramming himself into her hard and fast, one hand over her mouth. He didn’t want to see her face so he pushed it into the thick wet grass. She didn’t fight; she barely whimpered. When he was finished, she got up unsteadily and limped away back over the hill. She was sixteen years old. She had been a virgin, had never even been kissed.

(OK, hands up, I did embroider that last bit. Judith just said that he’d more or less raped her when she was just sixteen and a virgin. But I like my version – especially the nightie bit).
Badger had stumbled home, drink fogging his memory. Three months later, he had vigorously denied their coupling when the posse of farmers from over the hill had come banging on his door. Jim Lisbrooke and his three big sons, quiet stolid men who worked the land and went to church on Sundays. No shotguns, but they carried a quiet menace in their eyes.
Badger and Hazel were married two weeks later, in a rare flurry of snow. On their wedding night, in the narrow iron bedstead (I’m guessing), she miscarried.

Since then, she’d miscarried again and again, as if her womb refused to carry a child conceived in such brutish ways; as if they were a mis-mating, of different species. Badger took it badly, as if she did it on purpose to make him look stupid (or so Judith surmised). Anyhow, each time Hazel lost her baby, apparently she gained a few more bruises. And another pair of baby feet appeared on the fence – in memory of the child that never was.

‘She’s a bit simple, dear,’ said Judith, shaking her head disapprovingly.
I mentioned that there seemed to be a fair herd of cattle now and a pretty good vegetable plot too – so she obviously wasn’t that daft. Stiff intake of breath and a hasty, ‘Must get on. Now if you’re SURE you don’t want number two?’

I’d forgotten the clock numbers and for one ghastly moment thought she was suggesting I needed a bowel movement. Luckily I caught her drift in time to mutter something about ‘thinking about it’ and bundled her out of the door.

Aidan eventually returned in a squeal of tyres and a rash of expletives. He was in a foul mood. Rommel didn’t help by hurtling up to him and barking his head off.
‘Get this bloody dog off me!’ He yelled. ‘Whose is it anyway, bloody thing?’
He’d obviously clean forgotten all about Rommel. I think he’d forgotten about the sheep too as he looked at me as if I were a mad woman when I said that a tiny woman who looked about twelve had herded them down the lane, single-handed (apart from two skinny sheepdogs who obeyed her soft whistles). I tried to invite her in for a cup of coffee after they were settled but she’d shaken her head furiously and revved up the quad and vanished in a haze of exhaust (the two dogs perched precariously behind her, ears streaming in the breeze).
‘Oh yes. Sheep. Right. OK.’
I took his laptop bag from him and tried asking him about London but he obviously didn’t want to talk about it. So I thought I’d chatter on about what had been going on here – cheer him up a bit by showing I was trying my darndest to get into country life. But he looked vague when I told him about the Knitting Circle and didn’t even smile when I described the women and their peculiarities. Usually he laughs his head off at my possibly unkind observations. Not this time. Not even when I told him the weird woman from the church was thought to be a witch!

He even glazed over when I started telling him about Ben. Then, all of a sudden, I think it dawned on him what he was doing and he suddenly pulled me towards him and gave me a hard kiss.
‘Sorry, darling. I was miles away. C’mon, I’ll put the kettle on and you can tell me everything.’
Actually I was pretty excited about the kitchen. Ben had dropped the plans off the day after we’d met and I was over-the-moon. Firstly because he’d been so prompt and secondly because they were truly gorgeous. I thought Aidan would be impressed but he just thumbed through them and asked how much he’d quoted. It was incredibly reasonable, by any standards, but Aidan just rolled his eyes.
‘Bloody cowboys. Out to get you all the time.’
I couldn’t believe it.
‘That’s not fair. It’s a very good quote and you damn well know it.’
It descended into a spat which dropped even further into a horrible argument and I found myself in the very strange position of defending a man I’d met twice (if taking an envelope counts as a second time) against my husband. Suddenly he stopped shouting and frowned.
‘How old is he?’
‘What?’
‘Your cowboy chippie. How old is he?’
‘I don’t know. Mid-thirties, late thirties?’
‘Oh I get it. Shagging the workmen?’
I was so shocked I took a step back and then, before I really knew what I was doing, I slapped him, sharp round the face.
He grabbed my wrists and pushed me against the big dresser. Pinned my arms against the wood and kissed me so roughly it hurt. I fought back and before I knew it we were half-fighting, half-making love. We’ve always gone in for make-up sex, but this was much rougher, more angry, than anything we’d done before. When we were done, I felt a bit weird. This wasn’t baby-sex, or passion-sex, or even make-up-sex really. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more it felt like nearly-hate-sex.


I was so angry with Aidan that I whistled to Rommel and marched out the house. Instead of heading towards the village, I turned onto the left-hand path and walked briskly down the lane. I must have looked like a total lunatic as I played out what I wanted to say to the bastard, muttering furiously under my breath. Luckily I was unobserved, other than by a few morose cows peering over the hedge and a stoat which shot across in front of us, sending Rommel into a frenzied chase. The stoat plunged into the hedgerow and Rommel hurtled after it, sending up a spray of earth as he frantically tried to dig it out.
‘Rommel! Come!’ And, bless his terrier heart, he did. Reluctantly and casting daggers at having his fun interrupted but, Lord, he’s an obedient dog. Comes of being owned by a military type I suppose.

We walked for about five minutes I suppose, before we came to a building, squatting low beside the road, crumbling stone with a corrugated iron roof. Someone had poked ‘CLEAN ME’ in lopsided capitals out of the grime on the small beady windows. Dark green paint blistered on the window-sills and curled and cracked on the front-door. There was no knocker, no bell. White paint had been daubed on a stone by the verge. It said, simply, FARM in lopsided capitals.
I didn’t like to bang on the door, but I felt I ought to introduce myself. After all, these were the neighbours. A few chickens were pecking hopefully at the road. A cockerel strutted, fixing me with a malevolent eye. On the opposite side of the lane, someone had fixed loads of bird feeders in the low slung bushes. I wandered around the side and noticed the most peculiar thing. A fence, but not the kind of fence you’d expect on a farm.
It was one of those wrought-iron types, all arching fleur-de-lis and curlicues. Once upon a time it had been painted white but now it was peeling badly; the kind of peeling you itch to pick. Hanging over several of the spikes were hoops of wire attached to plaster casts of feet. They were all small, some touching toes, some turning their backs like children who’ve fallen out with each other. Weeds and grasses poked themselves through the fence, tickling the soles of the feet. There must have been about twenty of them, ten pairs, dangling in all. Baby feet, toddler feet, child feet. Toes wide apart, bent toes, toes clambering up over one another. You’d have thought feet were all the same until you looked at these, chopped off at the ankle, some pitted by the rain; most padded with moss like everything else around here.

I was intrigued, of course I was. The feet looked like the kind of thing that would belong to some fey arty type, but the rest of the place was a throwback to ancient times.
I remember farms like this when I was growing up. The old ones, eking out a living, barely getting by. It was a hand-to-mouth existence, no room for luxury, no room for the tiniest extra. Plaster-of-Paris would certainly be a luxury.
I called out, tentatively, but nobody answered. Then I heard the whistling, low on the breeze, from behind the farm. I walked round and looked up at the hillside, studded with sheep, shadows falling, like long straight strands of hair, tumbling down the slope.
I recognised the dogs first, the two skinny collies – one all feathered and classic black and white (a beautiful dog), the other close-cropped coat, leggier, more white than black with wild eyes. They belonged to the woman who had brought the sheep by. You wouldn’t have recognised her as a woman though, all bundled up in layers like a parcel. But her height gave her away.

I’ve never seen anyone work dogs like that, like they had a telepathic link with their handler, no need for words.

The dogs saw me and alerted her, and she made her way down, nimble, athletic. Rommel obviously knew his place. He backed off and placed himself on the verge. Wouldn’t budge. Obviously knew the form; that this was the collies’ patch.

She was older than I’d thought, early twenties maybe. Her eyes wouldn’t meet mine though, kept sliding down to the dogs.
‘Sheep alright?’
‘What? Oh yes. Well, I think so. I hadn’t realised where you lived. I didn’t realise…’ I was burbling.
‘This is it. Here we be.’ She shrugged and poked her toe in a clod of mud.
‘Want some tea?’
‘That’d be great. If it’s not too much trouble. If you don’t mind…’ Shut up, Rowan.
She shrugged again and stomped towards the back door, leaving her boots in the porch. I followed suit.

It was dark inside, like being underwater. Not a single light on.
‘Generator,’ she said, catching my glance. I looked quizzical.
‘They took the mains to your place ‘bout four years back. But wanted twenty grand to bring it here, and that was with the grant and all,’ she shrugged again (it was obviously her favoured gesture). Eloquent though. What else was there to say?

She lugged the huge kettle onto the Rayburn and gestured to me to sit at the table. I brushed off a large grumpy grey cat and sat, rather gingerly. The whole place reeked of cat and wet dog and stale cooking fat. It was pretty depressing. But I suppose this is real country living, how it was before we figured it needed to be all gingham and chintz, Cath Kidston and Emma Bridgewater, in order to qualify.

She said her name was Hazel but, try as I might, I couldn’t get anything much else out of her. She just smiled and busied herself with the tea. When I asked her about the fence, she just shook her head and offered me a Digestive, picking it out of the packet with fingernails embedded with grime. I declined and she broke it up and fed it to the dogs which are, apparently, called Erin and Shee (with two e’s).

I noticed a piece of knitting on the settle, what looked like a baby’s blanket in soft fine wool. Lord knows how she kept it white.
‘Do you go to the Knitting Circle? You weren’t there on Wednesday.’
She shook her head violently.
‘Don’t want none of them…. Judith high and mighty Lovett. All that “Judith, The Willows” garbage. Old busybody. I’m alright here.’
I couldn’t help but laugh. She’s a perfect mimic. And she looked me in the eye, just briefly, and laughed back.

As I left, Rommel jumping up as if caught napping on duty, I felt bizarrely happy. I knew my neighbour. OK, so she’s a bit odd and not exactly the chatty type, but she IS interesting. I want to find out what makes her tick. What makes a girl so young bury herself down here. I might even make her the heroine in my book.


When I got home, Aidan was clearly feeling repentant. He’d laid out supper with all my favourites from our old deli in London: Serrano ham; peppered salami; fat black olives; manchego; slivers of quince jelly; stuffed peppers; pickled chillies; roasted garlic; spongy ciabatta. A bottle of prosecco in the cool-jar.

He gave me a rueful look, that sort of look that says: ‘I know I’ve been a bad boy but please forgive me. Give me a pat.’ He held out his hand and I gave it a soft slap.
‘Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa,’ he wheedled. ‘Forgive me, my lovely wife, for I have sinned….big time.’
‘Damn right you have, sinner! But I’m hungry so I forgive you.’

We ate. Lord it was good. REAL bread. REAL cheese. REAL ham. Whenever you talk about farmers’ markets or organic farm shops I have to laugh. There is nothing like that round here.
Those that drive trek to Tesco. Those that don’t make do and mend with Grace’s favours. True, there’s the organic delivery if you’re flush. Or, failing that, the good old vegetable plot. I suppose I may have to bite the bullet and dig.

‘I’ve phoned your Ben chap….’ I bristled and he held up his hands.
‘Look, sorry, OK. Anyhow, he seems a decent bloke. I’ve OK’d the quote and he’s starting next week. Happy?’
Wow.
‘Oh, and someone called Jane called. Something about knitting. Wondered if you wanted to meet up for coffee or a drink sometime. She said you had her number.’

I smiled. I liked Jane. Hazel was interesting – prime fiction material. But Jane might well become a real-life friend. Pure fact.

It was Fi’s mother who taught me how to knit. Fi and I met when we were four years old and I wet my knickers on my first day of school. I remember, with excruciating shame, turning to the small dumpy girl next to me and demanding she take off her knickers and swap with me. Bless her generous heart, she did. Kind-hearted to a fault and blissfully practical, Fi trained as a plumber and electrician, and then promptly moved to London, set up her own business and briskly started making a fortune. She married a nice, sensible, kind man, had three boys in quick succession and proceeded to juggle marriage, motherhood and a thriving business as if it were the easiest thing in the whole world. Fi has always knitted, her rough and tumble boys moaning about their home-knits (yet secretly loving the fact their mother weaves a single red thread through every single sweater, to keep them safe and sound).
‘To ward off the pixies. You remember? Like Mum told us,’ said Fi, a twinkle in her sharp blue eyes.
Fi’s mother was a huge-hearted woman, married to the village butcher. You could barrel into her soft pillow of a body and feel safe as safe could be. I spent as much of my childhood as I possibly could in her kitchen, chairs set close by the woodburning range, needles clacking.
So I suppose it was in the hopes of recreating that warm fuzzy safe feeling, that I walked into the village hall for the Knitting Group, bag in hand, Rommel at heel.

It was a small hall, set up into the hill. Even before I opened the door, the damp smacked me in the nose. In the vestibule there was a large laminated map of the surrounding area and a notice-board with dog-eared bits of paper advertising the delights of the short mat bowls team; bell-ringing; 50+ and Fabulous Keep-Fit and a meeting of the WI with a talk from Brigadier Blah about his holiday in Malta (slideshow eagerly awaited). Inside it was clad in wood panelling, with antlers set high around the room. A fifty-something woman, tall and broad with a shelf of a bosom, marched forwards with her hand stuck out.
‘Judith. The Willows. Pleased to meet you. You must be Rowan. Epiphany.’
I nodded faintly. Home as surname? Whatever paddles your canoe.
She pumped my hand and pulled me to meet the small group sitting in a circle by a gas heater, rather like a bunch of vagrants round a dustbin fire.
‘Maura. Fo…,’ She stopped, drew back a moment in thought, then said firmly. ‘Maura: Honeysuckle Cottage. Rowan: Epiphany.’
I wondered what she had been about to say, as I shook hands with a rather dumpy moon-faced woman, maybe a little older than me.
‘Hello. Your house is gorgeous. I was so envious when it came on the market. We live at Honeysuckle Cottage, down Holloway Lane. Well, we will do, when the work gets done. I suppose we’re really living in the caravan at the moment.’ She giggled in a somewhat irritating manner.
Judith tut-tutted her quiet and carried on with the introductions which went thus:
Camilla: Combe Barton. A rather attractive woman in her mid-forties, wearing clearly expensive but very low-key clothes – cashmere sweater, loose trousers, low pumps.
Edna: Glebe Cottage. Prime granny material. Bound to be knitting bootees.
Sheila: 4, The Mead. A ball of a woman, like one of those baby LEGO toys, with a teeny tiny head that pops inside when it rolls over. Rather piggy, shifty eyes and the sort of nose that heralds a drink problem.
Jane: Not in the village. Said with a sort of disapproving sniff. ‘She comes from E***’ A raised eyebrow, a wave of a hand as if, if it wasn’t an address in ‘our’ village, it didn’t count. Jane shook my hand and gave me what I swear was a quick wink. She looked a bit older than me, late thirties/early forties even but nice. Tallish, short hair and (was it wishful thinking) a whiff of Off. Not just off out of the village but Off Off, as in the city.

Judith fussed around me like a mother hen, settling me on a chair near the heater. ‘Bring a cushion next time, dear. The wood gets a bit hard on the posterior.’
We got out our knitting, everyone leaning over to see what I was working on. It’s a sweater for Fi actually. She never has time to knit for herself and so I’m doing one for her, in finest midnight blue mohair. The stitch was quite involved but, once you got it, pretty straightforward. I’m a lazy knitter – can’t be doing with fairisle or cable – don’t like colour changes either. It’s been sitting in a drawer for months, so it’s high time I got to work on it, before it goes out of fashion.

They chatted about the usual sort of village stuff. So-and-so going to hospital; so-and-so dying, so-and-so going on a round the world cruise. How awful the cottage opposite the shop was – you’d think they’d clear all that rubble but no! An eyesore. Something should be done. It was mainly Judith, Edna and Sheila who did the talking.
After a while, Maura got up, put down her knitting (a rather shapeless man’s sweater with atrocious tension) and went to make tea. A plate of Rich Tea, custard creams and garibaldi – I was back in childhood once again.
Then the door opened slowly, deliberately. I had my back to it but I felt the draught and caught a whiff of scent – something exotic and heady - amber and saffron, lemons and cardamom maybe. As if you had breathed in hashish from a hookah, light-headed and fuzzy round the edges. Quick furtive glances flashed between some of the women. Eyes slightly widened, lips pursed and sucked inwards. OK, so this was clearly a significant arrival. It was obviously a woman – no man would provoke such a complex reaction. I could sense pockets of fear, jealousy, uncertainty, a pinch of grudging admiration, a scratching of pure hate. Above all, a separateness. This woman was way outside the group. I looked casually over my shoulder, determined not to look overly nosey.

She stood in the doorway. It was the woman from the church. Tall, possibly six feet, long-boned, loosely-strung, joints strong. Black jeans, big black boots, red tee-shirt and a man’s tweed jacket, patched with velvet and tartan – random, mismatched buttons giving a magpie, rather charming, effect. Silver jewellery, serried ranks of bangles up her arm. A huge ring, ear-rings reminiscent of tribal masks. Black hair, uncombed, tangled, wayward. How old? Impossible to tell – she could have been 35 or 70.
‘Good morning, ladies.’ Her voice was rich, low and slightly husky, as though she smoked strong Turkish cigarettes from an ebony holder.
‘Eden.’ A statement rather than an acknowledgment from Judith. No following house name.

Her eyes swept lightly over the company in a lazy, almost amused way. I found myself unsure as to whether to stare boldly at her or look away. She had a very curious effect, unsettling. I wasn’t sure if I liked her or was shit-scared of her.
Inevitably I caught her eye. She nodded briefly. ‘You’re one of the new people. Up at Epiphany. We’ll need to talk sometime soon.’

With that, she turned and left.
I’ll confess I was a little freaked out. Why did we have to talk? Why me? What was she talking about? But the others were reassuring.
‘She’s just plain weird, that one,’ said Sheila. ‘I reckon she’s a witch.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Camilla, cut-glass tones. ‘She’s a very fine plantswoman. Very knowledgeable about herbs in particular. Well-travelled too. I heard she picked up her dog in the desert. Beautiful thing.’
Jane agreed. ‘I’ve always wanted to talk to her. But she isn’t what you’d call easy. She keeps herself to herself. And why not?’ She shrugged.

Why not indeed. I’ve always been interested in herbs so I quite like the idea of having our own wisewoman/witch on the doorstep. I think I might like Eden. She’s certainly far more interesting than what I expected from this place.

Still no Aidan, by the way. But he promised he’d be home tomorrow.


PS
How did I remember all those names and addresses? Sadly I don’t possess perfect recall. Judith, efficiency personified, gave me a sheet with everyone’s names, addresses and phone numbers (but not an email in sight!). Bless.
I’m sorry, once again I am hopelessly over length. As I keep saying, please don’t feel obliged to read this…heaven only knows there are plenty of other, less wordy, options.