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.’