I was in the village two miles east yesterday morning. Errands. Nothing worth reporting. On the way back I passed Paula the teacher from the primary school. I haven’t seen her since before her maternity leave — eight, nine months ago maybe. She looked the way new mothers look: held together by necessity and not […]
On a train. Headed south. The roads are impossible this time of year. Tourists and caravans and people who bought walking boots last Tuesday and think they know the hills. The train suits me better. Always has. You can think on a train. And there are the tunnels. At the first one, a boy pressed
Tuesday. The farm shop on the edge of the village. I need eggs. That’s the whole of the errand. Late April and the lane is aggressive with green—hawthorn budding hard, cow parsley shouldering up through the verge, the whole hedgerow committed. The air above the fields is layered with it. A soft, breathing green that
What the Colours Know Read More »
The statistics coming out of rural England don’t alarm people the way they should. I’ve been watching the pattern. Not the cities. The cities are loud about their violence, wear it on the outside, make it visible and therefore manageable. No. The villages. The ones that have been here since before anyone can remember—where everyone
Murder in an English Village Read More »
It’s spring. If you’re in the northern hemisphere, take a look out the window. I won’t describe it—you know what spring looks like as well as I do. The season makes people sloppy. Going without coats when they catch the sunshine peering around the clouds, only to sprint home freezing. Setting out the cream for
