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.Didn’t they have anything better to do? I didn’t want to answer it.‘Mum! MUUUMM!’ I yelled from my bed.The house was quiet.Where was my mother? In the garden, talking to the cypress tree.I chucked on jeans and a jumper and went downstairs.The previous inhabitants—what do you call the last inhabitants of the house you now live in? The Previous Ones.They had left behind a hairy brown doormat on which to wipe the sludge from their boots before entering the vicar’s hallowed domain.The doormat stared at me.I stared at the person through the frosted glass, wanted to make sure it wasn’t the weirdo trying to get in.All this way and we still had frosted glass in the front door.It didn’t look like him, too short.I shoved my hands in my pockets and stood there half asleep.It didn’t occur to me that if I could see them, they could also see me.They pressed the doorbell again in a pointed, irritated kind of way.The doorbell had a hideous shrill ring to it.Open the door for goodness sake, Rebecca! my mother yelled at me from somewhere.What was happening to me? I was becoming so slow I’d never start up again.‘Flora Shillingham, dear.Can I come in?’ said a voice, bringing a huge gust of fresh air with her into the house.‘Hello.’ We stood there staring at each other.Her big brown eyes darted up the stairs and down the stairs as she spoke.She had the same large wicker basket on her arm as last time, same sturdy brown shoes, same jacket.If you were doing the same things every day maybe you didn’t need to worry about your clothes.‘Would you like to see my parents?’‘Yes and no, dear.I’ve come to see you all, see how you’re getting along.Mrs Armitage, that’s Amanda, she said you’d been at the pub the other day.Sorry I missed you.’‘It’s nice there.’‘Glad you like it.’By now my mother had appeared to see who it was.Flora produced a small bunch of sweet-smelling flowers from her basket, stalks wrapped in foil, and handed them to Mum.‘Oh, lovely.Sweet peas.One of my favourites.Thank you so much, that’s very kind of you.’‘Yes, that’s the last of them I’m afraid.Bit too early for frosts, but always sad when the sweet peas go.How’s everything going along then?’‘Well,’ said Mum, ‘we’re still settling in really.’‘Oh yes, it does take a while.Please feel free to call on me anytime, anytime; I’m always busy but the kettle likes a boil.Mine’s the white cottage with the roses, about a mile down the road from here past the green on the right.Moving is such a terrible business, I thought you could do with these.’She pulled from her basket an egg carton without a lid containing a dozen big brown eggs with bits of mud and poo stuck all over them.‘Fresh eggs these are,’ she said, looking at me looking at them.Mum was watching a small fluffy feather still stuck to the top of one egg.‘Have you time for a cup of tea?’ Mum asked.‘Very kind of you, dear, if you’re sure you’re not too busy.’The fragrant aroma of freshly picked sweet peas quickly filled the kitchen.Flora Shillingham slurped her tea with the robust manners of a good English countrywoman.‘Hens, I’ve about a dozen, but they’re flighty things.Odd, really, seeing as they don’t fly.’I knew nothing about hens.In Wye the only chickens I ever encountered sat covered in foil in a roasting tin.Mum was entranced by chickens, I could see that.‘I think they look like little dinosaurs, long necks and beady eyes,’ said Mum.‘Exactly, dear.Productive egg-laying dinosaurs.They lay roughly one egg per day in the summer.It’s the light; it does things to their cycle.The more light there is, the more eggs they lay.We’ll get half the number next month so enjoy these while we have them.’‘We certainly will,’ said Mum.She nodded at me.‘You can collect your own eggs, if you like.I lock the chickens up at night because of the foxes, bloody pests—pardon my French.They’re free to wander about during the day, though.’I nodded politely at Miss Shillingham.Chickens? What was I now, an egg inspector?‘All I’ll say is, don’t buy them from the shops.Anyhow, I’ll not take up any more of your time.’ She pulled from her basket a bunch of carrots and a couple of handsome-looking red tomatoes, and deposited them on the kitchen table.‘Nothing tastes as good as homegrown tomatoes,’ said Mum.‘Glad you like them, dear.’ Flora Shillingham’s small sleek head had a separate life of its own and darted, like a wet shining otter, backwards and forwards on her neck.She nodded her sleek head upstairs.‘Who has the middle room?’‘I have,’ I said.‘Be careful on the balcony, won’t you? If I remember rightly, the last person who lived here put their foot right through it.Fixed it, though.It always gets fixed.’She gazed at me.I had no idea what to say.I stared back at her, a fox, an otter, a badger, a pigeon, perhaps all of them.Her head grew smaller and smaller.‘Fancy a walk then? I could show you round, if you’d like?’‘I haven’t had breakfast yet.’ No, Mother, no.‘A quick walk.We won’t be long.Then you can have an egg when you’re home.’Mother, please, my hunger grows and I am still weary despite the brightness of the day.Mother?‘I’m sure Rebecca would like to stretch her legs.And thank you very much, Mrs Shillingham, for all these lovely things,’ my mother said.‘Miss.’ She turned, empty basket dangling on one arm.‘It’s Miss.’I said nothing and pulled on boots and coat like a good country girl, taking as long as I possibly could about it.‘Lovely, lovely eggs.Hurry up, Rebecca,’ said Mum.The Swinging Leg‘Rebecca—can I call you Rebecca, dear?’We walked on a narrow path with overgrown grass on either side.The earth was dry and cracked.The path led us away from the churchyard and around the back of the pub, with ploughed fields to the left and the right.‘This takes you all the way to Bluebell Lane.You’ll soon find your bearings.’I didn’t care about my bearings.I had none.I was thinking of a privet hedge.There you are you daft girl.Each step felt awkward, uncomfortable.I kept my head down staring at my boots.Miss Shillingham coaxed me along as if I were a recalcitrant animal.‘I expect you’re missing your friends, dear, well you’ll soon make some more, you’ll soon settle in, Brightley’s a most interesting village.’What could I say after twenty minutes on the same narrow path? We trod the fresh earth of rutted fields under our feet until the church spire rose in front of us.Most interesting indeed, my good woman, we are now back to where we started.‘If you keep walking that way—’ and she chopped her hands through the air to show me ‘you’ll reach the top of the lane that goes to Little Hartley.’Can barely wait to do that.‘Everything looks the same here,’ I said, staring at the brown horizon.‘There isn’t anything to see.’I wanted two fried eggs, three rashers of bacon and five slices of hot buttered toast.‘Well, my dear, that is where you’re wrong.’ She looked at me sharply.In the distance a tractor was rumbling through a field, a few cows were talking to each other, there was the rustle of leaves, the murmurs of country life.‘There’s all sorts of things going on around here, dear.You just have to look for them.’Maybe I’ll see ghosts dancing in a beam of light?‘Don’t you ever get lonely here?’Flora’s grey hair glistened in the morning sun.‘Oh no, dear, why would I?’ She clicked open the latch on the church gate; we were at the far side of the churchyard.‘This is the other way back.The long way [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.Didn’t they have anything better to do? I didn’t want to answer it.‘Mum! MUUUMM!’ I yelled from my bed.The house was quiet.Where was my mother? In the garden, talking to the cypress tree.I chucked on jeans and a jumper and went downstairs.The previous inhabitants—what do you call the last inhabitants of the house you now live in? The Previous Ones.They had left behind a hairy brown doormat on which to wipe the sludge from their boots before entering the vicar’s hallowed domain.The doormat stared at me.I stared at the person through the frosted glass, wanted to make sure it wasn’t the weirdo trying to get in.All this way and we still had frosted glass in the front door.It didn’t look like him, too short.I shoved my hands in my pockets and stood there half asleep.It didn’t occur to me that if I could see them, they could also see me.They pressed the doorbell again in a pointed, irritated kind of way.The doorbell had a hideous shrill ring to it.Open the door for goodness sake, Rebecca! my mother yelled at me from somewhere.What was happening to me? I was becoming so slow I’d never start up again.‘Flora Shillingham, dear.Can I come in?’ said a voice, bringing a huge gust of fresh air with her into the house.‘Hello.’ We stood there staring at each other.Her big brown eyes darted up the stairs and down the stairs as she spoke.She had the same large wicker basket on her arm as last time, same sturdy brown shoes, same jacket.If you were doing the same things every day maybe you didn’t need to worry about your clothes.‘Would you like to see my parents?’‘Yes and no, dear.I’ve come to see you all, see how you’re getting along.Mrs Armitage, that’s Amanda, she said you’d been at the pub the other day.Sorry I missed you.’‘It’s nice there.’‘Glad you like it.’By now my mother had appeared to see who it was.Flora produced a small bunch of sweet-smelling flowers from her basket, stalks wrapped in foil, and handed them to Mum.‘Oh, lovely.Sweet peas.One of my favourites.Thank you so much, that’s very kind of you.’‘Yes, that’s the last of them I’m afraid.Bit too early for frosts, but always sad when the sweet peas go.How’s everything going along then?’‘Well,’ said Mum, ‘we’re still settling in really.’‘Oh yes, it does take a while.Please feel free to call on me anytime, anytime; I’m always busy but the kettle likes a boil.Mine’s the white cottage with the roses, about a mile down the road from here past the green on the right.Moving is such a terrible business, I thought you could do with these.’She pulled from her basket an egg carton without a lid containing a dozen big brown eggs with bits of mud and poo stuck all over them.‘Fresh eggs these are,’ she said, looking at me looking at them.Mum was watching a small fluffy feather still stuck to the top of one egg.‘Have you time for a cup of tea?’ Mum asked.‘Very kind of you, dear, if you’re sure you’re not too busy.’The fragrant aroma of freshly picked sweet peas quickly filled the kitchen.Flora Shillingham slurped her tea with the robust manners of a good English countrywoman.‘Hens, I’ve about a dozen, but they’re flighty things.Odd, really, seeing as they don’t fly.’I knew nothing about hens.In Wye the only chickens I ever encountered sat covered in foil in a roasting tin.Mum was entranced by chickens, I could see that.‘I think they look like little dinosaurs, long necks and beady eyes,’ said Mum.‘Exactly, dear.Productive egg-laying dinosaurs.They lay roughly one egg per day in the summer.It’s the light; it does things to their cycle.The more light there is, the more eggs they lay.We’ll get half the number next month so enjoy these while we have them.’‘We certainly will,’ said Mum.She nodded at me.‘You can collect your own eggs, if you like.I lock the chickens up at night because of the foxes, bloody pests—pardon my French.They’re free to wander about during the day, though.’I nodded politely at Miss Shillingham.Chickens? What was I now, an egg inspector?‘All I’ll say is, don’t buy them from the shops.Anyhow, I’ll not take up any more of your time.’ She pulled from her basket a bunch of carrots and a couple of handsome-looking red tomatoes, and deposited them on the kitchen table.‘Nothing tastes as good as homegrown tomatoes,’ said Mum.‘Glad you like them, dear.’ Flora Shillingham’s small sleek head had a separate life of its own and darted, like a wet shining otter, backwards and forwards on her neck.She nodded her sleek head upstairs.‘Who has the middle room?’‘I have,’ I said.‘Be careful on the balcony, won’t you? If I remember rightly, the last person who lived here put their foot right through it.Fixed it, though.It always gets fixed.’She gazed at me.I had no idea what to say.I stared back at her, a fox, an otter, a badger, a pigeon, perhaps all of them.Her head grew smaller and smaller.‘Fancy a walk then? I could show you round, if you’d like?’‘I haven’t had breakfast yet.’ No, Mother, no.‘A quick walk.We won’t be long.Then you can have an egg when you’re home.’Mother, please, my hunger grows and I am still weary despite the brightness of the day.Mother?‘I’m sure Rebecca would like to stretch her legs.And thank you very much, Mrs Shillingham, for all these lovely things,’ my mother said.‘Miss.’ She turned, empty basket dangling on one arm.‘It’s Miss.’I said nothing and pulled on boots and coat like a good country girl, taking as long as I possibly could about it.‘Lovely, lovely eggs.Hurry up, Rebecca,’ said Mum.The Swinging Leg‘Rebecca—can I call you Rebecca, dear?’We walked on a narrow path with overgrown grass on either side.The earth was dry and cracked.The path led us away from the churchyard and around the back of the pub, with ploughed fields to the left and the right.‘This takes you all the way to Bluebell Lane.You’ll soon find your bearings.’I didn’t care about my bearings.I had none.I was thinking of a privet hedge.There you are you daft girl.Each step felt awkward, uncomfortable.I kept my head down staring at my boots.Miss Shillingham coaxed me along as if I were a recalcitrant animal.‘I expect you’re missing your friends, dear, well you’ll soon make some more, you’ll soon settle in, Brightley’s a most interesting village.’What could I say after twenty minutes on the same narrow path? We trod the fresh earth of rutted fields under our feet until the church spire rose in front of us.Most interesting indeed, my good woman, we are now back to where we started.‘If you keep walking that way—’ and she chopped her hands through the air to show me ‘you’ll reach the top of the lane that goes to Little Hartley.’Can barely wait to do that.‘Everything looks the same here,’ I said, staring at the brown horizon.‘There isn’t anything to see.’I wanted two fried eggs, three rashers of bacon and five slices of hot buttered toast.‘Well, my dear, that is where you’re wrong.’ She looked at me sharply.In the distance a tractor was rumbling through a field, a few cows were talking to each other, there was the rustle of leaves, the murmurs of country life.‘There’s all sorts of things going on around here, dear.You just have to look for them.’Maybe I’ll see ghosts dancing in a beam of light?‘Don’t you ever get lonely here?’Flora’s grey hair glistened in the morning sun.‘Oh no, dear, why would I?’ She clicked open the latch on the church gate; we were at the far side of the churchyard.‘This is the other way back.The long way [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]