Yesterday
the manuscript of the book that Marcia has been writing was emailed
to Dinah, her agent, and then on to Linda, her editor. There is
nothing to be done now except to hold our breath and await the
response. It is a chilling thought that this manuscript represents a
year of work – which means that if it is rejected . . . I am sure I
do not have to spell it out.
Anyway,
it seemed to me to be totally wrong that she should have a day with
nothing to write about so I persuaded her to write this week’s
blog. Over to Marcia.
*
* * * *
This
is the first morning for more than a year that I’ve woken without a
whole group of people – their loves, lives, dramas – at the
forefront of my mind. They’ve told me their stories and vanished.
There was a latecomer – two in fact – whose voices were drowned out
in the clamour of the others but they’ve been absorbed into the
story and it seems odd, now, that it could have been written without
them. It’s strange to be alone again, and very restful; rather
similar to when a group of visitors have left after a very jolly,
busy holiday. I miss them – but gosh, it’s good to have my head
to myself for the moment. Not for too long, of course, or I might
begin to feel anxious that I’ve written my last book.
So,
having no other demands on my morning, I drive my rather battered old
Jimny through the six-odd miles of country lanes to the Farm Shop.
This long lane is one of the most glorious I’ve discovered in a
lifetime of driving in glorious lanes. The Devon banks are steep:
brimming with colour: bluebells, pink campion, creamy cow parsley,
shiny yellow buttercup. Occasionally, through a farm gate or from the
brow of a hill, the land tips away to reveal the stark uplands of the
distant moor; such a contrast from this richly verdant riot of
colour.
Today
no such view is to be seen. Soft, warm mizzling rain drifts from the
west concealing everything but the near aspect – but I don’t
care. The splendour of the lane is more than enough for me. I pass
two tractors - backing up, darting into a gateway, squeezing past,
with cheerful waves- and two cars but these are my only encounters on
the entire journey.
I love
Farm Shops. Not those great big smart ones whose busy shops sell
expensive kitsch pottery and up-market tat; no, I love small farm
shops where the produce is very locally sourced and local people sit
in the little café to have a cup of coffee, to argue over the merits
of a Devon pasty compared with its Cornish counterpart, and to
exchange friendly insults and jokes with a neighbour.
This
Farm Shop is opposite a farm. I park near to the entrance and go
inside, heading for the café. My life is “counted out in coffee
spoons”! A cappuccino, made by Siobhan (‘Lots of chocolate
sprinkles?’ ‘You bet!’); afterwards a consultation with Matt,
the butcher – without whose advice I’d never dare to choose which
cut of meat (‘Lamb’s not ready yet, wait ’til after Easter’)
- then a chat with Mac at the check-out. He’s ex-navy so we compare
notes on long-past postings, commiserate on how many times we moved
house, and he carries my shopping out to the car. We part and my spirits lift as the mizzle is driven away by the sun
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| A few weeks ago, Rodney mentioned that we missed being surrounded by stock. Well, my people might have gone on their travels but this group of bullocks arrived in the field behind the garden and are clearly enjoying being let out on grass. |
Outside
I have an exchange with a fellow of much my own age whose delivery
van is parked beside my car. I smile at him as I open the car door.
He smiles back, heaving in some empty bags, sliding the van door
closed.
‘We’ll
have to stop meeting, like this,’ he says lugubriously.
‘But
however could we?’ I demand.
He
shrugs. ‘I could come earlier. You could come later.’
‘Would
you break my heart?’ I cry.
He
sighs. ‘Life’s hard.’
Then
we both burst out laughing and we drive away. Wonderful.
So –
back to the real world . . . or is it?
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| Dede is no ordinary dog. Not a bit of it. Apart from being a delightful brown Labrador she spends most of her time in Chrissy's in Totnes (a hairdressing salon) where she is a great favourite with the customers. |
