Sunday 31st January

It’s Sunday morning, and rain is falling in the softest of veils across the field. It’s not cold though, and I let it fall on my face. We had village friends for dinner last night, and my head swishes and squelches in time to my feet, moving through the grass. I walk slowly for once; my eyeballs feel too big, and I half-close my eye-lids in case my eyes pop out and roll away. My ears still echo with the glug-after-glug from the tawny port bottle.

I’ve already walked Pants clockwise, and now I’m walking Dora anti-clockwise. I pause to wait for her beside one of Tony’s silver birches, looking around the field. The hedge bordering Banbury lane is covered by mildewed netting. It bulges and sags, like a pair of old-lady knickers.

The oak by the gate worries me. Years ago, someone strung netting from it, high above the ground. They tied thick cord around its bole and the cord is now strung tight, biting into the bark like a cilice. I fantasise about pinching a ladder, shinning up to snip the cord. I imagine the relief the oak will feel.

We walk on, and I become fascinated by the raindrops caught on the blackthorn. Raindrops bead almost every downward junction of a thorn or a bud. The slightest touch of wind and they shiver, like tears on an eyelash.

We reach the corner by the nets and turn up hill, towards the pavilion with its shuttered winter-face, its empty flagpole. The flag pole makes an impatient, metallic ticking sound when the wind blows, some cleat beating another.

The uphillness slows my steps still further, and I practically wallow in my wellies. It doesn’t matter though; today is a day for shirt-ironing and beef-roasting. I’ll be helping the daughters with homework, baking a cake, planting out spent narcissi. This afternoon, we’ll walk the dogs properly, then it’ll be the Sunday Times and a fire, and pots of tea that cool as I read.

I’ve reached the Pavilion now and Dora runs ahead to get home. I follow her, squinting up at the smooth-tipped buds of the horse chestnut.  I walk slowly past the empty flag pole; listen to it ticking a time known only to the field.


Author: mrscarlielee

Mother. Writer. Wearer of frocks with wellies. Loves Dancing, Frivolity and Good Books. Tweet @MrsCarlieLee

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