There’s a deer running parallel to me, about twenty feet away, beyond the thick green of the covert. I can’t see it, but it leaps with a swished rhythm through the rattle of sprayed-off beans.
The dogs give chase, momentarily foxed by the sheep-netting. As one, they remember the stile, and squash each other to get over, get through. The deer’s long gone.
I walk on, thinking about the new story I want to write, trying not to think about the one that’s finished, that’s sat on its hands in an agent’s office, waiting to be read. I should’ve written here before, explained where I’d gone, but somehow I couldn’t. Sorry. I don’t mean to treat my readers badly, it’s just sometimes, I just can’t write aloud, only in private.
Anyway, we’re in Spring Field, where redshank sprawls intestine-like on the baked August ground. Small dark butterflies spring from my footsteps through the barley stubble, and everywhere are little alder cones, the sort to crumble in between finger and thumb. There are honeysuckle berries by gate, clustered together as bright as glass.
The dogs come back without me calling, and circle, pretending to catch scents, but really, watching me. They can feel the restlessness in my bones, the sense that I might burst into movement, run, take off and fly, swoop low over the valley, then up into the white-blue until I’m just a spec. The dinner-giver, a tiny, far-off comet.
We pass beneath an ash, its arms dropping beneath the weight of its keys. Down by the Sor Brook, the hawthorns are smeared with a gore of berries, as are the elders. Darker gore. Plates of purple-black fruit that are gritty between your teeth and tongue.
I felt like this at the fag-end of my first pregnancy, when you feel like a sausage, about to split. Or a pea-pod, or a microwaved egg, or a grain of corn in a hot, buttery pan. Pop. There’s change coming that is final and absolute, the end of one state of being, and the beginning of another.
The dogs don’t trust this unquiet me. They’re suspicious of my terrible energy, my sudden decisions to trespass new, untrodden paths, to take them where they’ve not been before, and had never planned on going. They’re confused at my abrupt stops to check my email, pressing refresh, refresh, refresh, or dredging Twitter, as if the answers I need are in there, if I could only find them. It’s as pointless as reading my stars, yet I still do, every week in Style, from the Sunday Times, seeing what luck will befall a Cancerian, whether this time, this time, it’s all going to work out okay.
I stop at the gate by the road, call the dogs closer. The story in my head is getting more insistent that I listen, and I fumble the leads. Pop, I tell them. Stand still. Pop.