On Walking: Tuesday 20th January

It’s early afternoon, and in the lea of the hedgerows, the ground is still frozen hard. We’re walking down the Banbury Road, towards the bridge, and it’s so cold that my scarf is over my nose, my eyes are watering.

The dogs pull me over the verge, down to the ditch beneath the oak. The water here is unfrozen, and I let the dogs go before I slosh through. It’s too cold to look up, but I don’t mind: I’m looking inwards, pulling and pushing at thoughts that won’t settle. I’ve been reading a book, a murder-mystery, thrillery type, and it’s a word-worm: it’s got into my head.

It’s called ‘What She Left’, and it’s about a girl called Alice Salmon, who drowns aged twenty-five, right when she’s on the very edge of everything that could be fabulous.

The story of Alice and how she ends up dead is compiled by a professor at the university  she once attended, as a project to discover how much of a person you can recapture by what they left behind.

I tramp across frozen rape, thinking about this. There’s a line in the book: Before, we died to leave birth certificate, death and marriage, perhaps photos. Not now.

I don’t like thinking of accidental legacy, of disorganised evidence I’ve left behind. Hasty ill-judged one-liners on Facebook. Photographs! Laboured witticisms on Twitter, irritated emails sent to rubbish eBay sellers. I look up, pointlessly whistle the dogs, push the thoughts away.

At the first footbridge, I stop to look at nightshade berries, wanting to describe them, but none of the words will fit. In the book, T.R. Richmond writes, ‘How terrible to be inarticulate…To never be heard. Perhaps that’s why we write?

I don’t want to think about that either. I force myself to eyeball the berries, caught in the winter sun. Ovoid. Lit from within, as if candled.

I straighten, taking shallow breaths. If I breathe too deeply, the cold scalds my chest, makes me cough. Ahead, Emma’s meadow is indistinct in the  sunlit mist. When I look back, I can see the reflections of ice in the divots of Dave’s fields, they sparkle like shattered glass. I didn’t see them on the way past, and even such an ordinary observation now seems weighted: all we can do in Alice’s story is look back.

I’ve fallen in love with Alice Salmon: she’s so brave, so cool. So real. The Professor, ‘Cookie’, compiles letters, Facebook postings, tweets, emails, police transcripts…Alice feels like my daughter, my sister, my best mate. I feel as if I knew her, and that I’m grieving for her, and to move on, I must understand what happened to her. 

At home, on my Kindle, ‘What She Left’ is on 84% read. The Kindle’s lying on the top of the giantly-stuffed laundry basket, in sight of the estimates I must type, the emails I must answer, the half-thawed chunks of turkey I must put in a pie. The flour, from which I must make the pie-top.

Now, if I’m squashed by a tractor, between here and home, the world will forever know of the turkey pie. The woman who eeked out Christmas Day until 20th January. Reading the book feels like looking in a mirror, or two, three mirrors; that disorientating fascination with a rarely-seen perspective, yet it’s one others see all that time. It’s all very well being heard, but it’s whether you’re understood that really seems to matter.

I reach Emma’s meadow, and I can’t do it any more, my brain hurts. I jump the stile and start to jog, sing, flap my arms. Anything to put me living in the here, the now. The dogs jump around me, enjoying a bit of bonkers. Pants barks with approval and Dora tells him off. I crouch and growl, making him bark even more. Then we run over the crispy grass, doubling-backwards, forwards, until I can’t breathe and I have to stop. I heave for breath, my hands on my knees. The dogs are still tearing round.

‘Come on,’ I tell them. ‘Enough. Home.’ I give in, grinning to myself, relieved to admit my weakness. ‘I’ve got tea to make. Ironing to do. A book to finish.’

 

What She Left cover

PS. Here’s a link… http://www.janklowandnesbit.co.uk/tr-richmond/what-she-left

 

On Walking: Thursday 18th September

Today, walking down the Banbury Road, I notice the leaves on the limes are curling and starting to drop. The heavy green boskiness of late summer is beginning to lighten; the trees are beginning to draw into themselves. The banked lushness of comfrey has withered, the plants collapsing inwards, and the nettles have never been more beautiful. The smaller, higher leaves are a splotched bright green; the larger leaves are a peachy-pink, their veins and edges black, as if  inked in by a child.

Nettles

I can see through the verge now, to the secrets held in the wide, sandy-earthed ditch behind. The orange pixie-posts of Lords and Ladies stand beside the re-emerging crowns of primulas. Puff ball fungi swells in the dampest hollows beneath the trees.

It’s hot; the Indian summer warmth has amplified the smells of Autumn; leaf-litter, sheep-shit, elderberries, tarmac. I practically skip down the Banbury Road, it makes me so happy.

By the road bridge, I turn right, into the fields below the dryer. The margins have been cut, and the fields look at once bigger and smaller. They are roughly brown, stubble poking through at odd angles, and I wonder what’s been planted, what will soon start to grow. Pants circles off in search of deer, and Dora inspects and pees upon every single black mound of fox poo.

I reach the bridge to Emma’s meadow and eye the cows. They eye me back, barely ten yards from where I’m standing. I whistle the dogs, and turn left, down to Bra Corner. The closely-cut margins make for blissfully easy walking.

I haven’t walked here since the start of summer, but it’s like rediscovering something precious; the heap of stricken alder, covered in thick moss (must remember, for Christmas and the mistletoe ball), the rioting cricket willow. Pants still growls at the upturned roots of a tree, its bark rotted and its wood bleached dirty white, like giant bones.

The Sor Brook is quiet, unhurried. It’s loud for most of the Winter and Spring, foam trembles in its rushing tea-brown eddies. Now though, it’s palest amber in the sun-dampled shallows, darkly green in its depths. It slides slowly past, almost silent; serene.

Oak gall
An oak gall

Dead dry thistles and hogweed straws rustle beneath my boots. I walk on beneath old friends; the sweet chestnut with its glossy, scissor-cut leaves, the alder with its golden grace. Then to one of my favourites, an oak beneath which narcissus grow in the Spring.  It has hardly any acorns this year, the gall wasp has turned them all to odd round, dry, marble-type things.

I go on, and the secret passage is in front of me, strapped with brambles, prickling with blackthorn. I look at the defences consideringly, and eat a blackberry.
The dogs go through but I turn and walk up beside the hedge. Autumn needs to do its work here, then the deer will return. I pinch another blackberry, walking with my face to the sun. Some secrets, I decide, can be saved for another day.