I am perched on a stile in the sun, feeling its warmth on my black-clad legs, on my forehead, my hair. I close my eyes, tip back my face further, breathe in, breathe out. The children are crashing around in the covert further down; I can hear a blackbird scolding them. My daughters continue their secret mission, calling to each other in the American accents of their private play world. We’re in the Spring Field. The Sor Brook runs through the bottom of the valley, and Horley stretches cat-like over the hill beyond.
I can smell the resin of the spruces around me; the pureness of the cold air. I straighten my back, stretch out my arms, balance, imagine the sun soothing, heating; enlivening every inch of me. I don’t need to think, speak, react. Just be. Right here, right now. Blissful.
When I open my eyes, I’m smiling. Grinning out at a field of growing wheat. The dogs are pheasant-baiting and I can hear the children a way away, down the bottom of the field, maybe in the next. They can never stay away from the brook for long; it fascinates them, and they spend hours trying to cross it, dam it, wrestle from it any secrets or Signal cray it may carry.
I slide from my perch, looking for signs of life in the patch of mares tail. None yet, just last year’s exhausted stalks, bent and folded like articulated bones. I walk beside mole hills, arranged in a neat line beside the wheat margin, as if the moldywarp was asking for tolerance if he kept out of the crop. On the last of his hills, there’s a shard of glass, thrown on the very top like a sky-light. It’s thick, greenish, half the size of my palm. I imagine the mole wrestling with it, determined to eject it from his tunnel. I pick it up and nestle it into a fold of ivy around a fence post.
I reach the bottom of the field, hearing screams and crows of delight: the children have found a fallen tree across the water. They’ve crossed into a small copse, are inspecting a rogue clump of snowdrops with their sharpened spears.
‘You must see, Mummy, you must see.’
I clamber the fence, trespass with impunity born of life-long practice. The fallen tree is a spruce, mossed and slippery, but I cross it anyway, followed by Pants, wobbly on his long legs. We become a team of intrepids, and we fight our way through brambles and grasses to discover lofty bull-rushes and bogs and a bush with bright red bark that one daughter thinks might be flammable. She breaks some off and tries to put it in my pocket. ‘But Mum, it might set light in mine, and I need to Google it’. We decide it’s safer to put the twig in the brook, and we congratulate ourselves on disaster averted, a deadly danger diffused.
They’ve slipped back into their play voices now, and are deep in their world. I stand and watch a moment, listen. I could nip back to the sun, bask a while longer.
‘There’s snakes, y’all!’
I tamp down my smile, pick up a stout stick. Join in the play.