And the gloves are off....

I’m not entirely proud of myself for this, I have no idea what made me do it, and it all happened very fast, but I’ve tried to remember how it felt, which to be honest, wasn’t that great.
After the initial flurry of buying and moving, it all settled down to, well, life. The normal domestic chores that probably take you an hour, tops, suddenly occupy most of your time when you’re living the life of a pilgrim minus the groovy hat. I get up, wash in water heated in the copper kettle, make breakfast and then get on with whatever it is I have to do until the sun goes down. I’ve painted the windowsills greyish blue, the door too. The walls outside are now fresh and white, whilst inside I painted wide horizontal stripes of pale blue and cream. The floor is scrubbed, the bed made and I am busily making a house for my broken chickens.
Oh yes, I have broken chickens. Stupid farmers market. I went down there with the aim of buying a few hens and a cockerel as part of my quest for self-sufficiency. The whole place was really overwhelming, people yelling and waving their arms plus all the animals clucking and snorting and whooping all over the place. It was a little much after spending so much time alone on an island, or alone in a dorm. (Not that there was much difference mess wise between the market and university.)
So I picked out some really nice looking chickens, all sleek and white with puffy, fluffy feet and little beady eyes (I’m the first to admit I know nothing about livestock ok, but they looked impressive) but when the bidding started, I got flustered. There was this guy with a flat cap…it was very intense. So in a desperate attempt to actually do something, rather than just stand there like a numpty, I waved my arm around and ended up with…Igor.
To be fair they only cost me ten pounds which is quite good. To be unfair I now have four hens which are ex-battery and frankly look like polish refugees from some old film, and a one-legged, one-eyed cockerel…with a hunchback. But you have to hand it to the little things, they can lay. It’s as if after being caged and abused by people they are shocked by actual kindness, so shocked they just keep dropping eggs everywhere in gratitude.
That’s another thing. Think of any meal that you love, anything at all, and I can guarantee it tastes better when cooked in my stove. I’ve steadily worked my way through all my cookery books, baking and stewing to my heart’s content (though I have yet to find out what broiling is). Everything seems to taste more of itself out here, I can’t get over it.
It’s actually surprised me how well I’m doing out here. I mean, I’m not exactly like other teenagers; I don’t bemoan the loss of my phone as soon as the signal disappears, or eschew any kind of physical activity for fear of damaging my nails. (I also use words like ‘eschew’ without joking about sneezes) but I’m still a modern person, someone who likes the internet and lives for episodes of “Ashes to Ashes” and ice-cream.
Still, I haven’t gone totally stone-age. There’s still the small matter of my website to attend to, now the toilet block is nearing completion. Even though I say so myself it looks quite cool, with sweeping beach shots fading to a view of the village, backed with soft guitar music and lilting panpipes. I even came up with a slogan, “Let us feed your spirit” a little corny but still attractive. I’ve even hammered in little signs to denote the pitches.
But there’s a little wrinkle in my new life, one that I am intending to sort out. I haven’t actually met anyone from the village yet, other than Pam and The Middle-aged Monster. But, never one to rest on my laurels for want of a farthing, or whatever that saying is, I intend to remedy that. I thump a ball of pastry on to the surface of the table, rolling it out deftly. I saw a banner on the church yesterday that advertised a weekly island get together, in the form of a coffee morning, so I’m taking a pie down to the church for it. I know its genius. I line a pie plate and add some berries, the first to grow in my new garden. There is just time to change out of my flour covered clothes and in to a clean T-shirt and full cotton skirt. I pull the pie out of the oven, gloriously browned and steaming. Carefully carrying the plate in my tea towel covered hand I start walking down the hill.
As I reach the village I catch sight of Pam heading towards the church and give her a wave. She stops and waits for me to catch up with her, smiling.
“Hi!” I stop, breathless, in front of her.
“That looks gorgeous” she exclaims, sniffing the air appreciatively.
“Why thank you” I say, shifting the hot plate from one hand the other carefully. “Do you think it’ll win them over?”
“And then some, they won’t be able to resist.”
I had learnt from her that aside from myself and one bad tempered acceptation, the entire island was populated by sweet old dears and their wizened husbands, as the young people had all cleared out to the city for university and had all settled there. So I wasn’t that scared about the coffee morning, its young people that frighten me, not little grannies…unless they have crochet hooks.
Together Pam and I step into the shaded entry and push open the heavy wooden doors, and then we freeze. In the middle of the aisle is that guy, facing away from me and talking to what looks like most, if not all of the village. He doesn’t hear us come in and keeps talking, his words humming through the air like angry hornets.
“…just totally unacceptable, she’s a total airhead! I cannot believe Daniel ever approved this, actually I can! It’s obvious she found some way of convincing him, I can guess how.”
I’m shocked speechless. No one has ever sounded like they hated me that much, not ever. It’s just too big a shift in perspective, from being the hopeless virgin people sniggered at to this blatant insinuation that I slept around to get what I wanted. Hot tears of rage and humiliation sting my eyes; there is no way to defend myself against this, and nothing I can say.
“Arthur!” Pam shouts sternly. He whips round, and for a second I think I see a trace of remorse in his eyes, then the shutter slams down and he folds his arms, challenging me. I feel so stupid, so hopelessly girly in my skirt, clutching my pie and wanting the world to like me. He stands there, older, wiser and so much stronger. Grubby jeans and boots, longish shaggy hair shading his eyes and making him unreadable. For a second it’s all I can do not to run away, then I have one tiny stunning thought that brings me back to myself.
Sod you, says the little voice in my head. I am not just some girl, some little city bimbo, I am Emma Glades, a bloody institution of sarcasm, cruel humour and refusal to ever EVER let anyone have the last word.
This new me, or should I say the carefully restored old me, carefully places the pie on a nearby table, strides up the length of the church, clenches her fist, lashes out and connects with his face at bone crunching speed. His whole head snaps back, body reeling after, everyone draws a collective breath. And I am so out of there.
I sprint the length of the church again, slam out of the doors into the sunlight, heart racing, legs like jelly. My hand aches, my whole arm feels broken. I run up the hill, skirt tangling around my legs and soaking up the sweat. I don’t stop until I am in my house, turning to lock the door and then to sink to the cold stone floor.
What the hell have I done? I punched a man, a man who hates me and who looks quite capable of murdering me and plastering me into my own walls. Hot tears of shock and fear and pain squirt from my eyes and for a moment all I want to do is go home and hide under my childhood bed. Instead I do the next best thing, I call Vikkie.
“Hello?” Her voice crackles down the line.
“Vikkie? It’s me, Emma.”
“Oh! Emma, I forgot to call you!”
“What?” I ask, surprised by her delirious happiness.
“Well, it all happened weeks ago, but I got caught up and forgot…anyway, I’m telling you now. Greg proposed!”
“He what?!”
“I know! It was so sweet, he did it at the train station where I was busking, he threw the ring into my hat and I nearly died of shock!”
“Wow” for a moment I really am speechless, forgetting my own worries in the face of this amazing news.
“He has to buy me a new guitar though, I dropped mine, you know what with the shock? And a hobo stole it.”
“Oh no!, still now you can write about a love so strong it brought music to hobos across the land” I tease, forgetting my turmoil momentarily, then a cosmic two-by-four hits me.
“How long ago was this, weeks?”
“Well….I thought you’d be busy, to be honest I forgot. You’re not angry are you?”
“No” I say quickly. And I’m not angry, just upset. We’re best friends and she didn’t remember to tell me? For weeks?
“Emma? I have to go…I have some stuff to do.”
“Ok, but I really need to talk to you later, there‘s this guy….” I mutter, embarrassed by my own helplessness, but she’s already hung up on me.
I put my phone away and put the kettle on, laying out a mug and a plate of homemade oat cookies as consolation. I can’t talk to my best friend because she’s busy, I can’t call my parents because they would kill me if they knew I had ditched university to raise wonky chickens and punch people in the face. Well, as far as “No man is an island” goes I am a peninsula with a rapidly eroding coastline.
God that was hard to write, but I’m glad I did, it feels like this is the only place I can vent all this crap.

　
　
　

Return to Witch Island

The journey is hell, utter total hell. Despite my flip-flops, light gypsy skirt and T-shirt, I am boiling on the train. Packed in with sweating people on their way to their holidays, drinking a coke that five minutes ago was chilled and which is now the same temperature as everything else in the carriage. A couple of boys are messing around at the end of the compartment, throwing water at each other and annoying the collection of grannies next to them. I find myself wondering at what temperature stupidity catches fire. My long hair weighs on me like I’m wearing an enormous hat, over really heavy hair.
Just to add insult to sunburn and sweatiness, when I eventually arrive in Scotland it is raining; cold horrible rain that drips down your neck and makes your sandaled feet slippery and gritty. I run to the boat, ignoring the huge droplets of water that flick from my bushy hair. The village is as deserted as it was on my first visit, and I’m in no mood to call in on Pam, so I head straight home. The journey over the hill is…eventful. I lose my shoe twice to the gripping mud and my clothes are plastered to me with rain when I finally reach the house, only to find the gate swollen totally shut. I rip my skirt climbing over the wall and then waste time hunting for the key to the door in my bag, getting the contents soaked in the process. At last I’m inside. I kick off my wet, squeaky shoes and pad, dripping to the candles which are where I left them last time I was here.
I change into my mostly dry pyjamas and bash the dust from the sleeping bag which I had stowed under the folding bed. Too late I realise that all the firewood is outside in the rain, so I can’t light the stove. The only food I have is a flapjack from the train station shop, which I have to save for breakfast. None of my things will be here until tomorrow…maybe. So I sit, wrapped in my sleeping bag in front of the cold stove, a single candle at my elbow, wondering what I have done to deserve this.
Eventually I must have slept, because I wake up to daylight and a burnt out candle. The rain, though not completely gone, is now light and misty. I tug on my dampish clothes with a slight shiver of disgust, and go outside to check on my toilet block. It’s coming along rather nicely, with all the walls now up and one toilet installed. It is as yet sink-less and without tiles, but still useable which is a small mercy if I ever saw one. I give the whole block a quick look over then walk down to the village, munching my flapjack. With a little bit of luck my boxes will be arriving soon. In the end I limited myself to one box of clothes, one of books and one of assorted food stuffs and oddments like matches and string. Everything else I will have to buy in town. While I’m waiting for the boat to arrive I call in on Pam for a cup of tea and a chat.
“It’s nice to see someone make it this far” she confides over a second cup “to be honest, most of the others found the place a little…unwelcoming.”
“The locals or the house?” I quip, helping myself to a chocolate biscuit.
“Both!” she laughs “Not many people here like change, especially not from all the city born brats that came looking…no offence.” I nod, inviting her to continue “Then there’s that story about the woman who built the place.”
“What woman?” I ask, a little sharply.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter dear; it would just give you nightmares. Now, is that your luggage out there?” I look out of the window and, sure enough my boxes are stacked neatly in the square beside a “Mighty Mover” holding a “Mighty Clipboard”. Resenting the interruption I go outside and sign for the boxes, pick one up and wave and awkward goodbye to Pam, before lugging it up the hill to my house.
It takes hours, what with all the heavy boxes and the forty minute journey each way, but eventually all three boxes are stacked against the wall. I rescue some firewood from outside and leave is to dry in a corner while I change into some dry clothes. Now seems like as good a time as any to go shopping for some actual furniture. I catch the boat into town, fortunately the captain hung around for a chat with Pam so I didn’t have to wait until tomorrow, and start poking around in the second-hand shops.
I love second-hand shops! You never really know what it is you’re going to find. I examine a heap of gorgeous tiles, a porcelain chandelier and a tangled clump of old jewellery. I can’t help falling in love with a plain white, rectangular blanket box, which is perfect for keeping my clothes in. I’ve decided to opt for minimal furniture, after all, the place isn’t huge, but I still need a table and two chairs, maybe a bookcase too. I spot a beautiful table in the window of a little shop up a side alley. It’s square and solid old wood, scarred and stained with use. I’ve reached my limit on what I can carry, so I balance the large chest on top of the table and slowly work my way back to the boat.
By evening I am established. My clothes are folded neatly in the blanket box with their little lavender sachets (this being the only environment in which they might actually be useful). I have a table, though no chairs so I cannot sit at it. Instead I take my meal of fried bacon topped baked potato seated on my bed, admiring the colourful heaps of books that litter the floor. That night, well fed and at last alone in my own home, I curl up on my bed for the first time and sleep, dreamlessly.
Aww bless. But you don’t know what I’m dreaming about do ya? Next time – on to the present, I can’t wait to see what happens now that I can write about.
　

University - The Final Part...finally.

And now an update on the cottage, well a back date, because currently it’s finished, but you know what I mean.

Inside the builders have finished, finally. My stove has been installed and in use for a while, but now I have a sink, a wide deep trough of thick porcelain with a single, perfect pump, cast iron, above it. Experimentally I ease the greased handle down and water gushes from the sculpted mouth of the pipe, pattering into the sink and down the drain. A few moments later I hear the water splash into the water butt outside. Perfection. By the summer by campsite facilities will also be nearing completion, as the builders have agreed to begin work a week before I arrive. The house will also have been re-plastered, so that I can get down to painting it and doing the small jobs that I am capable of doing.
On our last night in the cottage we eat steak and drink cheap screw top wine, the elixir of the camping man. Inside the walls are bathed with light from the cooking fire and the candle on the floor, outside my garden rests, recovering from its makeover. Between us are the thick, glossy folders of samples and a piece of paper covered in calculations.
“Maybe this -” Vikkie points to a piece of cabbage green slip proof flooring “I think the last site I went to had that.”
“I want something…interesting.” I complain, taking another sip of wine “Something glamorous but homey, pretty but still masculine, something that say’s I’m a serious camper but…”
“I wear a tutu under my combats?” Vikkie snorts into her glass “You can’t have everything, so just choose something.”
Eventually I select indigo tiles, which we agree are both pretty and masculine, aged wood flooring for the sink area and dark blue anti-slip covering for the showers. I fall in love with plain curved copper pipe taps and choose flat showerheads to match, alongside basins like the one in the house.
Reluctantly we pack up our bags the next morning, leaving behind a house bare except for the bed and the jars in one of it’s notches. I close the door, locking it with a large old-fashioned key, and walk down the path, shutting the gate behind me. We stop briefly so that I can talk to Pam, who wishes me good luck in my final stint at University, then board the boat back to the mainland. I haven’t seen that man since the day at the garden centre, and I don’t particularly care. Not one tiny bit.
Anyway, back at university it was hard to think about the island without suffering cravings usually associated with drugs.
　
The time goes by like a very heavy bus dragged by five overweight snails. I lie on the bed in my sweltering dorm room trying to concentrate on my work, which isn’t easy when all I can think about is what I would be doing at the cottage right now. To top that off my parents keep calling, asking if I need help moving my stuff to where I’m staying for my research project, which makes me feel like a lying snake.
Something impacts messily on my window. The boys from across the hall are outside throwing water balloons, very mature.
It’s not like I don’t know how to have fun, I like fun god damn it! I like reading on the grass in the sun, and eating ice-cream and walking around the lake, I really do. But it seems that my definition of fun is different to that of around 99.999% of the entire teenage population, making me the minority in a minority culture. Brilliant.
Vikkie has already buggered off with Greg to an afternoon at the pub or something, and I don’t begrudge her it…Ok so I do. I wish that there was another me somewhere, not exactly the same, but someone who understands the difference between difference and alienation.
I sigh a cloud of stifling air back into the room. I have one exam, one exam left, and then it’s over. Around the room my things sit accusingly, I haven’t even started to pack yet. Suddenly my laptop gives a blip and I shake away the screensaver to reveal my eBay homepage and its lengthy list of “Selling” items. It was only when I returned from the island that I realised how much stuff I own, and how little space I had to work with, so I put a load of things on eBay and so far have managed to get rid of loads of excess baggage. I watch the bidding numbers go up in the last few seconds with satisfaction.
With sudden inspiration I grab an empty white box and scrawl “Bookage” on top in sideways black letters. Even though I’ve managed to sell around half of my books, I still live in fear of people stumbling in and assuming my room is a conveniently placed library. There are books on shelves, on the windowsill, under the bed and the desk and balanced above the door. It’s also impossible to find a specific volume because they are ordered by colour and not by title or author. It was only last week that Greg pointed out that I had three copies of “Cat’s Eye”, each one a different colour. I have always hated Greg.
I stack books in the box carefully; piling others on the floor for listing on eBay, when I have finished the room looks bare, as though I have stripped the insulation of my little world from the walls. I grab another box and write “Clothes” on it. This one is easier to fill, I take out all my plain T-shirts and baggy over shirts, stuffing them into the box and topping it off with armfuls of bright gypsy skirts in every imaginable colour and pattern. Satisfied that I have packed every garment I will ever need, at least until winter, I open all the drawers in my bureaux, and nearly faint with shock at the mess within. I take another box and write “Misc.?” in big letters, then sort through the mess of notes, cosmetics, underwear and jewellery.
I have already stocked up on food to take with me, and called a haulage firm to drive all my boxes to the dock where I can get them onto the boat, then lug them up the hill at the other end…in theory. To be honest I’m a little fuzzy on the details at this point. I click off of the eBay page and check my emails, opening one from the builders, dated yesterday and showing a picture of the beginnings of my toilet block. Scrolling down I scrutinize a second picture which shows one of the men kicking the bucket off of the cliff whilst the others raise the new toilet aloft. Mister scowly won’t like that. Oh yes I haven’t forgotten him, and I’ve never been one to back away from confrontation. As Vikkie once put it “You hang on for that last word no matter how much you get hurt in the process.” I intend to live up to this reputation proudly if he so much as turns that Neanderthal brow in my direction.
I load a few more boxes and then return to my exam preparation, one tiny paper to get through and then I’m free, it’s a totally glorious thought. My mood has improved drastically now that the end is finally in sight, not to mention that over those two weeks of gardening I lost four pounds! Life it seems has thrown me a bone after all my complaining, and soon I can enjoy it with nothing to distract me but the buying of chickens and the devouring of as much chick-lit as I can handle.
The exam goes quite well, I have my usual panic that everyone is still writing when I have stopped, but I think it’s ok, though I can’t help but remember my GCSE English teacher’s maxim of “quality not quantity are the words of lazy people”. I have scribbled a few fairly insightful pages on Chaucer, coupled with the usual examiner prescribed bull that was drilled into me by text books and lectures. Suddenly it’s my last day, and I’m oddly nostalgic. I walk around the lake, stopping at the small sandstone building with its columns, where Vikkie and I hunted swans semi-seriously in the autumn. I gather up my university texts, all the Austin and Shakespeare, and bag them up for eBay. Whilst everyone else is shipping out to their flats or home for the summer, I pack my overnight bag and go over my boxes again before they are taken by the “Mighty Movers” to the “Mighty Movers Machine”.
Saying goodbye to Vikkie is the most difficult part about leaving, or to be perfectly honest, the only difficult part. We stand in the empty space that was once my sanctum, both packed and ready to leave.
“Well, glad that’s over” I say, picking up my bag.
“Yup, awful, totally gruelling.” Vikkie agrees.
“You’ll write won’t you, with your new address?” I ask as we head downstairs.
“Yup, and I’ll send you some chocolate”
I smile.
“I got you something” she says, pulling out a small paper wrapped package.
“Me too!” I hold out my own gift. We exchange them and there is some mutual rustling as we rip them open to reveal…two identical candle holders.
“We need to spend more time apart” groans Vikkie, shoving hers into her bag.
“I’ve been saying that since we met.” I pat her on the back and she climbs into her car, I wave her off and catch the campus bus for hopefully the last time.
That was a month ago, we’re nearly there guys, stay with it.

It's gardening time!

Day two of work and we are rapidly catching up on the present day drama, good thing too, I think I’m going to bust a gut if I don’t write it all down soon. But for the moment there’s other stuff to be getting on with.
The next day is not as pleasant. When I wake it is drizzling, water clotting the dirt and making the weeds unpleasant to handle. The insects are low and biting viciously before the sun is fully up and the builders bad tempered after a harrowing boat ride over the troubled sea.
I work in the garden, yesterdays clothes dampened with sweat and the humidity, slightly crusted with salt. Vikkie goes into town on the boat to buy fresh food to cook on the stove, not to mention the right kind of pot, which I tracked down to a junk shop and have sent her to collect.
It feels like I’m fighting a constant battle against the garden. Every time I turn away from a cleared section new tendrils seem to sprout, curling around woody immovable stems that had escaped my notice. I hack at them with the spade, which is sharper than the axe, heaping up sizeable chunks for the stove and throwing what is left into the bin. Halfway through the morning the metal container is filled, so I take my lighter and a chunk of the magazine that I was reading on the boat and set it on fire. With the wood soon burning fiercely, despite the rank weather, I turn back to my work, throwing branches on top of the fire and watching the green wood smoke and eventually succumb to the blaze.
After yesterdays work on the garden my body is protesting, every muscle is screaming for mercy and rest on a proper bed rather than the floor. After a while I give up and retreat to the side of the house where I sit on the ground, wrapped in a coat and flipping through sample books. The builders brought several of these glossy white folders for me to look at, because it is they who will be building my shower block. I flick through thick card inserts supporting slivers of tile, trying to make definitive choices, but it’s hopeless. Sighing I set the folders aside, there is nothing else I can do, too tired to work in the garden and too miserable to attempt anything productive. I find my bag and dig out some violet nail polish, kick off my boots and begin painting my nails. Anything to distract myself from the utter misery of being bitten all over by insects, wet, unfed and having to use a bucket as a toilet.
I am halfway through my second foot and thinking about starting on my fingers when a shadow falls across my feet. Thinking it’s Vikkie I look up, but, instead there is a man, the man I saw on the beach. I feel immediately self conscious, as I used to when someone knocked at the door and my comfy tracksuit bottoms and unwashed hair were suddenly, painfully displayed to a stranger. I am very aware of my filthy jeans and shirt, of my tangled hair and unwashed face, and also of the fact that he may have seen me as good as naked. The look he’s giving me doesn’t help, a mixture of mistrust and distaste, the kind of look I give worms, knowing that they can’t hurt me but still hating their presence.
“You left this on the beach” he thrusts something damp and sand speckled at me, my undershirt.
“Oh” I take it from his hand and try to stand up, balancing weirdly on my freshly painted feet. He gives my polished nails a glance, his lip curling into a sneer. He’s older than I am, his hair brownish and grizzled, face unshaven making him look older still and haggard. I feel uncomfortable, his dislike of me is washing off of him in waves.
“Don’t let it happen again, some of us value this place. I suppose that’s hard for you to appreciate.” Before I can say a word he turns and stalks off, cutting through the garden without a backward glance. I find myself close to tears. I have always hated being told off.
I am still sitting on the grass when Vikkie returns, clutching three plastic bags stuffed to brim. She drops them on the grass and sits down opposite, pulling things out and talking excitedly.
“I got your pots, they’re bloody heavy though, you owe me new arms. I picked up some chicken as well, and some vegetables. Oh! And tea! don’t know about you but I have been dying without…” she catches sight of my pinkish eyes “what happened?”
“I left this..” I wave at the clump of wet, gritty fabric “on the beach, and some guy brought it back. He was mean.” There is a brief silence as Vikkie considers this.
“I thought that was the point of you living here, that whenever someone pissed you off you just pushed them off the side.” I let out a weak spurt of watery laughter.
“Come on, I’ll make some tea”
From the back of the house, where the builders are packing up, there come shouts of “Hurray!” and “About bloody time.” Vikkie and I haul the bags inside and, dubiously, wrangle with the stove.
I pack some fuel in and light it, then unwrap the parcels from the junk shop, finding a frying pan, an enormous kettle and a pot, all made of gleaming copper. We fill the kettle with water and set it on one of the massive burners to heat. Thankfully the builders were thoughtful enough to bring their own mugs, as we only had two tin camping cups. After everyone had drunk their fair share of scalding hot tea I tucked the box of teabags into a niche above the stove with the jars of jam.
That night, when all the builders were gone, I cooked chicken casserole with Ilensay rosemary, dubbing it the Ocean House special. We sat on the floor, the formerly austere cottage brought to life and made welcoming with the light of a fire and the scent of fried chicken and stock. But, when the fire is reduced to mere embers, and we have turned in for the night, I lay on the hard stone floor and my anxiety creeps back like damp. Somewhere, on this island, is a man who hates me, I think. The thought troubles me more than it should and for hours I cannot sleep, but imagine instead his face, twisted in scorn.
With the promise of caffeine to lure Vikkie out of bed we begin to make astounding progress. We finish clearing the garden and turn to digging it over, exposing dark moist soil. I clip the wild hedges of rosemary, lavender and lemon balm into soft globes and straight rows. Vikkie marks out square beds with rounded stones from the beach. In the last few days of our stay on the island we go to he mainland in search of plants, leaving the builders to install my sink.
I wander through the gleaming glass greenhouses of the local garden centre, stroking the thick succulent stalks and wavy fronds of tray after tray of plants. Eventually I select a few things that I can plant and leave to grow on their own in my absence, onions, potatoes, beans, peas and tomatoes. I also find marigolds, which supposedly subdue caterpillars and a few more herbs to fill the space and provide colour. With my wide wire trolley brimming with greenery I browse through the other sections, those that sell gifts and fair-trade products. I’m not intending to buy anything, but I notice a heap of gorgeous blankets, all soft and grey natural wool. I’m fingering the fringe of one, having left my trolley at the head of the narrow aisle, when I catch sight of him. The same guy as yesterday, wearing grubby jeans and a jersey. I’m about to duck out of sight when he looks up, his dark eyes flick between me and the designer blanket, then the same sneer appears and he strides away angrily.
What is his problem with me? I drop the blanket as though I’ve been burnt and grab my cart, heading for the till. My cheeks are burning and I feel very small and stupid, though I’m not sure why. I cart my plants outside and get out my phone to call Vikkie, who is browsing in a comic book shop a short journey away, to get her to pick me up. But as I do so I release the handle of the wheelbarrow-like cart, which tips, sending plants rolling, soil spilling from their pots. Swearing I try to pull them back in one-handed, listening to the dialling beeps and then ringing as I wait for Vikkie to pick up. At last I have all the plants in the cart, but as I try to level it they tip again. I realise that I can’t right it without dropping all the pots again.
A hand suddenly grabs the handle of the cart, brushing against mine. My heart catches as the unbidden image of my grumpy stalker fills my mind. The cart lurches up and I release the pots, turning to see…Vikkie.
“Hi!” I say, weakly.
“I got done early.” she explains, hefting the plants into her tiny boot.
I’m quiet on the ride home, unsettled by my mistake. This cannot be a normal response surely? My first reaction to a strange and hostile older man should not be of the heart beating faster variety. I’m still berating myself, cringing in remembered embarrassment as we lug the plants up the hill and drop the pots on to the ground inside the boundaries of the garden. Not content with simply putting in vegetables I have brought fruit trees from a separate nursery, fragile little things that will hopefully grow quickly and give me fruit in the summer. For a few happy hours I am content with my role as gardener, setting seedlings into the bare squares of soil in odd patterns. I plant the trees at the sides of the house and edge the brick path with thyme. Behind the house is my favourite place, and I save the best job till last. On the side of the house facing the sea is a staircase that leads to nowhere, worn sandstone steps and plastered sides ending in a flat square of stone with twisty railings, like a balcony. I plant some stubborn little plants at the base, ones that will eventually grow and climb all over the little private space.
That’s a lot of intrigue for one entry, but there you go, it was a lot to deal with at the time.