‘There’s never much green out here is there?’ said Bobby, reaching out to pinch the thorn end of a twig. The bush had rooted into one of the fissures running along the face of the valley and Bobby could see its thin, grey roots spidering outwards in tendrils.
He twisted his hand and
the twig crumbled.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered and dusted
the debris away.
He turned and walked the
fifty yards back to his car.
The boot was still open,
the spade inside.
‘I should have found somewhere nicer,’ he muttered, gripping the handle. ‘You would have preferred somewhere green.’
Kittles Bay had been a family vacation spot for the Jones longer than Kaitlin could remember. One February, when her brother was off for half-term and she wasn’t quite old enough to have started school, her father had driven them out to the craggy shoreline ‘just because’.
Hunched up in his hoodie, her brother complained it was too cold and hid from the churning, grey sea in the rattling tin can their father coaxed awake each morning.
‘This!’ said her father, feet wide apart on a giant link and arms spread outwards, ‘is where the giants fled the Old King!’
You learn certain things about people when you live in a small village.
Like Mr Bartlett who always order three pints of lager before a pint of bitter, or Mrs Caraway who will always bake a malt loaf for the August fair despite claiming for the past six months that she was going to try something new.
Everyone is odd. You just notice it more in small villages.
Thomas Green however, was very odd. One Christmas he collected odd socks from the neighbours, and hung them around his porch.
I asked my mother why.
“Because,” she said. “He just does.”
I was really stuck for what to write this week, and since my car’s suspension decided to give up on me over the weekend, leaving me stuck in Shropshire with my parents, I thought why not draw upon local inspiration. [In the sense of odd neighbours, no one I know actually hangs odd socks as decorations.]