It was
there, wedged deep in her imagination, as monumental a dwelling as any other
she could remember; not monumental in the true sense, but remarkable in its
importance. She could visualize the latticed casement-windows; the crooked
chimney with its four pots issuing smoke even in summer; the old-fashioned
roses around the low, warped door, its thorny offshoots stealing towards the brass
horseshoe, displayed with a kind of imperious pride ... if domiciles were
capable of possessing such sentiments. The image was as true as any photograph;
only, however detailed a photograph it could not immortalise the smells of the
place: the aroma of Weetabix, warm milk and honey that greeted each day, and
the farmyard odour ever present beyond the cottage door. Ascending into the
endlessly azure sky were two granolithic gate pillars, tops like pyramids and
girths as wide, it seemed, as the chicken house. It was where she would climb
to watch the cows come by for milking.
She allowed her mind to wander the surrounding sunlit lanes, hopscotching
shadows the way she used to, frequently interrupting the game to perform
handstands against crumbling walls, or select the longest grasses to tickle her
father's neck. And then, prompted by thoughts of her father and his favourite
pastime, she recalled those restful periods when, surrounded by angling
paraphernalia, she quietly watched the salmon leap in the Herefordshire river.
Yes, it was there, immutably lodged in her imagination, and that's what she
wanted to find; it was what she'd been searching for this past hour.
Vida Maitland reversed the Renault onto a bumpy dirt path and switched off the
engine, thinking in her frustration that if anyone told her to move she'd
probably explode. She had been driving from one coterie of cottages to the
next, coasting unnamed narrow lanes, none of which had passing places, and had
even enquired in isolated shops, but no-one knew the location of the place she
sought. Despondently, she unscrewed a beaker of orange juice and took a sip,
seriously wondering if the journey had been a waste of time. Balancing the
beaker on her knee, one finger curled round it's base, she leaned back and
closed her eyes, willing the picture to return. Her mind's eye travelled the
lanes, giving way at crossroads, unnecessarily since hers was the only car. It
was then, during one of the mandatory pauses, that she saw where she had gone
wrong. The signpost in the foreground was askew; it pointed straight ahead
instead of sending her to the left: to Verdun Cottage.
Forgetting the beaker, she shot up and swiftly started the engine, unaware of
the orange juice seeping through her tights. She drove recklessly in her
eagerness, bidden by memories to visit the cottage she remembered so well; to
see the sheep and the goats, and the arbor with the overhead brush of
honeysuckle, and the wilderness garden to the side of the farm, all set in the
heart of pasture-land and encouragingly near the river.
A second signpost told her to turn right. This she did and as she rounded the
corner, lo and behold, she saw it: Verdun Cottage, as beautiful as it ever was,
but significantly smaller. She stopped the car and wrenched the brake, staring
disbelievingly at the scene. The granolithic gate supports, the crooked
chimney, and the door with the strong-smelling roses, were, after the
enlargement in her mind, almost fairylike in size. The chicken house which she
was sure had been at the side, by the back door which opened onto the farm, was
now by the stone wall which ran along the lane.
Slowly, she climbed out of the immaculate red Renault, and walked towards the
restyled structure, looking for evidence of a busy farm. But all she could see
were the relics of bygone days: a delapidated tractor parked alongside a gang
of rusted milk churns, a disused pig trough, and a roll of chicken wire with a
duration's grass growing through.
'Not thinking of buying it, are you, m'dear?' The full-toned voice belonged to
a wizened old man with a twinkling eye and a straw in his mouth.
Vida gulped and incoherently gabbled something about visiting a childhood
haunt. 'For holidays,' she whispered, unable to take her eyes off the bobbing
straw; and, without another word being spoken, she knew she'd been right to
come. Her memory had played tricks over the cottage, nothing was as she
remembered, but the ageing farmer, with his white hair and unshorn chin,
wearing the same impish grin and bearing the same, familiar, rustic scents,
made the excursion wonderfully worthwhile. The crooked chimney might be
crumbling, the roses might be holding the woodwork intact, and the monstrous
gate pillars might be too big for such a bantam property, but this was where
she wanted to be.
Impulsively, she reached out to touch the farmer's skinny arm. 'If you're
thinking of selling,' she said, 'I'm definitely buying.'
