inadequacy of the mattress, but the joy radiating out of her snuffed out the negatives before they had a chance to form. There
was a languorous ease in his limbs despite the bed, which brought home the fact that the night had been unbroken by the customary cycle of startled fright and calming words.
‘You slept through,’ he said.
She nodded, smiling. ‘Oh Mike,’ she said, ‘it’s so wonderful. Come on. I want to show you. Let’s walk round the village before anyone else is up. We’ll have
breakfast when we come back. Everything’s perfect. It’s just what I’ve always wanted. We mustn’t let the builders cut the creepers down. Oh, and the front door’s all
wrong.’
He put his hands over his ears and dived completely inside the sleeping bag. She smiled happily, threw his clothes at the lump where his head was and went back outside.
There were two ways to the village from the junction at the top of their lane. They took the long way round, up to the right, the narrow road climbing between trees which opened out to small
fields. Mike, infected by Gally’s delight, felt the stirrings of his professional interest as they walked on and on past scattered knots of houses and came eventually to the church again.
‘It’s really extraordinary,’ he said. ‘There’s no centre to the village at all. We must have come at least a mile and there’s still more of it. All these
footpaths and little lanes and look at the field boundaries too. It’s still completely medieval.’
‘I love it,’ she said, leaning on the churchyard wall. ‘Can’t you just feel it all? There’s so little modern clutter to get in the way.’
Mike looked at her, scraping the toe of his shoe in the road uncertainly. ‘The old man,’ he said suddenly. ‘Yesterday. What on earth was all that about?’
At that moment she didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to speculate on something that had left her wondering herself.
‘It was just a present. I thought it was sweet of him.’
‘You don’t usually like wearing . . .’ the word escaped him. Hats? Headbands? ‘. . . that sort of thing.’
‘Oh nonsense, I’m always buying them.’
Buying them, not wearing them, he wanted to say, but was reluctant to spoil the mood.
‘When you put the flowers in it, he was crying.’
She was silent, frowning a little, looking past him into the middle of nowhere.
‘I don’t know exactly why. I think he was just happy.’
‘Well I think he’s a bit round the twist. I’m not sure we should encourage him.’
For an illogical second, a passionate denial flared up inside Gally. The garland ring had touched her. She almost felt it had brought her the good luck of a good night’s sleep and a
perfect awakening.
‘Mike,’ she said, keeping her tone to mild reproach. ‘There’s no harm in him. Maybe I reminded him of someone. Don’t be horrid about him.’ She looked around,
feeling a need to deflect the conversation. On the corner by the church was a wooden post topped by the village name in wooden letters, framed like an inn sign.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘The sign spells it as two words, Pen Selwood.’
‘I noticed that when we drove in. The signs when we came into the village are the same,’ said Mike, ‘but it’s joined up into one word on all our maps,
Penselwood.’
The church clock struck seven. From round the corner came an old woman, as wide as she was high. Although the morning promised nothing but sunshine, she wore a pink plastic hood knotted under
her chin. White curls spilled out around it, framing a face so startlingly flat that it looked like a plate. Her cheeks seemed to stick out further than her tiny nose and the mouth below, though
outlined by generous lips, made little use of the acres of space available to it. Even from fifty feet she was twinkling at them and the twinkling grew with each step nearer. They stopped talking,
frozen by the appearance of this force of nature.
‘Morning,
was a languorous ease in his limbs despite the bed, which brought home the fact that the night had been unbroken by the customary cycle of startled fright and calming words.
‘You slept through,’ he said.
She nodded, smiling. ‘Oh Mike,’ she said, ‘it’s so wonderful. Come on. I want to show you. Let’s walk round the village before anyone else is up. We’ll have
breakfast when we come back. Everything’s perfect. It’s just what I’ve always wanted. We mustn’t let the builders cut the creepers down. Oh, and the front door’s all
wrong.’
He put his hands over his ears and dived completely inside the sleeping bag. She smiled happily, threw his clothes at the lump where his head was and went back outside.
There were two ways to the village from the junction at the top of their lane. They took the long way round, up to the right, the narrow road climbing between trees which opened out to small
fields. Mike, infected by Gally’s delight, felt the stirrings of his professional interest as they walked on and on past scattered knots of houses and came eventually to the church again.
‘It’s really extraordinary,’ he said. ‘There’s no centre to the village at all. We must have come at least a mile and there’s still more of it. All these
footpaths and little lanes and look at the field boundaries too. It’s still completely medieval.’
‘I love it,’ she said, leaning on the churchyard wall. ‘Can’t you just feel it all? There’s so little modern clutter to get in the way.’
Mike looked at her, scraping the toe of his shoe in the road uncertainly. ‘The old man,’ he said suddenly. ‘Yesterday. What on earth was all that about?’
At that moment she didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to speculate on something that had left her wondering herself.
‘It was just a present. I thought it was sweet of him.’
‘You don’t usually like wearing . . .’ the word escaped him. Hats? Headbands? ‘. . . that sort of thing.’
‘Oh nonsense, I’m always buying them.’
Buying them, not wearing them, he wanted to say, but was reluctant to spoil the mood.
‘When you put the flowers in it, he was crying.’
She was silent, frowning a little, looking past him into the middle of nowhere.
‘I don’t know exactly why. I think he was just happy.’
‘Well I think he’s a bit round the twist. I’m not sure we should encourage him.’
For an illogical second, a passionate denial flared up inside Gally. The garland ring had touched her. She almost felt it had brought her the good luck of a good night’s sleep and a
perfect awakening.
‘Mike,’ she said, keeping her tone to mild reproach. ‘There’s no harm in him. Maybe I reminded him of someone. Don’t be horrid about him.’ She looked around,
feeling a need to deflect the conversation. On the corner by the church was a wooden post topped by the village name in wooden letters, framed like an inn sign.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘The sign spells it as two words, Pen Selwood.’
‘I noticed that when we drove in. The signs when we came into the village are the same,’ said Mike, ‘but it’s joined up into one word on all our maps,
Penselwood.’
The church clock struck seven. From round the corner came an old woman, as wide as she was high. Although the morning promised nothing but sunshine, she wore a pink plastic hood knotted under
her chin. White curls spilled out around it, framing a face so startlingly flat that it looked like a plate. Her cheeks seemed to stick out further than her tiny nose and the mouth below, though
outlined by generous lips, made little use of the acres of space available to it. Even from fifty feet she was twinkling at them and the twinkling grew with each step nearer. They stopped talking,
frozen by the appearance of this force of nature.
‘Morning,
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