Village Life

The Eildon Hills fade away behind me. The countryside flattens into coastal scenery. At the bus stop, my host G greets me with a hug.

“Is that all that you’ve got?” she asks, indicating my bags. “I’ve brought my car. Some people come with quite large trunks and it’s a bit of a hill to the house.”

“How thoughtful,” I say.

We load my things into the car and she drives us the short way up the hill to the house.  

There, she gives me the tour, shows me my room (cozy, good writing table, nice window), the bathroom and how the shower works, the thermostat and how to use it, the bird feeders and how to fill them, the cleared off shelves in the fridge and pantry that are for my use, and asks if I want a cup of tea or coffee.

“You know, thank you, but I think I’ll just drink my water,” I say, feeling a bit parched and travel worn.  

The sun is out so we sit in the garden with the sparrows chattering and chitchat until my host’s phone rings. Then I excuse myself with a wave to go unpack and to finish up my work for the day. When I’m done with that, I give myself permission to have the rest of the night off. I find a book on one of G’s shelves, sit on my little couch, and read until it’s time for bed.

The next morning, I settle in to write with the sound of a foghorn to time the minutes, the hours. The upstairs neighbor is vacuuming. A dog barks. The fog eventually clears. Gleaming sunlight spills in through the window and I squint against it.

I’m on the final stretch of this novel and find myself thinking, If I’d stayed in the countryside one more week, two more weeks this would be finished. I find myself wondering if I can adjust to new sounds, new interactions, new lighting, new daily rituals in time to finish my book before my June 19 deadline. If only I’d written quicker in the countryside.

Despite the noise and doubts, I get some good work in.

In the afternoon, my host asks if I have the time to come meet the neighbors. She’s about to go on holiday (as they say) and the neighbors are often in and out of the house. Of course, I have time because it’s better to know names and faces than be surprised by strangers in the kitchen.

She takes me next door and I stand in the dining area waiting to be introduced as the husband J calls for his wife S to come on down and G moves through the rooms as if they were her own. 

S comes into the dining area, we’re introduced, and she says, “So I hear you’re a novelist.”

What a lovely title. I hear myself explaining that I am a writer but only have short stories published and that having my books published too is the dream, the goal. (And yet, I think to myself, you are a novelist. You write novels. A person who writes novels is a novelist. A professional novelist is one who makes their living by writing novels… ah yes, that’s true. Ah yes, that’s the goal.) How news travels in a little village.  

“Be careful,” J jokes to S, “she’s got a blackbelt in judo.” He says this because I’m wearing a fleece that says Judo on it. He thinks he’s making a joke.

“You’d better be careful,” S says. “I’ll have her teach me a move.”

I make some agreeable comment, neither confirming nor denying, and the conversation moves on.

“Do you want cuppa tea or coffee?” S asks. My host has vanished off to do her next thing for she’s always moving, never still.

“Tea would be nice.”

S makes us tea and the three of us go out into the back area to sit in the sun. They’re also about to go on holiday and talk of the sunshine and warmth of Greece.

While we’re sitting there chatting, another neighbor comes out to take the laundry off the line and stands to talk with us for a bit (she’s going on the same holiday as my host) and then S and J’s teenage children come out to sit for a while to talk about the day’s plans for getting nails and hair done and to verify that they’re packed and ready to go for the next day.

My tea is gone. So, I tell them I’ll let them get on with their plans when J asks if I would mind feeding their fish while they’re gone.

“Sure,” I say. I’m already taking out the trash and feeding the sparrows at my new home so one more little thing is no big deal.

He shows me where the fish lives and gives it a wee pinch of food to show me how it’s done.

Now that I’ve had my afternoon tea, I hear my work calling me back to it and I get a few more hours in before heading out for a walk.

My host is already gone when I return from my harborside wanderings. Happy Holidaying.

The next morning as I’m midway through my morning meditation, the doorbell rings. I get up and go see J in the kitchen with a bag of food. “It’ll spoil while we’re gone, so here you go.”

I ask him if the fish has a name. He says not really.

“I didn’t want to call it the wrong thing,” I say, wondering if “not really” means yes, but the name is too strange, or no, he has no name, he’s the nameless fish.

J leaves. I finish my meditation.

A bit later, the bell rings again and S comes in with more perishables.

“You’ve brought me over a week’s worth of food,” I say.

“We were planning to be off at half past nine. There’s J, so impatient,” she says with a happy expression as J honks the horn to rally everyone. It’s nearly ten. “It’s always like this. Such a stress to leave. Once we’re there it’ll be perfect. The weather is supposed to be sunny all week.”

“Then you’ll be happy,” I say, knowing the effects of the sunshine.

“I’m already happy,” she says, Grecian sunshine in her eyes, and then she’s gone, a whirlwind of words and motion.

I hear them drive off. A minute later, one of the daughters walks past. Then S. I watch the activity through the kitchen as I make a cup of coffee. Then I think they’re really gone.

It’s just me, the sparrows, the perishable food, and the fish.

I settle in to work.

I’ve reached the emotionally pivotal part of the book and it’s hard to write it. Also, I’ve got real life emotions and thoughts at work within me and the combination is quite a mess. I’d like to have a good cry and get it all out. But I simply don’t have the time for that.

I’ve gotten in a couple hours of writing when the doorbell rings.

No one should be at the back door, so I open the front and see a lady there.

“I’ve just come to collect my keys,” she says. “I’m about to go on holiday.”

Of course, you are.

In the hallway of G’s house is a plaque with a line of hooks each which holds a million keys. I’m beginning to think that my host has a copy of every housekey in the village.

Well, I think, at this rate, with everyone leaving on holiday, soon I’ll have the entire village to myself. That might not be a bad thing. After all, it wouldn’t even matter if all the shops closed as a result since I do have a week’s worth of food now.

The lady comes part way in and we talk. She’s a poet, I’m a writer (a novelist even!) so we talk. I invite her in for tea or coffee but she says she really must run even as we talk for longer and longer, and then eventually, she goes down the hallway to find her keys, “I don’t see mine here,” she says, sorting through the different sets. Then finally she recognizes one, “I’ve got someone coming to water the garden while I’m away,” she explains as she takes it down, checks the teeth against her own set, and heads back toward the front entry.

We bid each other a fond farewell and I close the door behind her.

I settle back in to work. I’ve only got today and tomorrow to myself. On the 5^th, another guest will arrive and then the space and noise and kitchen and bathroom will be shared and so I am trying to get as much done as possible now.

I work.

During our sunlit tea of the previous day, J and S had told me about the Sunday evening music night down at a local place and I’ve decided to go.

In the meantime, watching the clock, I work.

As the music hour nears, I push away from my writing desk. I eat a hasty dinner, put on a scarf, and head out and down the hill to go and be a part of the village life.