Authors: Miranda Barnes
The
wind
rocked
the
caravan
slightly
as
I
collected
the
plates
and
took
them
over
to
the
sink.
I
straightened
the
cushions
which
the
dogs
had
disarranged
on
the
bench
seat,
and
then
ran
water
into
the
sink,
conscious
of
the
fact
that
all
of
these
actions
were
displacement
activity
to
defer
the
moment
when
I
would
have
to
look
out
of
the
window
which
faced
the
cottage.
I
watched
the
water
level
in
the
sink
carefully,
and
turned
off
the
tap
when
the
left
hand
side
was
two
inches
below
the
rim.
The
right
hand
side
was
four
inches
below
the
rim,
which
made
for
rather
awkward
washing
up
in
the
left
half
of
the
sink
to
benefit
from
the
deeper
water.
The
reason
for
this
was
the
argument
which
Martin
had
had
with
the
men
who
delivered
the
caravan.
He
had
quite
a
cutting
tongue
when
roused
and
could
be
slightly
scary,
especially
when
he’d
had
a
few
drinks.
The
men
had
suggested
that
his
chosen
site
was
too
steep;
he
had
insisted
that
it
would
not
be
a
problem,
with
the
result
that
after
dropping
the
lounge
end
of
our
temporary
home
directly
onto
the
muddy
ground,
they
had
jacked
up
the
bedroom
end
to
its
full
extent,
which
wasn’t
enough
and
resulted
in
a
fall
of
eighteen
inches
from
the
lounge
to
the
bedroom.
Martin
had
shouted
at
them,
insisting
that
they
place
paving
slabs
under
the
extended
legs
to
raise
that
end.
They
had
shouted
back,
saying
that
he
should
have
provided
a
sensible
base
in
the
first
place,
and
got
into
their
low-loader
and
driven
away,
leaving
him
standing
in
the
orchard
waving
a
fist
at
their
departing
vehicle.
The
driver’s
hand
had
come
out
of
the
window
with
two
fingers
raised
and
Martin
had
stormed
into
the
caravan,
staggering
slightly
on
the
sloping
floor,
and
demanded
that
I
write
to
the
firm
and
complain.
‘Why
me?
Why
can’t
you
write
to
them?’
I
had
asked.
‘Because
you’ll
be
better
at
it.
By
the
time
I
have
finished
with
them,
they’ll
never
come
back,’
he
said.
They
never
did,
anyway.
‘Don’t
worry,
my
love.
It
will
only
be
for
six
weeks
or
so,
then
the
cottage
will
be
ready
to
move
back
into,’
he
had
promised.
He
came
back
through
the
orchard
gate,
picking
up
the
mail
on
the
way.
Before
he
could
shut
the
door
behind
him,
the
dogs
escaped
and
set
off
after
the
postman
-
very
ambitious
of
them
because
he
was
at
least
three
miles
away
by
now.
Fortunately
Martin
had
shut
the
gate
and
they
had
to
make
do
with
investigating
an
old
rabbit
hole
under
the
hedge.
‘You
let
them
out.
If
they
get
stuck,
you
can
dig
them
out,’
I
said.
‘Oh!
They’ll
be
all
right.
If
they
can
get
in,
they
can
get
out,’
he
said.
‘Okay,
so
what
was
the
bang?’
I
asked.
‘Nothing,
really.
Just
a
loose
bit
came
down.’
‘It
sounded
like
quite
a
big
bit.’
‘Yes,
well
it
would
probably
have
had
to
come
down
anyway.’
‘How
big?’
‘Well,
part
of
the
end
wall,
actually.’
‘The
end
wall!’
I
did
look
out
of
the
window
now.
It
saved
a
few
minutes
of
questioning
him
as
to
which
end
wall.
We
had
fallen
in
love
with
this
place
when
we
had
first
seen
it.
It
still
had
the
old
well
in
the
front
garden.
Perched
halfway
up
a
hill
overlooking
a
wooded
valley
and
small
river,
the
cottage
was
built
of
stone
with
a
rather
tired-looking
thatched
roof.
On
the
ridge
of
the
roof,
the
thatcher
had
fashioned
what
must
once
have
been
a
proud
cock
pheasant
which,
by
the
time
we
bought
the
cottage
looked
as
if
it
had
lowered
its
head
to
peck
at
grain,
and
not
made
it
up
again.
The
wind
had
worn
away
its
tail-feathers
to
a
stump.
Now
it
had
vanished.
And
so
had
the
ridge
it
was
standing
on.
I
had
wanted
to
have
the
thatch
re-done,
and
we
had
spent
an
evening
arguing
the
merits
of
beauty
over
practicality,
with
him
quoting
fire
risks
and
expensive
insurance
at
me.
In
the
end,
I
had
reluctantly
agreed
to
a
new
slate
roof.