Spring comes to Little Venice
A very persistent bird takes up residence and commences 6am squawking.
I normally explore the weird and wonderful in the English landscape and write about it every couple of weeks. At the moment I’m confined to discovering the delight in my immediate surroundings, or in memory. If this sounds like something that would interest you, why not subscribe? Or, if you’re already subscribed, consider recommending to a friend to whom it might also bring joy?
I can’t help but feel that spring has been a long time coming. I don’t know if it was the same last year. Perhaps it was. I recall, at the start of March, it still being winter; and fleeing London with all my jumpers and coats and socks to stay with my family. Locked down there, as April turned into May, I cursed that I hadn’t brought anything summery to wear, as I sweated in the afternoons at my wfh desk with the window open. The glory of that lockdown spring, with the velvet grass of Worcestershire rolling away, trees creaking with blossom, a din of birds each morning, Friday gin & tonics out on the patio.
When we came back to London, the first week of June, it was a shock to see the heavily pollarded plane trees on our street thickly in leaf, having left them as fingery skeletons. And then there followed a period of humdrum weather until the August heatwave, where we sat inside all day with the windows open and the blinds drawn, sweating on the sofa, unable to move. One day, able to bear it no longer, we caught a train to Abergavenny to stay in Hay-on-Wye with Aled’s family. As his dad picked us up in the car, the clouds opened and bucketed rain over us, a storm thundering as Aled ran out to grab us fish & chips. That was when wearing masks in shops was still new. Aled said when he went in, the women behind the counter gave him funny looks.
Was spring always so sudden? Was I always shivering in a blanket until the last week of March, whereupon it was suddenly 20 degrees and the trees in full flower, and one single, persistent bird squawking outside my window at 6am each morning?
The green parakeets were in our garden last week. They come around every few months, and seem to stay together in a flock. I don’t know what the logic is, but I would guess I see them three or four times a year. Perhaps they migrate round the gardens and parks of north west London. In the grey wintry light, their plumage is dulled, almost the same colour as the sludgy branches they perch on.
I am inept at watching birds, but walking round the block for my morning air on Tuesday I was struck by the chorus from a roadside hedgerow. On the empty pavement ahead of me, I saw an elegant figure descend from one of the redbrick blocks, swing her recycling into the Biffa bin and turn off round the corner. I only glimpsed her face but I could have sworn it was Letitia Wright, of Black Panther fame, whom we had watched just last weekend in Steve McQueen’s Mangrove.
It is supposed to be hot next week. Well, all I can say is I am glad. It has been a long winter, even for me.
Below the signature, I’ve included instalment 4 of the seaside story I kicked off a few issues ago. If you need catching up, you can find instalments one, two and three here. I’d really love your feedback!
And also, if you fancy a bit of perspective on life, can recommend this thread 🤯
I hope you enjoyed this week’s short update! Where are you wandering? Please leave a comment, add to the map or let me know on Twitter!
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Sincerely,
Ruth
Prior instalments one, two and three here. Rebecca has come to stay with Julia and Giles, in the Airbnb flat at the top of their house, in a strange seaside town. There is a chalk hill figure of a fish, and on the morning after Rebecca’s arrival, the town awakes to find it has been vandalised.
Awake -- --
still in her clothes. Sliding door concertinaed open. Light falling from the next room. A slight shuffling, like an animal, or somebody --
Julia, through the crack in the door. Back turned, ponytail hair, black lycra. Shoulders hunched, turned up to the window. Phone camera’s fake click. Underbreath muttering.
Rebecca sat up carefully, smoothed her hair. Feet on the floor, tried to hand-iron her clothes. Pushed the door a little and it squawked against the wood. Pulse against her temple.
Christ you gave me a fright! Massaging a hand on her chest.
Sorry.
Do you think it’s a cult?
Rebecca stepped a little forward. Out of the window, on the slope of the downs as they stretched away -- a giant fish, etched into the chalk. It looked like someone had ringed around the eye with purple paint, given it a pair of booties.
She pursed her lips around the laugh. Lines of alarm dug deep between Julia’s nose and upper lip, the last elastic skin left.
I’ve seen it on Channel 4. Maybe if we told them they’d send someone to investigate.
What does it mean?
I’ve got a friend. A professor of neopagan religions, Perhaps he can tell us. They could be casting some sort of spell. They could be planning something.
It’s not the first time?
She turned to look out at the window again. A couple of little black figures were beetling over its face, perhaps on hands and knees.
Well that’s exactly it. They’ve done it before. Madge is a bit mad. She’ll probably get misty eyed about it, I expect. It’s all grist to their mill. You know, the conspiracy types.
Rebecca nodded like she was following along. Julia started typing something on her phone.
I need to convene the Parish Council ASAP.
Yes.
You should come. Make yourself known. She gave a flick of the wrist, clanking two large silver bangles. Started to descend the stairs, not looking up from her phone. Rebecca followed her instinctively to the stairwell, worried that she might fall. When she reached the bottom step, flicked her chin up suddenly.
Remind me what it is you do for work, again?
Computer security. Software.
Julia looked away distractedly, then gave one single nod. Right. Disappeared onto the landing.
Looked down at herself. Her mauve cashmere top. Jeans were wrinkled. Through the bathroom door, in the mirror - hair scrunched at the ends, wild strands escaping from the top. Julia had barely looked at her below the neck, unusual for her type. The door at the bottom of the stairs banged shut. A breeze had slithered under the sash window and streaked down to the landing.
Unzipped her case on the dresser. Unloaded her washbag, made of a recycled firehose -- a gift from her mother last birthday. It’s sustainable! It was childish how she felt about receiving something that would otherwise have been thrown away. Why think like that? How petty!
Electric toothbrush she had finally bought after years of pestering from her Oral-B sponsored dentist. The Bible she liked to have on her just in case. Just in case what? Mark had asked, as she unpacked this same case in a strange hotel, smell of years-old cigarette smoke still lingering. Mind your own business, she’d snapped.
Just in case someone spoke to her and she had to look it up -- maybe. But she didn’t say it.
Anyway your book’s in here, she had said to him, holding it up, you should know.
You know me, he said, I’m a heathen, unbuttoning his shirt on his way into the bathroom, running a basin full of water, sponging the sweat from his armpits.
For fucks sake close the door, she said. No one needs to see that.
Don’t pretend you don’t lav it, he said, in that stupid put-on accent.
Later that night, lights out, lying in their twin beds. White light of the streetlamp lacing through net curtains.
Mind if I ask you a question?
She groaned.
Heard him shifting in his sheets. Have you ever wanted to shag?
Mark!
Not even a bit?
Waving a hand. Fuck off or I’ll report you! You’re not serious.
Yes.
Pause. This is a really shit chat up line just FYI.
I’m not trying, I just… heard him slump back against the sheets.
Mark?
I just want someone to listen, OK. I thought you could be kind.
Turned over to face him. Come on. What’s going on?
I can’t remember the last time I felt that, you know, for anybody.
Lust?
Yeah. Or just like, excitement, you know?
Turned to look up at the ceiling.
You’re thinking it too, I know you are.
Yeah, you know what? It’s been a long time. At our age, that’s what you can expect.
At our age? You’re ten years younger than me!
It doesn’t matter. Age affects women differently.
You mean the biological clock and all that. Since me and Kerry, you know --
Mark, go to sleep.
Didn’t you ever want a kid?
What? Mark, I’m not comfortable --
I’m just saying, you know, we don’t have all the time.
Mark, please. We’re working.
I’m just saying! You know, we’ve known each other for a long time. Did we really think it would turn out like this? What happens to people like us, you know what I mean?
Are you really sure you’re not coming on to me?
I know, I’m sorry, he said. I was just trying to get your attention. Do you forgive me? I probably say something in my book about it. I should probably read it.
She groaned into the dark. Alright.
I’m just joking. Obviously. Night.
Night.
Sweet dreams.
She had felt strange in the morning. Mark hadn’t said much, peering into his orange juice at breakfast, scattering granola over the greasepaper tablecloth. In fact they hadn’t spoken about it again. The job after that had been pretty normal. They’d got a special mention when they got back, the highest performing on the team.
She slammed the rest of the books down on the bedspread. Nancy Mitford, a book of Raymond Carver short stories she’d been carrying around for years. At least it was light. She slotted them into the shelf on the bedside. Heard the sound of a car starting on the street outside. Julia shouting something to the kids upstairs.