GUEST: Efford Life, By Diana Mason

StoryWorld Creative Writing student Diana Mason gives us a taste of Devon life in a superb piece of life-writing.

Sunday 15^th February. A lie-in this morning after a late night at The Red Lion watching Cornish folk band Dalla. I slept with my ears full of haunting melodies, reels and great singing. Dreamed of Scillies granite rocks that wrecked sailors, mermaids, the Cribben and all things west of the Tamar. Woke to find a cup of cold tea beside me. P already up and out with the dogs. Outside, a delicate dusting of frost brightens the sodden ground beneath. The chickens inspect the ice on the pond. 

The sky is a brilliant blue and the sun’s warmth diffuses the early morning chill. The chickens set off in search of grubs across the next field and head towards the barn on the far side.

P and dogs are back. I make porridge on the new Rayburn.

A large lilac tree toppled over in the recent high winds and needs to be removed. P dons bright green dungarees, bright orange safety helmet and steel-capped boots. He looks rather hunky, but the reason is the chainsaw. We spend the next hour or so dismantling the lilac. I am a sad as the flowers were gorgeous and the scent fantastic, also there is now a big gap. We sit on the garden seat in the sun, and over a cup of coffee discuss the lilac’s replacement. The air is warm and bright, the sky blue blue blue, and bird-song fills the air. 

The next job for the chainsaw is to clear a dead tree in the hedgerow. Over time it has come to lean against a large hawthorn and the branches are entwined in the blackthorn. It’s hard, noisy, prickly work – mostly done by P while I move branches and logs. A colony of bees living in the chimney have been roused by the Spring sun and drift in and out.

 The dogs mooch around and the terriers dig where moles have created their neat round air holes. Over lunch we talk about what breed of pig we’ll have this year. Probably Berkshires.

Then back to work. The garden needs attention. I clear dead stuff from the beds for the bulbs coming through. There are some snowdrops and a daffodil is about to flower. 

The chickens wander back to our field and head out again, this time through the orchard, peck peck as they go.

Small clouds start to populate the sky and the temperature falls. We set a fire in the field to burn the bits of dead tree that can’t be used for anything else. It all has to be dragged to the bonfire site. 

We hear cries of ‘help help’. Our 74-yr old neighbour has fallen off a ladder. He is his usual calm, jovial self but he has fallen a long way. The ambulance arrives and eventually he is taken off to A&E. Poor man. A, who had lent the offending ladder, accompanies the casualty’s wife to hospital.

L drops in. She has a bottle of wine and a thank you note. When they were threatened by water gushing off the fields, P made up sand bags and secured their back door and all was well.

After a supper of roast pork we sit by the fire to watch TV. A knock at the door. It’s A just back from the hospital to update us; a fractured femur, some morphine and a stay in hospital for the casualty.

And so to bed.

image: (c) Aaron Bihari http://www.flickr.com/photos/dakima-arts/ Creative Commons (CC BY-SA 2.0)