Hilda my partner turned in her bed as the early morning train hurtled by at breakneck speed sending tremors round our dwelling.
Those long flowing tresses embrace the shafts of first light so enthusiastically.
An otherworldly spot we somehow lived in teetering on the green tufts of dew-soaked ambience near the railway tracks.
Clumps of moss also intersperse with the wildest flora and cowl shape vegetation surrounding us.
A slope strewn with perilous azure coloured stones and slime clad granites etched in silty canvass underpin this natural world vista for both Martin and hilda’s chosen fields.
Burgundy red and cinnamon recess timbre boards conjunct the wall carvings and portraits that Hilda creates.
Yet our Garapa decking was a pride and joy to behold
as we strolled outside arm in arm.
“We seem transfixed by this place.”  Martin, her lover archly.
“A decent living can be earned, but what happens if we become famous, Martin?”
Hilda interjects with rapid rail sounds as unfolding denouement.
“See those folk waving at us.
They seem strangely happy.”  Hilda this time.
The characters in my novels and short stories  like Hilda’s paintings were prone to overlap while at the same time filling lacunae.
Of late we noticed this synchronicity of the most surreptitious kind.
“There are certain patterns.
Where we live is appearing more often in each other’s works.”  Hilda reflected.
“In one sense.”
Martin replies.
There was a spring shower outside.
“I love the way the characters in your book segue into people’s faces like my images.
Once can sense a pressurised belonging.”
Hilda muses.
“Would a trip into town interest you?
We can leave our car behind  and dash across the nearby bridge to the train station.”
Martin flicks the ashes of his cigar which he left awkwardly on an ashtray by one of his novels  and hilda’s sketch absentmindedly.
Facing a splendid Saturday together they lock all access points.
The usual last minute checks against an impulse to spread their wings and fly away.
A narrow path leading from their cabin to the aforementioned connecting bridge had the usual hard clay craters and blackberry mist hedge rows.
Shortly after they were part of the exodus they frequently observed.
An uneasy feeling descends on Martin as he watches their cabin from the train.
Those sudden fearful pangs that suddenly intrude.
What were those startling thoughts his imagination couldn’t shed?
“Is there something troubling you, Martin?”
Hilda anxiously.
“Oh it’s nothing ….really.”
Martin with caution.

Their journey was short,  all things considered.
They alight from a packed train and into a busy town they went at speed.
There were those usual gourmet markets, stands and specialist shops as people throng like flies in an amorphous buzz.
Martin and Hilda browsed windows of different furniture stores.
Certain additions were being set in train.
“It makes a change for us I suppose.”
Hilda opined.
Martin silently concurring.
“It will probably take another trip to fully organise ourselves.
Maybe next week.”  Hilda suggests.
“Yes, but of course the finances, and the catalogues...everything.”
Martin sombrely.
Between visits to various cafes and amusement parks, places of interest it was quite late.
In fact 10.30pm  and the last train home had just departed.
“Horrors.  What now I ask?”
Martin shaking.
“Not to worry.  I know a friend who’ll accommodate us.
You met her last year.
She has this haunting place.”
Hilda mystically.
“We’ll miss that log cabin, won’t we?  But it’s only for a night.”  She continued.
“We will.”   Martin lost in thought.
“You still have that worried look. What’s wrong?”
Hilda probing deeper again.
“Oh it’s just a passing flicker.”
Martin speaking.
At that point back in the log cabin Martin’s cigar burns ominously beside Hilda’s drawing and his novel.




No reviews yet.