Beech Wood Embers

  The sun left a warm purple light lingering in the sky. Val was watering her tomatoes and basil, her beans and leeks, and scores of flowers she didn’t know the names of. She was tall and sinewy like fennel, and as secretive as a daisy in the shade. It took her years to make friends and seconds to make enemies. She lived alone by choice. Her past drove her to solitude, and solitude asked nothing of her. She had her garden, and like an old friend, it gave back the energy she put in. The Oaks watched on as she grew evermore winter-worn with each passing season. The birds sang evensong, the wind blew her hair, and the rain lulled her to sleep, whispering timpani on the caravan roof.    She was at an age where her primal allure was dwindling. She was glad she no longer had a body that men lusted over. In her youth, she had been so beautiful the men of the town had followed her round like blood hounds. Their advances were folly, for she didn’t find men attractive, what she wan...

  I stood at the edge of the forest in the rain, as ashen grey clouds thickened above. It was one of those days when the sun refuses to make an appearance. I stood there contemplating whether to climb over the barbwire. It was a small forest by European standards. English forests are small and shabby. You can walk from one side to the other of most of them in an afternoon. They’re far too small to get lost in, unless you venture in after dark.              The sun that hadn’t shone was going down behind the leafless oaks. It was cold after the March rain. The birds had begun to sing again, but the day carried no warmth. The wild garlic had risen out from the sodden mud. The land was at that point before the warmth of spring, when everything waits in expectation, trees, plants, animals, all waiting for the warmth of the sun. When the sun hits, everything bursts into life and the stillness of Winter is forgotten by all but h...

The black rolls drove into the grounds of Green Stag House. They passed through the rust ridden cast iron gates, a toothless gate keeper shot them a grin and shut the gates behind them. They drove slow along an avenue of lime, to their left an old pleasure maze, to their right, acres of gardens, all over grown and forgotten. They swerved a boating lake with fountain statue of Poseidon and his water nymphs in the centre. Cynthia peered into the moonlit gardens. She glimpsed a lone silver figure. Her skin prickled.             ‘Who’s that woman?’ Cynthia said to her new husband, Lord Sotherbill.             ‘Nothing dear, just an old statue of Hera.’             ‘I thought I saw It move.’             ‘It’s just a trick of the moonlight.’ Cynthia went quiet. The car drove o...