Tales from the riverbank
APAIR of teenage swans has taken up residence on the river outside the kitchen window, brown, ungainly, eating weed. One of them glides towards the heron that is staring down from the bank. They both flap their tail feathers in a protracted face off until the swan gets bored and drifts away.
The nuthatch hurtles full pelt at the bird feeder, yet slams on the brakes in time not to crash. A new mole has, as predicted, moved in. The bulbs are coming up. The pelargonium cuttings are doing well on the windowsill, possibly too well, leggy. Plenty of old branches lie around post Eunice. In three weeks, the clocks change. It’s all about looking forward.
Our friend arrives to take away rugs for cleaning, as this is now his business. He whistles when he sees our moth traps. We lift the sofa and a large ball of I’m not sure what falls out. ‘Mouse nest,’ Zam says. ‘We do not have mice in the sofa,’ I wish to reassure our friend, who looks as if he might leave empty handed. He peers intently at the back of the rug. ‘I can try to save it. Or you could throw it away.’ I offer him coffee, but, for some reason, he wishes to leave, immediately.
Then there is a cow in the garden. ‘Zam!’ I shout. ‘I’m on a call,’ he shouts back. ‘It’s an emergency.’ Actually, it isn’t, because the cow is calmly and happily munching ivy off a tree trunk. Still, there are a lot more cows where that came from, which is the water meadow on the other side of the river. This cow has crossed into the garden where the river bank has collapsed. We often stand and stare at this collapse, wonder aloud how to fix it, then go back to whatever we were doing.
The bank is the subject of letters given to us by our brother-in-law (from whom we bought the house). Dating from 1967, they trace a neighbourly dispute that escalates and recedes, escalates and recedes, largely conducted by the charming Mr Grubb, acting for the other side, literally.
‘I do apologise for the delay in acknowledging your letter. Believe me, no discourtesy was intended—i have been on holiday. Perhaps a formal acknowledgement should have been sent and for this lapse I am sorry. The trouble is that my secretary was also on holiday—albeit not with me!’ Or: ‘If perchance I appeared a little dense when you telephoned me, the reason was that I could not, at that moment, picture the little triangle of land —quite apart from the fact that I am by nature dense!’
By the 1980s, all parties had become so well acquainted and the actual dispute so clouded in peculiarities that the letters take on a weary air of genial frustration, sometimes with non-legal advice: ‘I am personally a strong believer in rooting out elders before the inevitable saplings spring up as they are a menace.’ Or: ‘Our client appreciates your intention with regard to the control of your hounds. Their straying has caused him some anxiety.’ Each letter is a gem: polite, considered, humorous and patient.
For the past few months, I have read only Cold War thrillers, addicted to spies and stiff drinks, Berlin and black markets, the book equivalent of avocados with prawn cocktail and the reassuring sense of reading about a time long gone. Obviously, now, I feel like a fool. The cow picks her way back across the river, delicately avoiding barbed wire and brambles at a leisurely pace. Rather like Mr Grubb, I think. I put the letters away. This is not a time for nostalgia. Spring. Onwards.
A large ball of I’m not sure what falls out. “Mouse nest,” Zam says