I live in a house. A very old house. 650 years very old, to be precise. It is a crooked, timber-framed house in a town of crooked, timber-framed houses. Inside, a woodburning stove does its best to stave off the winter bite, though the cold, stone floor and aged front door do little to help. Bunches of wild herbs have been strung up here and there to dry. Feathers, stones, and other treasures found on long walks, adorn the windowsills. Jars of home-made jams and vinegars, syrups and chutneys, fill the pantry. At the back door, a wicker basket, muddied boots, and a forager’s-knife show evidence of a recent expedition. Upstairs, low beams, darkly charred from the medieval fire that long ago burned in what was once an open hall, must be carefully maneuvered to avoid a concussion. Furniture throughout has been propped up with bricks or pieces of wood in order to make it level, and many of the windows have been painted shut so they don’t fall to pieces. It is, for all intents and purposes, an infuriating and impractical house. But it is home.
I am attempting to herd a blubbering 4 year old down the front steps. There has been a misunderstanding. I understood we were not taking his scooter to pre-school. He understood that we were. The fall-out seems extreme.
“I think we should take him to a professional,” says his mother from the doorway, cradling our baby daughter in her arms.
I look at the boy and shrug.
“It’s just a tantrum,” I say, “But yeah, sure, whatever.”
She looks at me with incredulity.
“I was talking about the hair,” she says.
“Ah yes, the hair.”
I take in the hillbilly mullet she has just carved out of his beautiful, blonde locks. Poor boy. At least the scooter has distracted him from looking in the mirror. I strap him into his car-seat, still sobbing. By the time I have circled the car and got behind the wheel, he has transformed, in that Jeckyl and Hyde way that small children do, into a beaming, happy child with eyes full of wonder.
“Nigel,” he says. “Where do people go when they die?”
I wince. It is too early in the morning to be quizzed on the subject of mortality. I fire the question back at him.
“Where do you think they go?”
He ponders it for a moment, then without a hint of irony says, “to Stowmarket”.
It’s strange but a year and a half ago I didn’t even know he existed and yet now I can’t imagine life without him. I look back at his smiling mother and his baby sister, framed by the doorway to our home, with its flaking, Suffolk -pink facade and empty plant pots. She waves goodbye. We wave back. I feel utterly blessed. She is, in one way, like a mirror to my thoughts, my emotions, my frustrations. And yet, in another way, she is unlike anyone I have ever known. She is no ordinary woman, after all. And to think, if it hadn’t been for a donkey and a storm we would never have met. But we’ll get to that the next time. In the meantime, this is this week’s offering to you, recorded live in my home on this lazy Sunday morning, No Ordinary Woman.
52 Silent Songs 