Page 2 of The Christmas Invitation
Anyway, as you see, I have now fallen prey to the lure of autobiography and so decided to pen a memoir – though for the family, rather than general publication, I think … unless it undergoes a radical editorial pruning at a later date.
I will start where I was born, in the village that lies in the valley below the house where I now reside, though I reserve the right to wander to and fro among my memories as the fancy takes me. Of course, I will always return here, for as Henry says, we are both firmly rooted in the village of Starstone, even if those roots are now washing about under the still waters of the reservoir.
Let us ripple the surface and stir up the silt a little …
Clara Mayhem Doome
The Red House,
Starstone Edge,
January 2016
1
Going Viral
Meg
November 2016
I used to think pneumonia was something that only elderly people and those with compromised immune systems got … but not any more. Autumn put off its bronze leaves and turned to stark winter before River finally sprang me from hospital and drove me home to convalesce, though I don’t think they’d have let me go, had they seen the state of his ancient Land Rover. As it was, they looked slightly askance at his long silver hair, plaited beard and the medieval-style quilted tabard, worn over black tunic and trousers, which was revealed when he removed his stained and disreputable waxed drover’s coat.
Outside, exposed to the chill air of the car park, I felt like a shrivelling hothouse plant, but I assured myself that I’d toughen up again, like I had after my last hospital stay, six years ago, when a car crash had ended the new life inside me that had barely begun. The anguish and mental scars of that loss had taken longer to heal than the physical ones.
My bags, packed by my best friend, Fliss, were already in the back and, once River had carefully wrapped me in an itchy hand-woven travelling rug, we headed straight out of London.
It didn’t matter where I was, home would always be River’s Farm up in the Black Mountains of Wales.
When he had first moved there in search of solitude and a life of self-sufficiency (within reason; there were some little luxuries, like good coffee, that he had no intention of doing without), the place had had a Welsh name that summed up its beautiful remoteness. But with the success of his first publication,A Manual for the Self-Sufficient Vegetarian, it was soon forgotten, and fan mail addressed to ‘River’s Farm’, or even just ‘The Farm, Wales’, found its way there without any difficulty, as did a stream of fans and acolytes.
Over the ensuing years it had evolved from a simple commune into something far more complex, though at heart it had remained true to its roots and had been a wonderful place to grow up.
I fell fast asleep despite the Land Rover’s almost non-existent suspension, and was woken only by the rattle as we crossed a cattle grid and bumped up the long track to the Farm. In the thick, woolly gloom of a winter afternoon, the dark conifers of the Forestry Commission woodland pressed up close against the fence to one side, while above us lights shone steadily from the lower windows of the house and the craft workshops in the barns. Between the hedges and trees to our left, lights from the yurts in the lower field flickered like a scattering of glow-worms.
I wound the window down a fraction and inhaled the heady scent of pine from the forest, mixed with a little wood smoke.
Soon I would be enclosed in the womb-like warmth and safety of the commune as if I’d never left – and how I longed for that!
It was the place I came for healing, though in my heart I already knew that with returning health would come the desperate urge to escape again.
I was quite right, too. By the start of December my flight feathers had grown back and I was more than ready to leave the downy softness of the nest again, where Maj, one of the long-standing members of the commune, almost suffocated me with mother love and tried to fatten me up with an endless succession of my favourite foods.
Well, apart from the occasional lunch like that of the previous day, when Oshan (River’s son and my sort-of brother – relationships at the Farm are complicated), had insisted on cooking. Unfortunately he had turned vegan while spurning recipe books in favour of ‘intuitive cookery’, whatever that was. The result had both looked and tasted like butterbeans in chilli sauce on chopped grass. It probably was.
Only a few members of the original commune still lived in the house, like Maj and her husband, Kenny, while most of the rest had either left or moved into the yurt encampment that had sprung up in the lower field. Everyone still wandered in and out at all times of the day and night, so there was a complete lack of privacy. Of course, you could go and stand in one of the fields furthest away from the farmhouse, but even then, you might find Jerry and Luke with the goats, or an inquisitive donkey nudging you in the back and braying loudly, to give your location away.
In winter, after pneumonia, that option probably wouldn’t have been a good idea anyway, though having survived thejourney from London in River’s unheated vehicle, there was clearly hope of a complete recovery.
I did have a slip of a bedroom to myself, over the front porch of the farmhouse, which was never used for visitors, even in summer, when the place was full with temporary helpers and the bunk rooms in the attic were crammed to bursting.
It was a privilege Oshan shared, though as River’s son, he had a right to it by heritage, while I was awarded a granddaughter’s rights from love.
For all official purposes, Maj and Kenny were my parents, Oshan my brother and River my grandfather. It had saved a lot of trouble and explanations over the years.
I didhavea birth mother and so did Oshan, though both were quick enough to deposit their offspring at the Farm and depart, leaving their little cuckoos in the nest.
On the first Sunday in December, River reluctantly agreed to return me to the shoebox-sized Greenwich flat I’d shared until recently with Fliss.
