sixteen

George fell asleep almost straight away. Barely had he made himself comfortable, and began to feel the warmth of his own body flow about him, than his eyes closed and he was in deep rest. His breathing became soft and measured, and the sound combined with the crackles and pops of the dying fire, as well as with the creaks of the home’s beams and rafters, jambs and doors.

At a time that he could not determine precisely, for it was still dark outside, although the fire was now completely forgotten by the hearth, George felt himself awake. The close darkness all about him contained within it all the comfort of sleep, and yet it also seemed to hold more. There was a rich smell that was so complex, yet so normal to George’s nostrils, a charming quiet that was not as oppressive as total silence, but was instead punctuated by the pleasing sounds of a house alive. He was tired, and could still sense the weariness of his long walking in his legs and feet, but sleep now seemed like such a waste; how much better it was to lie here and be relaxed, in body, mind and soul.

Yet he did drift again into sleep, and this time he dreamt of strange things. There were no magical landscapes or impossible incidents; instead it was as if George himself had been transformed. Now, in order to see, he had to close his eyes, and in doing so he could see all the more clearly. And he could hear better too, as if his ears could fly around the house or across the neighbourhood, listening to the breaths of field mice or the rustling of reeds in the night breeze.

But again George awoke and this time there were the sounds of human activity. Steps were abounding upstairs, and through the door, that led into the hallway, he could hear the knocking of pots and pans, of boots walking in and out into the yard, and also the slamming of a gate. But through the heavy curtains there could not be seen much light, and what did get through made George feel even more tired. However, the guest on the sofa has an obligation to wake promptly. He got dressed, folded up the blanket, and packed the few things that he had gotten out of his bag. Next he pulled back the curtains and was momentarily blinded by the sunlight that was shining low across the landscape.

‘Good morning. Go and have some breakfast, we have a long way to go.’ Roy’s voice seemed so loud and clear in the morning sun that George could do nothing but listen to it, and so he walked through to the kitchen where he was again greeted with warmth and generosity. He enjoyed toast, eggs, bacon and some tea, and was delighted to listen to all the chatter about him; the children asking each other about things for school, the mother who would correct them and gently chide them to ‘hurry up, or you’ll be late’. George was sat on the rustic and characterful wooden chair, and whilst eating that he had found something here that he would like to share in again.

‘So did you sleep well George?’ asked Roy.

‘I did thank you. Do you need any help loading up the cart? You mentioned you were going to town today?’

‘That’s right, but I loaded the cart up last night. All I need now is for you to join me. If you still want to that is?’

‘Of course Roy. Your help would be very much appreciated. I had no idea Shepley Down would be so hard to get to.’

‘Never mind, we’ll get you there.’