24 March

A small shallow river encircles our village like a silver necklace. Called the Box, a name I love because it reminds me of box hedges and topiary, it’s a river of absolutely no significance, a stream that is a tributary of another stream, unusual only in that causes our village layout to be circular. This is rare in our part of Suffolk; most of the surrounding villages are long and straggly, with meandering streets which gently peter out into water meadows or farmland. Our village, set in a valley surrounded by rolling hills, is clustered around a traditional green, with the 12th church and Georgian rectory at one end, the Victorian Institute (village hall) at the other, and a couple of small but nonetheless curious standing stones (circular, not menhirs) dotted about. We loved the place when we first saw it, loved the fact that it had a tiny but good school, an excellent pub, a doctor’s surgery and a 1920’s garage. We bemoaned the fact that it had two good butchers, but no shop. Coming from a house that was isolated, I loved the way that the dwellings huddled together, facing inwards, protected by the natural boundary of the river. Most of the houses in the centre of the village have the river at the back; it’s the usual conversation opener here, mentioned even before the weather. It’s at the back of ours, but at the foot of a steep slope, some ten feet below the main garden. The old lady next door told me that in the 1930’s the level had risen so high that our garden was flooded, but that the water course had deviated slightly since then, and it hadn’t happened since. I love our little slice of stream; it rages like a torrent after winter rains, a swift brown rush that silences the children as it sweeps past, a mere paddling trickle in summer, perfect for cooling ankles and catching sticklebacks. Shiny stepping stones are revealed, and a tiny patch of shingly sand, or own four foot square ‘beach’. When the level’s fairly low, it’s possible to walk through the river in an almost perfect circle around the village, apart from a few tricky bits where you need to scramble up the muddy banks, or put the children on your shoulders.

It’s been a dreary drizzle of a day here, and the children, cooped up inside and waiting with mounting excitement for a party that both of them have been invited to later this afternoon, have been fractious and squabbling. In the end we hauled them out, still quarrelling gently, for a river walk, to splash the bad humour away. My son looks for big sticks, seemingly essential for any male, regardless of their age, and unusual stones. I remember him at four looking for pirates; his sister, at almost four, is convinced she can hear the siren songs of mermaids. They make no distinction between sea and river; water is water, after all, and carries their imaginations along with it on it’s bubbling journey. The day is still and cold and grey; I get impatient with spring, on days like this, when we seem to be waiting for that final flourish, the fanfare of birdsong and blooms that is just around the corner. It’s hard to remember doing this same walk in summer, the banks filled with purple loosestrife, the air heavy with midges and the scent of meadowsweet.

As we encircle the village, we pass by the gardens and houses of neighbours, friends, and acquaintances. R and I notice who’s doing what to their garden, what looks good, what doesn’t, who’s extending, who’s going to need to if it’s true that a fourth is on the way – without speaking we can sense each other’s approval or disapproval, a raised eyebrow sufficing as we pass the house of the local ‘Asbo family’, their garden awash with rusty bikes, bright plastic and old cars. I remember when they moved in and the youngest son started at the village school; on his first morning he accidentally blocked the headmistress’s way, and was admonished by his mother to “shift your a*se, you little s*d”. The hands of the yummy mummy contingent flew to their mouths in one graceful, slow-motion movement. The children see different things, though. They notice the clashing pansies planted outside the kitchen window, in defiance of the joyless chaos all around. They’re jealous of the broken down caravan, parked at the side, and wave with excitement to the children inside. We pass the ordered and soulless garden of the village busybody, who with her expressionless voice and officious manner is avoided by us; the children remember her kindness when James fell down outside school and cut his knee, and the sweetie she pressed into his hand. We pass houses where we don’t know the occupants but they do; one elderly man, a retired teacher, apparently listens to the children reading once a week at the school; a teenage occupant of another house is studying childcare at the local college and has helped out at the pre-school, we are informed. We think we know everything there is to know about this place, the feuds and the affairs, the illnesses and broken lives. Turns out the children know a different village, after all.