Into the wood. One of the paths leading from the London Road to The Common."We need milk" says a woman in the supermarket. She has a loud voice. She says it again to her little husband
who has it appears no voice at all. "We need milk," she says shouting this time." That's three times I told you."
O that scent again. Perfume I should say. Again I smell it and then hunt for the shrub. Sarcococca. There are two this time. In a shrubbery in Calverley Ground, proud of being able to identify it, I spot two of the bushes with their dark green leaves and small, star shaped white flowers. The aroma still makes me think of the warm smell of horses.
2 comments:
He hasn't reacted; you describe him as a little husband. I'm tempted to imagine I'm reading fiction where no detail is truly random, where all are there for a purpose. Those two facts are close enough to hint at cause and effect. I find myself asking questions. Is he very little? What is the tone of her voice; has it a grindstone quality; has it worn him down? Or does the woman resemble nature in that she abhors a vacuum. Has to fill up silence with words, anything. Doesn't take much, does it? Provided you're Tchekov. I've never really understood short stories, their provenance or their purpose.
As you can probably guess, I'm breaking off eagerly from the MS.
As far as I could tell he didn't react. It was crowded. Difficult to stand and stare. Neither he nor she was very small or very large. There was a sense of plumpness about him. Tchekov and I would have some work to do. I used the word "little" because in one sense he could only have been little in the same way that she could only have loomed menacingly wherever he trod. Sorry to have disturbed the Blessed.. with such triviality.
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