By the morning, the storm has blown itself out but left the village with no electricity. We wrap up and stroll down the hill to the ramshackle barn where, in faded black paint, a sign proclaims ‘Veg in Shed’. I point out the cluster of nests under the eaves and you tell me to expect the swallows back in April, that they’ll fly six thousand miles from Africa, but not in a straight line.
On an old door laid across some crates are a bunch of carrots with the green bits tied in red baling twine, a rubble of muddy potatoes, and an untrimmed Savoy cabbage on which a brace of slugs are copulating. There’s a battered Quality Street tin for the money and an enamelled set of scales pocked with scabs of rust, with a platform for the weights, but no actual weights.
Back in the cottage, we peel and chop and you tell me about teaching sewing skills at an orphanage in Tamil Nadu, a day’s drive from Chennai; your elder twin sisters, both married with kids; your plans for a working holiday in Australia. I tell you it’s been a lifesaver, coming up here every weekend, building a log store, going to hotpot suppers in the village hall. I tell you what they say here, that Suffolk has more sky than anywhere.
We put the pan on the woodburning stove and head out again, along the back lane they call the Road to Nowhere, until it becomes a track, then narrows to a path. When this peters out, we climb a stile to skirt a ploughed field up to the wood, where it’s alternately mud-slippy or loamy with leaf mould. You chatter about grumpy goblins, elves dancing with nymphs, dairymaids cavorting with their swains beneath the gnarly oaks. Avoiding snares of barbed briars, we emerge at the far side where, across the sodden fields towards Lavenham, black clouds are menacing the pewter sky.
By the time we get back to the track, it’s a stream. Before we reach the tiny village green, our boots are squelchy sponges. Ditching our sopping clothes in the kitchen, we try to rub one another warm under a tepid shower before snuggling in front of the stove, your soft ginger hair turbaned in a towel.
It’s dark by half-past four and we light my emergency candles. When you say it’s like a church and perhaps we should pray, I’m not sure you’re joking. We squint at last week’s ‘Observer’ before feasting on our hearty soup, relishing its heat and congratulating ourselves on being so resourceful. After thrashing me twice at Scrabble, you place the sofa cushions neatly in front of the hearth and unbutton your dress.
In the morning, the electricity is back on and we walk in the other direction, across the empty fields and along through the meadows to Chelsworth. We stand on the bridge, watching the swollen river surging through, and you explain that swallows stop over in reed beds to sleep while they’re migrating, up to a million in the same place, like an enormous bird motel.
Later, you’re quiet after I lock up and we head south through Halstead and Braintree. Before we reach the motorway, you’ve fallen asleep. As we stop-start through the London traffic, you jerk awake and navigate me to Forest Gate, where you ask me to drop you at the corner, rather than drive down your road. When I ask you about next weekend, you say you’ll let me know, that things are a bit complicated. You hurry into the dark, your bag over your shoulder, and I wonder why swallows don’t travel in a straight line. As I drive away, I remember you saying that half of them return to the same nest.
This story is a dilation—the quiet intimacy of a couple’s secret romantic getaway. Without the need to know the narrator’s name or gender, I was right there with them, becoming attuned to the finest of details, my heart longing to nest.
Avi Ben-Zeev
With intricate prose and impeccable detail, “More Sky Than Anywhere” weaves a wistful tale of two lovers at a crossroads.
Deesha Philyaw
Chris Cottom lives near Macclesfield, UK. He’s packed Christmas hampers in a Harrods basement, sold airtime for Radio Luxembourg, and served a twelve-year stretch as an insurance copywriter. He liked the writing job best. @chris_cottom1 | chriscottom.wixsite.com/chriscottom
Oxford Flash Fiction Prize 