An episode in a woodland village

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An  Episode in a Woodland Village

At about four in the afternoon my train, already moving at an arthritic pace, stopped completely, and I could see that we were in a clearing with a low wooden station platform; a uniformed man marched along the train blowing a loud whistle.

He yelled something; on seeing my blank expression, he made a stopping gesture with his hands. Out train. 

Puzzled, I stood on the platform examining the timetable: no train out until tomorrow. 

My fellow passengers seemed all to have dispersed with magical speed. Alone, I saw the single road leading, unpaved, to a church, probably the centre of the village. 

Indeed,  it was so. The timber church, in a robust but elegant design, stood on one side, a cemetery next to it. On the other sides were houses, a grocery shop, perhaps a school. The houses were wooden. Many were prettily coloured while others were dilapidated. 

Beyond these buildings stretched forest and there seemed to be no life around except the occasional small grey bird. The air had a certain softness. 

I stood, hapless, with my backpack. 

Then, in a moment of wit, I entered the shop.  Hotel?

Yes. Small hotel not hotel. She made a gesture meaning almost. She walked out of the shop and pointed to a red wooden house with a little sign on which, when I approached, I could see a bed depicted. I knocked on the door.

Silence.

I saw a knob and pulled it. A bell. Then footsteps and a middle aged woman in an apron.

Hello.

Yes.

Hotel?

She made a gesture with her hand like that the shop assistant had, meaning almost.

Ok, I said

Her face was pinkly wholesome. I sensed she was a little shy. Come, she said.

 I went in.

A lithograph of a peroxide Jesus raising his hands in blessing hung near the entrance. 

And to my left was a front room where an old woman slumbered. There were cross stitch images bearing messages on the walls.

The woman pointed to a small sign with room rates. 

Ok, I said. 

She smiled. 

She pointed to a mat and I pulled my boots off. I followed her in my stockinged feet up the stairs.

 The house turned out to be larger than I might have imagined.  All was wooden, occasionally creaking agreeably underfoot.

She pushed open a door. 

My room.

Dinner, she indicated one hour with a finger.

Just me.

A springy bed with a patchwork cover. 

 The view of grey brown trees from the window, their endless growing and dying. My own breathing. The sad feeling that old silent country places have. Evening coming.

I lay down. An hour passed. There was a basin and a jug on a cupboard.

 I washed my face and looked at myself. Oh God,  why am I here? I started downstairs.

The woman appeared at the foot of the stairs. Come, she said, and we entered a parlour with a dining  table, and on the table a tureen and a stack of soup bowls and a basket of bread. There were four place settings with huge silver spoons. On one side sat the old woman. She muttered something but I don't think it was directed at me. 

On another side sat a man perhaps fifty years of age. Good evening, he said. Sit down. We can speak English.

I hope you like soup? My wife makes excellent soup. 

The woman- his wife- stood to serve the thick soup which did indeed smell most deliciously.  I was passed the basket of the heavy black bread. 

She too sat down and we began the soup eating. We ate in a silence broken only by the clink of the gigantic cutlery on the porcelain and the muttering of the old lady in between her slurps.

The man said, are you going to do some walking?

I replied, no, in fact I was on my way to the capital, but the train stopped here.

The man looked at me dismissively. I suppose you aren't interested in walking?

Well, you know, I hadn't thought about it, I hadn't planned to stop here. 

The walking is very fine...and you can also visit the church. It is 17th century.

There was a pause.

We continued with the soup, not speaking.

 I sensed something on my foot. A warm smooth rounded presence that moved from my toe upwards,  pushing a little inside my trouser leg to stroke my calf. I looked over and saw the wife lift her face up from her bowl and wink. 

The husband continued, young people are not interested in anything these days. Just sex and stupid pop music. No morality. 

Oh, I said 

Outside, night fell.

He looked at his soup then bending over continued to eat as if I had proven my inanity with my presence alone and would be better ignored.

The old woman muttered something. then sneezed,  and then began dozing. 

 More, said the wife? pressing my foot with hers under the table, and, without waiting for my response, giving me more soup.

I ate, finishing by wiping the bowl with a piece of bread.

The man sat back, also finished.  If you will excuse me, I must rest. He stood up and left. 

The wife also stood up and cleared the things leaving me and the old dozing woman.

I said, thank you. The woman said nothing, but smiled.

I went up to my room. 

I sat on my bed. Exhaustion.

I lay down.

I began to fall asleep. Then, I heard a faint knocking. I ignored it; it persisted. I went up to the door. I heard the woman. Let me in, she whispered through the door.   No, I can't. I whispered back. I am not like the other young people. I have morals.

I don't know if she understood, but I went back to bed and had a dream in which all the birds in the forest were weeping. 

Morning. I took my bag and went downstairs where I left it near the door.

 On the table in the parlour was cheese and an enamel jug of coffee, a hardboiled egg, and more of the black bread. I sat down to eat. The woman came and stood and watched me with her hands clasped, saying nothing. 

Then I got up.

 I put the necessary payment on the table. 

 Goodbye, I said. The woman didn't reply. 

 I put on my boots and took my bag and made my way to the station.

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Read to the River Writers' group, March, 2021 and The Edinburgh Creative Writers` Club, April 6, 2021

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