Worked. Took M & B to the station, realised we’d forgotten the crumble, turned back, got it, drove again, they missed the train but got the next one. Rode with T. Lunch with P. Arrived early and sat with my book and fizzy water, half concentrating on Shirley Jackson, half on the table near by, one of those heavens of stuff and nonsense largesse that the English countryside makes its own. I’d seen them greet each other in the carpark, a shouted hello, legs both short and wide somehow propelling two flowery females toward each other in tremendous hug and tales of traffic and late and excitable hoots - apparently it had been a while. Somebody had trouble parking, or perhaps they were smoking, but I’d already chosen my table when they chose theirs, blissfully close by, two couples, one from each the first to sit down and fight their way through rousing conversation to cover up the awkwardness of a pairing they weren’t used to. Their other halves at the bar, she asked him, If he was quite recovered now. He brushed and huffed and said, Oh yes, straightening the table cloth, all in the past, quite better. What are the odds it was cancer. Her laugh was loud, her outbursts crashing, from the look on her husband's face as he arrived with drinks, he’d battened a certain deafness to his forehead, his face pale, his features indistinct. The two women were great friends, their arms bumped and reached, they turned toward each other while the men perused menus and mentioned how small their appetite had become. The waitress said fish was off.

Eleanor

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