“So you said,” He said, on one leg. “Please don’t sulk.”
The oak lay where it fell in the winds last autumn. They say. No one had taken it away. I reckon it knew what was coming and couldn’t stand the notion of our leaving. The other oaks that punctuated the meadows of the Dartington Estate were coming into full May glory, and this was the only time I’d ever see them as such. I sat on the walltop whilst He did pigeondances. Playing. We’d fucked in this field. Hopefully we would again. The evacuations to Falmouth were coming. The civilian bombings had been impolite. It was a shame they were hitting the villages; it’s easier to motivate people towards rebuilding a St. Paul’s than a Post Office. And once the Cornish Junta Militia had stolen the gate house cottage – bundled away on a lorry – we knew they were serious, that we’d better take heed. Last night The Great Hall was levelled, bar it’s stone doorway. The door’s gone. So now you’re always walking out. The whalebone beams reminded me of our tree. He kissed me. Nudged me. Playing.
“Please don’t sulk,” He said. We played Pooh Sticks until dark, which was when the lorry returned and dumped the cottage rubble further upstream on the Dart: They’d changed the river irreparably.
“Please don’t sulk,” He said, “They could have drained it."
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