Back to the desk
The scaffold came down over the weekend, leaving the house looking faintly embarrassed, as though it had been caught without its coat on. Slate lines crisp, new flashing glinting around the chimney. The builders packed away their radios and thermos flasks, wished Murphy “all the best,” and rolled out of the street like someone closing a book mid-sentence.
This morning I carried my mug upstairs to the office for the first time since January. The room smelled of fresh timber and dusted plaster. The patch of damp above the desk was gone, replastered and blending almost — but not quite — into the old paint. Murphy trotted behind, tail high, but paused on the landing as if reacquainting himself with the layout.
Back at my desk, everything looked slightly rearranged, as though tidied by someone who didn’t know where things were meant to go. Emma had moved the plant nearer the window; my books sat in suspiciously straight lines. Even the light was a shade warmer than I remembered. I sat for a while, waiting for the room to feel like mine again.
Work was supposed to resume easily after the break. Frankfurt had sent through a polite set of closing notes on the retainer, and the cybersecurity firm wanted another blog about authentication layers. I typed a paragraph, deleted it, retyped half, then stared out at the rooftops. The street looked normal — reassuringly so — but the quiet felt different to the winter hush at the farm. Thinner, somehow.
Murphy settled under the desk with a sigh heavy enough to shift the rug. I opened my inbox.
Among the usual newsletters and spam sat an email from Maya Hutchinson with the subject line:
Community Nature Recovery Project – Possible Collaboration?
At first I assumed it was a circular. Maya tends to appear at anything involving bees, compost, or repurposed jam jars, but we’re not close — more nodding acquaintances at community events. Still, curiosity won, and I clicked.
Her message was polite to the point of apologetic. Something about a local government fund for rewilding corridors — hedgerows, habitat connectivity, “heritage orchard stewardship.” Tommo had asked for her help applying but they needed someone to “articulate the environmental narrative in an accessible way.” She added that he’d tried writing the summary himself but had produced “a dense paragraph about soil horizons and diesel consumption.”
Attached were a PDF of the county guidelines, two hand-drawn maps photographed badly, and a note asking whether I might be available “in some flexible capacity, no pressure.”
I leaned back. Outside, a gull clattered onto a flat roof and considered the morning. Murphy lifted his head in sympathy.
The idea wasn’t outlandish. I’ve written stranger things for decent money. And after two months hunched over a laptop in the caravan, the thought of walking Tommo’s fields with a notebook felt almost restful. The orchard map caught my eye — irregular, ink-smudged, the boundaries not quite matching how I remembered the paddock. I blamed the phone camera.
I typed a reply:
Hi Maya,
I can take a look. I’ve got one project coming to an end, so timing’s good.
Send over any additional notes and I’ll come by the farm later next week.
Alex.
I hesitated before sending — habit more than doubt — then clicked.
For the rest of the morning I tried returning to the cybersecurity blog, but the work was slow. The office felt too neat, too newly aligned. Even the view from the window seemed slightly off; the sea glittered in a way I didn’t trust, as though the angle had shifted while I was away.
By lunchtime I’d left the desk and taken Murphy along the promenade. When we returned, the room still felt unfamiliar, but the inbox held no further surprises. I glanced again at the Westbury Farm maps, at the orchard circled hesitantly, at a dotted line that looked more like a thumb-smudge than a footpath.
Murphy nosed my knee, asking for something he couldn’t name. I lowered the blind to cut the glare and the room settled, just a fraction.
It was good to have the house back.
But the quiet sat differently now, as if a part of me was still out in the fields, waiting for me to catch up.