The first quiet
The new year had begun in that tidied-up way January sometimes manages — files closed, invoices settled, inbox behaving itself. The Frankfurt retainer was winding down, and a cybersecurity firm in Surrey wanted a longer arrangement. They called it “threat-modelling and comms clarity.” I wasn’t sure about the first bit, but the salary made me blink. Stability, for once, looked as though it might hold.
Then the roof gave way.
Not catastrophically. No biblical deluge or ceiling collapse. Just a darkening patch above my desk, widening each time I checked it. The Victorian roof and I had a long-standing truce: I patched it every other winter with salvaged slate and a scaffold tower borrowed from Jack; meanwhile it tolerated my optimism. This time it chose to ignore me completely. A steady drip began, landing in the cold mug I’d positioned beneath it, each splash making the room feel smaller.
By the third drip Emma appeared at the doorway with a face that said no amount of DIY bravado was going to win this battle. “We’re calling someone,” she announced, already scrolling through her phone. I didn’t argue. Even I knew the fix was beyond optimism and slate hooks.
Two days later the house was a construction site. Scaffold boards clattered outside the bay window; tarpaulins flapped like badly tuned sails. A portable radio played tinny ’80s hits from somewhere above the landing. Murphy barked at boots on the stairs, then retreated under the kitchen table. My office felt open to the weather — bits of lath visible where plaster had fallen — and the noise made concentration impossible.
The cybersecurity people wanted onboarding calls. Frankfurt expected a final edit by the end of the week. Emma was knee-deep in shelving units and stock lists for her work’s shop refit. The house, respectable on the outside, felt like a cardboard set collapsing from behind.
So I packed a bag.
Laptop, notebook, the 5G router I’d bought in a moment of misplaced optimism, two jumpers, a Thermos, and Murphy’s bed. On my way out I stopped for an LPG heater and the largest gas bottle the man at the yard would trust me with. By lunchtime I was heading inland through frosty lanes towards Tommo’s land.
The farm sits in a shallow bowl of fields stitched by blackthorn hedges. To the east a lone oak mid-slope carried a thin silvering of hoar. Rooks quarrelled there, then lifted together and skimmed the stubble. Even this far from the sea the air tasted faintly of salt, though the horizon was hidden behind low fog. The caravan — technically a tea-hut once used by field workers — waited behind the barn.
I unlocked it and stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of aluminium and old plywood, a scent that tugged up some half-memory of Scout camps and bus depots. Murphy circled twice before settling near the spot where the heater would live. I wrestled the gas bottle into place, clicked the ignition, and watched a small flame steady itself. The warmth crept out slowly, softening the cold edge of the room. The 5G router, perched on the narrow windowsill, found two bars of signal. I decided it would do.
Ronnie’s Transit appeared late morning, tyres crackling on the frost. He handed me an enamel mug filled from his flask.
“Heard your place was half scaffold now,” he said. “Thought you might’ve escaped.”
“Temporarily.”
He nodded toward the hedges. “Town feels odd this week. Quiet.” Then he drained his mug and wandered off to rummage through timber. A minute later the van door thumped shut, the sound fading quickly in the cold air.
Later, when the light started to dip, Emma sent a photo: paint-splattered joggers, a dressmaker’s tape looped over one shoulder. Salt & Sail opening soon-ish, she’d written. Under it: How’s the exile? I sent her a picture of the heater glowing behind the kettle. She reacted with a heart and disappeared back into the evening’s work.
After dark the farm settled into a deeper quiet. I stepped outside for a breath. The barn doors were shut; the yard pale under frost. Somewhere in the hedge a blackbird gave a late, uncertain call. Murphy lifted his head, ears angled toward the sound, waiting for something that didn’t come.
Back in the caravan, a haze of warmth blurred the windows. I wiped a clear patch with my sleeve. The yard dissolved into grey. A thin bead of melted frost slid down the glass, wavering slightly as it fell.
That was all.
I turned down the heater and began the first small attempt at work in this makeshift winter office — roofless house behind me, new year ahead, and the unfamiliar quiet of the fields beginning to settle in around the edges.