Thursday, 28 April 2016
View from the disused railway line between Aldeburgh and Thorpeness
Waiting for the funding to be done and for the editing to start on my Unbound Book. I'm in limbo. Sitting and waiting. Pacing and waiting. Wanting to maim my next door neighbour for yet again - how many more times does he need to be told? - leaving his balcony door ajar and his blind half down so that it continually thwocks against the jamb. And waiting. Going to the village shop for something to comfort eat while waiting and getting caught in a hail storm. Sneezing and waiting.
Walked to Aldeburgh library. Got resentful at all the books being there while mine's in limbo. Coming back to Thorpeness along the disused railway line I was behind two women. One was striding in a billowing tweed coat with her hands in her back trouser pockets. The other wasn't quite keep pacing with her and dressed in waterproofs. The striding one was saying,
'See, look at the haunted aspect of these tall fir trees. Hear the wind sloughing. Portents of death. You can quite understand the attraction of this place to such writers as M.R.James, can't you? I can just see him plotting A Warning to the Curious, or whichever, pacing up and down here where we're now walking. Seeing those same trees. Hearing the same sloughing. Feeling the same earth under his feet as he went along here heedless, plotting.'
I thought it just as her companion asked it: 'What, in spite of all the steam trains running along here back then, dear?'