BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS MOLLY FLEMING

Between the Pages

spring comes to Eyam as to no other place in Britain. Perhaps it is due to its self-imposed quarantine during the years of the Black Plague or its situation, being comfortably sandwiched between two brooks which infuse Eyam with its blood supply. The village’s name derives from Old English and first appears as Aium, meaning an island. Enveloped by rough feathered moors, its sumptuous, myriad green fields do indeed resemble an oasis among that desert of heather. Standing in the centre of the village, one could almost be a doll in a ‘Fisher Price’ play set; the quaint tea-rooms, the rustic village hall, even the gravestones have an air of charm about them. I suppose, from the outside, Eyam appears much the same as any small provincial village – full of people who know each other too well and don’t know themselves at all. But Eyam and spring are synonymous, born from the same womb and nurtured by the same milk. It is uncertain at first, stumbling and bumbling, like a baby taking its first steps, tripping itself in its eagerness to arrive. Then scampering, clambering, gathering, up tree trunks, down riverbanks, deep into the earth and finally through the air. Birdsong. Syrupy, almost coagulated, it satiates the rawness of winter as a lozenge to a sore throat; revivifies the benumbed and harmonises births. Higher still, wet sunlight trickles into the valleys and peaks depositing fat pools of fertile gold. Foliage grows so tightly that it is impossible to see where it ends, or if it ever does. The perfume of the flowers pacifies all, humming a drowsy refrain of contentment. Surely the epitome of an English paradise. Wikipedia characterises spring as referring to ‘resurrection’, ‘rejuvenation’ and ‘rebirth’. Yet on this island of abundance, we welcome the warming of the soil in simultaneity with death. The delivery of the first lamb is taken as the signal. Zealous schoolchildren assemble the stages, sticking the teak beams into those familiar divots made young again each year. Cotton caps cover copper ringlets and curtains of calico are suspended above each tableaux. Congregations of jumbled residents form regiments of starched white that enclose the village, fracture the grass blanket. Eyam is a fragment of country once more. Made isolated by its own. Birdsong chokes, smothered by the single clang of the funeral bell.

Be silent for them. Remember their sacrifice. May it plague us always.