36
huts
an unsettling large, framed photograph of a standing man and seated woman in classic, stiff Victorian pose. Her slightly greying hair was tightly coiled. He looked out unsmiling, one proprietorial hand on her rounded shoulder. Their demeanour was hardly welcoming. And to cap it all, someone had popped her eyes with a pen, so her unseeing stare travelled everywhere. ‘Ye can aye tak it doon, fig 1.6 Mirror. ye ken – if she’s upsetting ye.’ Sandy’s words sounded sympathetic, but his tone was scathing. I realised the grim-looking couple would have to stay. They were part of Drumnagarrow’s past – a reality I didn’t understand but simply had to accept. Otherwise I’d be forever on the back foot, ‘editing’ the place instead of living in it and placing doomladen meanings on entirely innocent objects. After a few months, I’d likely be so familiar with the place, I’d not even see that picture. ‘I’ll take it.’ Sandy seemed highly amused at the idea of a woman trying to fend for herself halfway up a hill. So back down at Milton, standing by the Peugeot, the deal was done. The rent was £365 – one pound for each day of the year. And there were no further rules. Or help. And actually, that was the way I wanted it. Without electricity, running water or a flushing toilet, the smallest everyday tasks become difficult. Satisfyingly difficult. Find a box of matches in the dark if you haven’t put it back in its proper spot earlier. You cannae. Leave a box of matches there for two weeks assuming it won’t get damp. You dinnae. Start a fire without dry kindling or firelighters. It’s not easy. Try to cook food once the gas bottle has run out and the nearest supplier is an hour’s drive away. Crisps again. Discover a sheep has died in the lean-to shed containing the chemical toilet. Recover, then break
HUTS.indd 36
11/08/2020 16:31
