A Place in the Mill

Alistair finished his sandwich then lit a fire on the old hearth. It wasn't really all that cool, he simply liked the company of the fire, the comfortable, homey sounds it made, the smell of the burning wood. He was too newly-come to this place for it to seem like home. He wasn't actually sure just where home was any more. The little parsonage near Coffs had been a completely adequate place, but its white-washed walls had never seemed like home to him. Home was a word that had lost the heart of its meaning the moment the constable had knocked on his door back in Tunbridge Wells. Everything in that house spoke of Jenny and without her presence its voice had fallen silent. After that, he'd spent more time in the stone church than in his house. Alone, on his knees at the altar, was the only sense of homing he could find.

The fire popped and crackled as he sat back in the big oak rocker, pushing it back and forth with the tip of one foot.
The mill wheel still turned, though currently more for ambience than use, and he focused on the creak of the old board, the sound of the falling water. There were ducks, too, on the pond, and they conversed among themselves with muffled quacks.

He hadn't realized how tired he was until he woke up in morning sunbeamed light, his neck stiff from a night spent at an odd angle in the rocker. After a shower with rather iffy pipes, he walked into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. The mill was old and the kitchen had been upgraded some decades ago to what would have been modern in the 40's. Bridgid had warned him nothing worked quite consistently, but still he'd chosen the mill.

What to eat? He'd brought a small sack of groceries with him and decided on eggs. He liked them over easy and Jenny had been a master at that. This morning he broke both the yokes and they instantly solidified in the too-high heat he had the stove set on. There was no toaster and rather than attempt burning something in the oven, he simply broke off a chunk of bread and ate it plain. He'd forgotten to bring butter.

Carrying his teacup, he wandered out into the garden. There were a few iris planted near the pond. He'd like more. He might not know how to cook, but he'd always loved the soil. For him, planting an ugly, peeling, brown bulb and then watching it sprout green in the spring, grow in the sunlight until it made a blossom, for him that was a consummate parable. If he remembered right, Bridgid had said something about a new nursery opening just down the lane. After he finished his tea and had washed the pan he'd made the eggs in...there were no dishes as he'd eaten them right out of the pan...he headed off in what he hoped was
the right direction.