Firewood

As I drive, as well as trying to stay aware of potential hazards, I scan around for the names of small businesses and their owners on vans and roadside signs. It’s always an insight into the brain-frying number of jobs that are genuinely out there: jobs you never conceived of when you were growing up and wondering whether you’d end up as a fireman or a librarian or a professional footballer or an author or just keep waiting tables in the chain pub on the fringe of the housing estate where you live until the sweet release of death. Also it’s quite useful, as I attempt to populate the book I’m writing with believable humans. I’ll have a character whose name I can’t quite get behind, then I’ll see ‘BRIAN GRETTON BOREHOLE MAINTENANCE’ and ‘Geoff Smeeth, Kiln Dried Logs’ and say to myself, “Ok, that’s good. Brian is real. He’s right here in the world, pulling into the middle lane near junction 26 of the M5, and I believe in him.” I will imagine the call I’ll put in to Geoff, explaining that I’ve been wanting to write a character called Geoff Smeeth who kiln dries logs and put him in my novel, and felt it would be prudent, in terms of authenticity, to speak to a real life Geoff Smeeth and find out precisely what makes him tick… not, of course, I’ll be sure to make him aware, that I’d be basing that Geoff Smeeth exactly, or even mostly, on him. “Alright, don’t see why not,” Geoff will say, during my hypothetical phone call to him. “When you pull in, go through the second gate and park before you get to the rope, near the smallest corrugated barn, because the llama gets skittish about new visitors, although she’s ok when you get to know her.” I’ll have all my most entertaining log stories rehearsed and photos of my best wood pile favourited on my phone for easy access. “As you can probably just about see,” I will tell Geoff, as we crouch over the screen together, “the building I was renting had this sort of ecclesiastical Gothic window in its porch and I strived to make the logs follow its curves, which I thought created quite an attractive aesthetic. Ash, Oak and Cedar, I seem to remember. A mixture of hard and soft wood. Almost six years ago now, but I can still smell that little room. It was like nothing else, like having a painting inside my nostrils by a 17th Century Dutch master.” “Yeah, well,” Geoff will reply. “I think I’ll put the kettle on. Do you want one? I’ve got my next delivery at three.” He tells me the llama’s name is Sue. Later, as we walk out to the yard, I notice a pile of unsplit Beech. “I think there’s a strong argument that you can’t properly write about a profession unless you’ve experienced it firsthand,” I say, stroking the smooth wooden handle of a nearby axe. “Knock yourself out,” Geoff says. In no time at all I am in the zone, experiencing what Buddhists sometimes like to call “flow”. The next thing I know I see five sprinting figures on the horizon. Although the low December sun is in my eyes, as they descend towards me they become recognisable as my girlfriend, my parents and two of my best friends. Each of them, in turn, will hug me tight, and each hug will convey relief, but, additionally, something that seems a little like a close relation of anger. “What have you been doing? We thought we would never see you again. Your picture has been on the news. It wasn’t a great one, to be honest. There are people out looking for you everywhere. There were, anyway. It’s tailed off a bit now. We didn’t have your card number so couldn’t pay the electricity before it got cut off. Also, your publishers called, and they want the advance back. And what on earth is that thing behind you with the teeth and the neck?” All I will be able to do is tell them the truth: that I went off to do some research, got stranded inside the moment and lost track of time, and it’s Sue.