England is small, and for that reason, it presses close. One notices it at once after America, where roads run long and wide and solitude is a choice. Here, the lanes turn inward, the buildings lean, and strangers are obliged to share tables, glances, and, at times, more than they intend. The country compensates for its size with character, and that character is often too large for comfort.
I was writing in a coffee shop, a habit of mine. I like the murmur of voices, the illusion of company without obligation. It was a holiday weekend, the café crowded, and I had spread myself shamelessly, notes scattered across the table, train tickets, receipts, as though disorder itself might coax coherence.
It hadn’t, not for some time.
A man asked if he might sit. His manner was apologetic, his voice mild, but his eyes were watchful in a way that did not quite match the rest of him.
He remarked on my notes and said he hoped he was not intruding. When I told him I was writing a book, something altered in him, as though a door long closed had been nudged open.
“A writer,” he said, as if reacquainting himself with the word. “I had those dreams once. Life intervened.”