Nam-ma is driving as the first leaves fall. She
remembers how they skitter. Jerky, comedic, enthusiastic: once she had a wind
up toy, a pair of chattering teeth, a similar quality of movement.
Little Granddaughter, red cheeked, has slumped to
sleep in her car seat.
It is hot, even with the windows down.
Dog lies panting; a tail thumps, irregular, for
various scents.
They park near Feather Tor.
Nam-ma pours a flask cup of tepid espresso, looks
forward to the cold leat water.
The little Buddha is missing, she sees, stooping the
coffee flask down to the passenger foot well. He is not in his usual nook by
the gear stick. He was there… when?
The day the brakes failed and no-one was hurt. That
morning she had rubbed his tummy: she remembers; the cool, the smoothness of
it; she had said, 'For happiness.'
LG awakes, is enamoured immediately: 'Cows!'
Beyond the cows they walk, to the leat, where a
dragonfly circles an ancient granite cross and wild ponies drink. One foal
comes close, closer, winds a neck around Nam-ma's leg. LG strokes the Mohican
mane, the broad back, the soft ears. Whispers:
'Hello horse.'
They wander back, a wet Dog undulating over every
cowpat she can find. LG hoots.
'Oh Doggle: so funny! Oh! S'funny again!'
They buy vanilla ice cream in cones.
Nam-ma thinks of little Buddha. Maybe his work here is
done, she is thinking: she feels that he is with them still.
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