The Girl In The Field

A girl. That’s significant, I think: a girl, not a woman. That’s how I’d describe her. Not a child; a girl. She’s about eighteen, maybe twenty, but age is irrelevant in her description. She’s a girl because she carries her shoulders without any of the weight and assumptions that being a woman entails. ‘Carefree’ would probably be doing her a disservice, but I’d wager you’d be able to count them on a single hand. I imagine that even catching her eye would make me feel guilty, but she happens to be walking towards me.1

A field. No, ‘a field’ is too vague for a description: I’m sitting in a meadow with freshly cut grass that smells of the summer, and occasional bundles of hay that punctuate the green with dots of gold. Here and there are clusters of daisies that are happily trod on, whilst heavier trees huddle on the horizon like a border or a frame. An old oak tree sits off-centre and sentries the rest of the field, both imposing and comforting at the same time. The sun is occasionally interrupted by meandering clouds, but not often enough to stifle the midday glow that warms my skin.2

Okay, so we’ve got the field and the girl. Well, not a field, but you know what I mean. So what’s the girl doing in my field? That’s not to say I own the field, I just have an affinity with it. Nothing weird, you understand, it’s just a place I like to go to find some kind of tranquillity, a place of separation from the rest of the world. Somewhere to detach myself and wander without having to move my feet. I’ve been coming here for years, ever since I took refuge under the solitary oak tree one spring. It was raining hard and the sky seemed like it wanted to cover the whole of England in leagues of water, washing away the brown of winter. As I peered out from the branches I imagined the place with a warmer hue, changing the greys for blues and the browns for greens, and I saw what this world could be. Sunshine makes everywhere seem like a better place to be.3

Since then, every time I’ve come here, it’s never rained. In fact, the only thing rarer than rain drops are people. So why is this girl here, in my field? Walking towards me. She’s wearing a light red top that should, for all the world, clash with the greens of the grass and the trees but somehow manages to compliment them. She almost looks like a giant poppy, waving in the gentle breeze, and I smile to myself. She wears a long black skirt, and as I look at it, transfixed, I realise it’s not an overcast black, but one that’s glorious in its neutrality, possessing all the possibilities to be painted with every colour of the field. Her shoes are hidden by the grass, but I imagine them to be open-toed and honest.4

I saw a cow here once. She must have wandered in from a nearby field, perhaps with the hope of moving onto greener pastures (for which she came to the right place). Anyway, there she stood, seemingly intent on discovering virgin land, when she spotted me sitting with my back against a haystack. I stopped writing and returned her gaze, and to my surprise she ambled - in a highly leisurely fashion, but still with an air of purpose - in my direction, and stopped when she had reached about five metres from me. If you’re familiar with cows at all, you’ll know that they can hardly be described as inquisitive creatures, but it looked suspiciously like this cow was evaluating me: weighing up my good qualities against my bad ones. I even felt myself involuntarily sit up, ruler-straight, as if it would give me extra credit. After a surprisingly uncomfortable short while, she turned her head, as if she was satisfied with her conclusion, and trundled off again back from where she entered. Strangely exhausted, I collapsed back onto the hay and blinked a few more times than was necessary. I never found out what the cow thought of me.5

Today, I’m sitting under the oak tree. When I first notice the girl, I want to shift my position, maybe even climb some branches to get a better look, but I’m as rooted as the tree. A year ago I carved my name into its skin, and I felt guilty as it bled a little. But I was the first one to ever mark this tree, and I feel like we share an irrational bond because of this. A little after I’d claimed my territory, I returned one day to find someone else had graffitied their initials. The uneven ‘CG’ was a blemish on the gentle bark: someone was trying to steal my field from me, and I felt a jealousy swiftly rise in the front of my head. I grabbed the bark around the carving and harshly dug my fingernails in, ripping and tearing. I knew that it was hurting, but I dismissed it and continued the abrasive assault on my fingers. After a flurry that couldn’t have lasted more than a minute, I realised I was gasping for breath, and so I took a step back. The ‘CG’ was no longer visible and I put my fingers to my lips and smiled faintly to myself. The field was mine again, and I could taste a mixture of blood and wood in my mouth.6

But this girl in the field is different. As she’s walking towards me, I don’t feel any threat, any jealousy. I don’t begrudge her presence...in fact, it almost seems like she belongs here. I wonder who she could be and what she might want. She seems happy enough taking her time in getting to me, but there’s no mistaking I’m in her targets. Oh God! What am I going to say? This girl is seriously beautiful, and I’m...well...me. I imagine a million men have caught their breath and put their hand on their hearts in tribute to her, but I can’t help but feel it’s hit me worse than most. I get the urge to climb the tree again, this time not to get a better look, but to disappear amongst the branches and simply watch as she passes by, safe from my elevated hiding place. But she’s heading this way and I find it difficult to move. I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket, but I can’t bring my hand to answer it: after a while, it doesn’t even feel like it’s my leg that it’s vibrating against. Just like suddenly I don’t feel like it’s my field I’m trapped in.7

As she gets closer, I begin to make out the contours of her face. Her forehead is smooth and untroubled, but then what reason could she ever have to frown? Her skin is darker than mine, but not quite olive; a child of the sun, she seems to glow with earthy affection. Her lips seem to be fixed in a permanent smile, and I know that if it gets any wider, I’ll be lost forever. She has long, brown hair that wraps protectively around her neck, and I notice that it’s been playfully streaked by the sun. And her eyes... They slowly burn in dark brown hues, and even though I want to look away, I can’t. This is strange, almost unsettling: I normally find brown eyes, well, boring; I think that greens and blues harbour much more depth and intrigue, but here I am, captivated by a pair of hazel eyes that offer the promise of obsession.8

I wish I was wearing sunglasses. When I left the house this morning, I felt strangely rushed; by what, I don’t know, but I was too hurried and I forgot my pair of golden aviators. I scorn myself for not bringing them: I want to be able to see her without having to squint my eyes and squash my face unattractively, but more importantly I want some kind of barrier between us. I want to be able to avert my eyes and then look at her without her realising that I’m doing it. I consider dipping my straw hat over my eyes, but even if I could move I don’t think I would – that’d just look stupid, right? Besides, I don’t want her to leave... Even though I wish I was somewhere else, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than here.9

Okay. I need to prepare myself. She can’t be more than ten metres away now, and her smile hasn’t moved from its place of power. I attempt to exude a picture of composure, but suspect it’s far from convincing. I notice that she has a small mole on her cheek that couldn’t be better placed if God had positioned it personally, and I get a sudden itch on the back of my neck that I get when I’m nervous or tired. Instinctively, I put my hand up to scratch it: at last! I’ve regained my motor functions. Should I stand up? If I do then she’ll have to talk to me, and it might be polite. But then it could be incredibly awkward...and what if she doesn’t even want to talk to me? No, I’ve been watching her: she’s heading my way, there’s no mistaking it. Up, down, up, down, up, down... I begin to panic and without consciously making a decision, I find myself stood up. Now I have to wait foolishly until she stops. Now I’ve stood up, I’m going to have to say something. Why didn’t I plan this through properly? I’ve had long enough. Oh no, she’s in front of me. She’s stopped.10

Pause. 11

Her smile widens into a sunbeam that stretches from cheek to cheek, and I’m lost.12

“Hi.”13

“...”14