The Best of Friends, Alex Day [feel good books to read .txt] 📗

looks over in my direction and suddenly the back is forgotten and she’s leaping towards me as if I’m on fire and she needs to put me out.

‘No!’ she cries, urgently. ‘Not that. Don’t even think about eating that plant.’

I look down at my armfuls of frothy-headed white-flowered stalks in dismay. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.

‘What’s the matter?’ I ask.

Charlotte is shaking her head as she examines the contents of my arms and then wrests the whole lot away from me and distributes it to the four winds.

‘This is one of the most poisonous plants in the British Isles,’ she explains, frowning.

‘Oh!’ I am dumbfounded, and look down at my malevolent crop, now scattered far and wide. I keep my head lowered until I can feel the flush that’s risen over my cheeks subsiding. ‘So it’s not cow parsley, then?’

‘No, it absolutely is not.’ Her voice drops to her conspiratorial whisper and she casts a glance over each shoulder as she takes a step closer to me. ‘It’s hemlock. What the ancient Greeks used to finish off Socrates after he was convicted of corrupting the youth of Athens, poor bastard. And what Shakespeare refers to as “the insane root” in Macbeth.’

‘Gosh.’ My heart is thumping and my palms are sweating. ‘Well, good thing I didn’t try and make it into salsa verde for the cafe then, isn’t it?’ My voice is high and squeaky with relief. ‘Just imagine if I’d done away with half the customers … It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

Charlotte bends down and picks up one of the discarded stems and points out the giveaway hollow stalks and purple blotches that enable correct identification.

‘This is the one place I know where hemlock grows around here,’ Charlotte explains. ‘So as long as you avoid it, you should be fine.’

I try to concentrate and focus, but I can’t see too clearly in the half-light, definitely not well enough to be sure I could get it right myself – either recognising the patch or the plant. I contemplate making some revision cue cards on everything I’ve learnt today, like one does in school to learn French irregular verbs or important historical dates.

The fun of the forage diminishes after this discovery, which leaves me feeling distinctly deflated. The rest of the group are starting to get weary so we call it a day. Slowly, we trudge our way back along the crumbling, pot-holed tarmac of the little-used back road, gathering up the boys and the stragglers as we go.

We’re chatting in a desultory way amongst ourselves, me, Charlotte, Miriam, and a couple of others, when I hear a car on the road behind us. This is unusual as it’s a rough, single-track lane that’s been supplanted by a parallel two-lane road that gets any driver to exactly the same destination much faster. There’s no reason to come this way unless you’re either lost or for some reason wanting to put your car’s suspension to the test. It’s more common to hear horses’ hooves than the swish of tyres.

But nevertheless, it’s definitely a car. I glance behind me and see it, gleaming black, approaching far too fast.

‘Boys!’ I shout. ‘Watch out! Get into the side.’

Obediently, my sons flatten themselves into the hawthorn hedgerow. I follow suit, glancing at Charlotte. She doesn’t move, seems to be frozen to the spot. And then suddenly she jumps up the grass bank and tries to squeeze herself into a tiny gap in the dense bushes. Her face is deathly white and dandelion leaves spill out of her basket. I see that her hands are trembling. She looks terrified.

She’s still trying to dive headlong through the hedge as the car passes us. It’s slowed down considerably in deference to so many pedestrians and practically crawls by. It’s sleek, dark, and expensive, with enough exhaust pipes to power a tanker and tinted windows that prevent anyone from seeing inside. With no driver visible, in this quiet, isolated country lane, it’s like a ghost vehicle or the beginning of a horror movie.

It passes us and curves around a bend. The birds begin singing again, the crickets chirrup and everything is normal once more. No mad axe-murderers. No chainsaw-wielding psychos. No headless horsemen. We are safe.

‘At least some people are considerate,’ I say. The only other vehicle we’ve seen whilst we’ve been here today sped past at about ninety miles an hour.

Charlotte nods weakly. She looks as if she’s about to throw up, and is still staring over her shoulder, though the car has long since disappeared from view.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask, worriedly. I can’t think why she’s so upset. It might be reasonable if her children were here and had somehow been put in danger by the car, but they’re not, and mine are fine. So why so distraught?

Charlotte coughs and takes a few deep breaths. ‘Oh yes, of course,’ she replies. ‘Just came over a bit funny for the moment there. Some weird bug I’m throwing off.’

‘Poor you,’ I say, pulling a sympathetic face. It seems a bit odd as she was fine earlier but viruses can do that, I suppose. ‘I hope it clears up soon,’ I add.

At the top of the road that leads into the village centre, the boys and I detach ourselves from the group and head for home. An idea is fomenting in my mind. Charlotte spoke about the book she’s writing. Well, perhaps I could take a leaf out of her book – oh, those puns again! – and write one too.

Food for thought, I muse, out-punning even myself.

Later, once the boys are fed and in bed, I scrabble around amongst the pile of languishing boxes behind the sofa in my living room. Eventually, I find the one I want. I brush off the light covering of dust that has settled already and pull open the flaps. There are some reference books on top, the kind of book one seems to collect but is never sure where they