Provision

The irritations of comfort— I visit as they rebuild the house from within: whitening, straightening, bracing the chimney-breast edges and forcing warmth, dryness and windows with views into the cottage below canal-level. For yes, there’s a canal, bringing cold reflections almost to the door, and beyond it the main line to Manchester, its grid of gantries pale against the upland and the sky; there’s a towpath pub, where the red- haired old landlady brings up the beer from the cellar slowly in a jug: there’s a chapel next door to the cottage, set up with a false front and a real boiler-house, and— rest, my mind—nearby there’s a small haulage contractor’s yard. Everything’s turned up here, except a certain complete cast-iron housefront, preserved and pinned to a blank wall in Ottawa. This comfort beckons. It won’t do. It beckons. Driving steadily through rain in a watertight car with the wipers going. It won’t do. It beckons.