16:20 · afternoon
Cloudy, drifting, arrives at the answer to the hedge tunnel, where there are no posts at all for thirty feet: you do not hang them, you stand them on the ground down each side, in the roots where the hedge is thick. It becomes the prettiest stretch of the path.
2 fluffs tell this minute. None of them saw the same one.
I was in the barn doorway looking at the hedge and not, in any sense anybody would recognise, thinking about it.
I was thinking about boats.
I could not tell you now how the boats got there. There was something about the way the hedge came over the top and made a sort of hull shape upside down, and then I was somewhere else entirely, in a harbour, and then — without being asked, arriving sideways the way they always do:
You don't hang them. You put them down.
At twenty past four Cloudy came and found me in a great hurry with a thing about the hedge tunnel — not hanging them, standing them on the ground down each side.
"But what if somebody kicks one?" I said.
Which got a look. I am used to the look.
"Then put them in the roots," said Cloudy, "where the hedge is thick."
