Inkpen, Berkshire: Drifting in and out of sleep on the woodland floor, I’m in searing pain, but far from alone
I
t was nobody’s fault, but here I am, lying on the damp floor of a wood, half a mile from the road. Drifting down with the falling leaves are the voices of two women, too easily accepting of blame. I reassure them and try to sit up, but the high singing in my ears turns to static, the edges of the wood begin to pixelate, and I lie down again before I faint.
Moments earlier, deep into Long Copse, Mum’s one-year-old labrador and my two-year-old collie crossbreed had met a young whippet. A case of the zoomies ensued, and as I turned to warn Mum, there was a sledgehammer blow to my lower leg as one, two or maybe all three dogs cannoned into me. Though I didn’t realise for two more days, my leg was broken before I hit the ground.
Because I think I’m tough as the old boots I have on, I keep trying to get up. But my body, with its low blood pressure trick, keeps putting me back down. I have some little sleeps, covered in a coat now, drifting, half-awake, wanting only the soft ground. I can smell pine and the sugar-beet mustiness of the sycamore leaves I’m lying on; their gold, mingled with butter‑yellow field maple, glows beyond my eyelids. I am remarkably at peace. Held. The voices of Mum and another kind woman from the village, who has brought a mug of sweet tea through the wood, are comforting.
