It should have been perfect. I'd got the cottage to myself for two weeks, had arrived with enough food and drink to get me through, and the laptop and the notebooks and all the scattered bits of paper that held together the timelines and characters and those little questions that always come up during the writing process. A short walk each morning and then I'd close my door upon the world and set about the work, until hunger took me away.
For a week it had worked perfectly and the novel finally had a shape, my people brought to life with habits and traits and personalities. Then it came to a halt. Stuck fast. I needed a device or passing character to move things on, to give my victim a sign of hope in their despair. But everything I tried crumbled before me within a paragraph. Write, delete, write, delete, write, delete, it went on for most of the day. By eight pm I was tired, hungry and had been staring at a blank screen for an hour. When it happened.
A knock at the door. More of a banging than a knock. An intrusion on my solitude, an invasion of the silent space I'd create every day when I shut my door upon the world. If I ignored it maybe they'd go away. But the knock/bang came again. And again. And I thought, 'what if this is the device or person I need?'. So I opened the door.
It was a goat. Two horns, brown coat, two white marks on it's face, straggly beard and a quizzical look in it's eyes. I'd opened my door not knowing what or who I'd been expecting to see, but it certainly wasn't a goat. The surprises didn't end there.
"Sorry to be a nuisance, but do you have any Weetabix?" said my visitor. The specificity of the request stupefied me even more than the fact of a talking goat come knocking. His accent was a curious unmixture of French and Indian and Swedish, a smooth ungoatly kind of a voice.
"It happens that I do" I replied cautiously.
"You wouldn't be able to spare a few would you? I know it's a bit strange, but I have a weakness for those flaky wheaty biscuits, and sometimes the cravings get the better of me." His eyes practiced their sincerity. "Please." he added politely.
I could have said no. But he seemed so friendly, so genuine, so delightfully goatey, that I felt an obligation to satisfy his request, and ushered him into the room. He looked around, took in the scene.
"Writer, eh?"
"How'd you know?" I responded suspiciously.
"Well they don't call me Sherlock for nothing."
"Is that your name - Sherlock?"
"No."
"Oh." I stared at him. A memory of men who stare at goats came into my head and I looked away, embarrassed by my humanity.
"Look, don't worry, I know our reputation, but I'm not planning to scoff all your notes and plots and whatnots. I really just wanted some Weetabix. If it wouldn't be too much trouble."
I nodded blankly, and moved over to the kitchen area, pulled out the yellow box.
"How'd you like them? Milk?"
"No milk thanks, as they come will do me. Maybe a touch of sugar would be nice."
I took out three, no four, bix and placed them in a bowl, then sprinkled the sugar over.
"That OK?"
"Lovely. Perfect. Thanks."
I put the bowl down, he looked up, winked, and proceeded to savour the delicacy he'd been so looking forward to. The savouring took about three seconds. He did a little dance of pleasure.
"Thank you so much, you've been a real goataider, I am in your debt. Is there anything I can do for you? That I haven't already."
From my limited fund of goatish knowledge I couldn't come up with any way he might be useful to me. I shook my head and, as he turned back to the entrance, felt unaccountably sad that he was about to leave. He walked out and broke into the curious bouncing trot of his species, soon to be gone from sight. I turned back into my own little world and pondered.
He'd said "That I haven't already." As if he really had done something for me. Strange, even for a talking goat.
It was only as went to bed I realised. He really was my missing plot device, my horned interlocutor who would move things smoothly along. A talking goat had been the answer all along. Obvious really.
