100-Word Fiction: ‘Welcome to Suffolk’

Outside the bookshop, where you bang on a can to buy Nathalie Sarraute and a map of the Lakes, and get offered tea and coffee from a man wearing a headscarf, the drakes bask and preen round the pond near the pub, and cabbages dot the garden of a small terraced house next to a café that seems always shut, down the road from the heath where the church bells stopped chiming and succumbed to the sea, where lobster pots are sunk down the coast, where a company sings opera on a pebble beach – and the mist, does it roll?

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