From the heart
Undemanding and non-judgemental, author Maggie O’Farrell has found her ideal workmate
My writing studio – aconverted greenhouse at the bottom of the garden – is a place I must constantly defend as my territory. At any given time, at least one if not all of my cats are plaintively seeking entry. Once inside, they like to pick their way across the desk, scattering pages and lapping at mugs of tea. Various bees and insects coast in through the window, then require assistance to get back into the wild. My teenage son is always after it as a venue for late-night carousing.
The only creature I’m truly happy to share it with is the tortoise. For several months a year, she and I cohabit quite contentedly, me in my chair, she sunning herself in the trapezoids of sunlight that filter through the glass.
She is the ideal writing companion: mostly silent, often motionless, entirely undemanding. I talk to her quite a bit – ‘Should I cut that adjective?’ or ‘What’s another word for garrulous?’ – and if she minds these interruptions, she never lets on.
Every morning, before work begins, I gather dandelion leaves, which I pile up in front of her slumbering form, like a pilgrim with offerings for a deity. In return, she offers me non-judgemental witness to my labours.
I never intended to live with a tortoise (note, please, that I’m avoiding the words ‘to own a tortoise’ – these mysterious creatures are never owned, they merely acquiesce to exist alongside a person).
Such a thought would never have crossed my mind; I have only ever had mammalian pets. She turned up, quite literally on our doorstep, about six years ago. My husband opened the door one morning and found her there, breakfasting on our bedding plants, looking up at him with her inscrutable black eyes, as if he was the one whose presence was a surprising intrusion.
We took her inside, of course, to keep her safe from the road and passing dogs, and set abou t finding her owner. I texted everyone on the street, I posted messages online, I phoned local vets, I called the RSPCA. Was anyone missing a tortoise?
Nobody ever claimed her, and so she simply stayed. From May to September, she lives outdoors, in our back garden. She can be found under rhubarb leaves or lurking in the peonies.
You can hear her, sometimes, toiling through the greenish undergrowth, her powerful legs parting the foliage, her head raised with the joy of exploration. She parks herself for the night under a root cleft of the cypress tree, with on
