Author: Ellen Bell

I cannot stop thinking about them. Those poor loves. Just babies playing at being brave, dare-devilling each other to go onto the iced-over lake. And then it cracked. Hearing on the news how their rescuers had to punch through the ice. And three were lost, or was it four? I cannot listen properly and yet I cannot help myself. Yesterday the news said that three were brothers, and so so young. One apparently tried to save another boy and they were strangers. One of the rescue workers’ voice broke when he said on a news bulletin that they had done all they could. I can’t stop thinking about them and their families. Such loss, such heartbreak and the biting of that cold water, the going down and not being able to breathe. Trapped under the ice for eternity. What I would give to warm them, to revivify them.

It is still minus 5 out there. I miss my walks, not that they are as pleasurable was they used to be. My legs can feel like iron. And the cold bites at my poor beleaguered hands. I must wait for fresh air and the movement of my body till later in the day when there is the promise of sun. So I work and try to organise all the bits that spin around inside my head. A good day yesterday. No, it was more than that. I was filled up with it. And those Claire Curneen’s were exquisite. How blessed I am.

Are dreams gifts? Are they a way of giving you in your sleep what you cannot have in your waking hours? Last night there was a gift. I was able to hold her. I felt my arms around her little body, so small yet so strong. I thanked God for it. And then I asked after her little brother. Oh, he’s fine, she said.

It was a freezing world outside. I didn’t walk. We decided it wasn’t worth the risk of falling. I miss it. I always do. Though the cold this morning is extreme, for us at least, I have known colder.

Smoker (2) didn’t have his window open as usual. His pants still hang on his airer.

Another interview, the third one. I anticipate her being gentle and warm. They mostly are. I wish I had more time to enjoy the richness that this life brings…..

She was born five years ago today. I remember the first time I held her and the times I have seen her after that, few though they have been. She is a golden child. As is her brother. The love I feel for her and for him is an instinctual one, it is a warmth, and something like joy. I am bereft at the loss of her, of them.

Yet more minus temperatures. We are cautious with putting the central heating on. Well I am. A couple of hours in the early morning then off till lunch time. It is cold. I heard the hail shower in the night and woke to a whitened world. And the moon outside my studio window is still there though not quite a full circle anymore. He bought me some pyjamas. I prefer to sleep nude but these felt nice and cosy. He does his best to keep this body of mine warm. I love him. Though we bickered this morning over the lack of Times’ birthdays. It was my fault, apparently, when the app wouldn’t work. Fair enough. I interrupted his reading like a demanding child. And like a demanding child I felt ticked off and consequently sulked for well over five minutes. Can we be friends now? he asked.

Smoker (2) was at his window smoking at 6.30 am. His clothes airer is never put away, the odd pair of knickers always hanging there. There is a loneliness to him. Do the children still come? What does he do for a living? He has a line of lights flashing blue and red in his kitchen below.

I can hear the birds. Are they getting enough to eat? And is the man still sleeping on the Prom?

He made the mistake of asking “Did you have a nice walk”? when I went in to wake him. I let rip, moaning about my numb toes, freezing fingers and stiff legs. He listened patiently as he always does. And then I felt terrible. What is my discomfort – which after all is self-inflicted (I choose to walk at that time) and of short duration? And the moon was a glorious sight, as were the occasional lit tree and the garland of lights strewn across the front of a house on South Road. There is still much to cheer even in minus 4 temperatures.

Oh, God I hope that poor man isn’t still sleeping in the shelter on the Prom.

No more long journeys for awhile. We’ve both agreed this. Though there are few day trips. It must be so, work demands it as do family obligations. For this week at least we are staying put. I must write. It is a big haul for me. My body is made tired in the cold. I walk nevertheless, albeit gingerly watching out for ice with my legs like stiff iron poles. The moon helps. She shone brightly this morning, dispensing with the need for a torch (thankfully, as trying to get my three-pairs-of-gloves-hands into my pocket to get it out is virtually impossible). I love that silvery light. And there was no-one about other than the man (I presume it was a man) driving the yellow gritting lorry. He looked like he was taking a detour or was out on a joy ride going round and round the Prom. Perhaps he was taking his mum out on a trip, he said at breakfast. Yes, I said, handing her the occasional Werther’s Original and going slow whenever she wanted to pour herself some tea from her flask.

It was nice to laugh.

How I love him.

I am cut through, lacerated. She has told me the truth about how she feels about me. It is out. It has waited thirty-two years to come out. I hope it makes her feel better. I hope she is lighter for it. She cannot know me. Or how much I have tried to make amends. I have failed. God bless her.

I woke from a most disconcerting dream. I was with another girl (were we both girls) at a swimming pool. It was an old, dilapidated one (rather like the one I remember from boarding school) and I could see vague figures both in the water and out. The air was grey and murky and the water dark, opaque and dingy. I shuddered at the thought of going in, but knew that I would have no choice. And I had a bunch of flowers in my hand and thought I saw something big and furry moving amongst them. A rather bossy woman who had appeared from nowhere told me not to be so silly. I separated the flowers and there was a rat. A benign looking rat (was it a toy) but a rat nevertheless. I took myself from my bed, the wind and rain raging outside in low spirits.

It was lovely to see her looking so pink yesterday. A pretty woman. She is force of nature, just like her mother, and him. I am growing so fond of her. I drew the road as we made our way there and posted it. “It’s got ten likes,” he said at breakfast.

Drawing has taken over, and I miss not having the time to write this journal each day. It’s a gentle pursuit and one in which I can freefall a little.

We were in the coffee shop again yesterday. Sundays are never the same as the weekdays. They are frenetic and full of strangers. Well, mostly. The ex-butcher and the ex-nurse were in, pretending not to wish us gone so that they could have our table. I tried to be more charitable towards them. I do like them. They ooze cosiness and uncomplicated-ness. I asked him about his health. He has lots of things wrong bless him. A gently bovine man (hard to imagine him hacking away at some poor animal’s carcass) he told me it all (not that I was able to understand most of it). She clearly looks after everything for him. They used to be childhood sweethearts but married other people before finding each other after the death of his wife and her divorce. Nice. I asked him where they lived (feeling sure that he had told me before). On the Waun, he said, it’s a little estate of bungalows. Yes. Perfect. I felt a warmth of such love for them yesterday.

I must try to be kinder.