Author: Ellen Bell

She finally answered. I understand now why she has not done so for the last two weeks. She is still in hospital with Covid. Her voice sounds weak and her breath, strained. They have her on strong steroids and a few days ago she fell out of bed as a result, no doubt, of the heavy-sleepy stupor that they induce, onto her face. She has bruising down one side and a lump. She is miserable. I want to help and yet there is nothing I can do. Initially she seemed happy to be there, she clearly felt safe, while the symptoms of the virus terrified her. Now she is powerless against the mind-numbing effects of the drugs that render her senseless. They say that they are too strong but as yet, there is no sign of them being reduced. How can she, or indeed I, understand their reasoning? Perhaps her daughter talks to them, perhaps not. Neither of them trust traditional medicine but what is her/their alternative? Her lungs are clearly damaged, perhaps irretrievably. They say I will have to be on steroids for the rest of my life, she tells me. She is barely eating and struggles to pull herself up from her bed to reach her water. They won’t let her daughter in to feed her. She’s sent me a baby cup, you know the kind, so that I can drink more easily. I feel her powerlessness and weep. He admonishes me, and rightly so, I cannot help her that way. All I can do is imagine myself sitting on that chair next to her bed, a witness, a presence as she sleeps.

A short walk this morning as domestic duties took precedence and ate into my fresh air time. A few late-night revellers ambled their way home from a bar on Terrace Road, most huddled up into pairs. A man’s voice came out through the misty drizzle as I turned the corner onto North Road. It was a dismembered sound that I took some time to locate. It wasn’t loud or sharp, a gentle voice which I saw belonged to a young man talking to his friend outside their house. It comforted me. The quietness of it.

When I got home I could hear that our neighbour was still awake and his TV was on. That unmistakable, yet long-forgotten sound of a theme tune. A western, cowboys, Clint Eastwood looking mean. Yes. I remembered just as I point my key in the door. Rawhide.

I think Wednesday nights are dressing up ones in the clubs in town. As a result they were a motley crew ambling their way up the hill at 3.30 am this morning. By then the novelty of their costumes has worn off and they have forgotten that they are wearing them, like the girl I saw on Northgate Street in a Tigger onesie or the lad in ripped jeans sitting on the steps by The Marine with a purple velvet tricorne hat on his head. They also appear to have dressing gown nights, though I think that the girl I saw in the pink one by the fire escape behind Alexandra Halls talking to boy, had just left her bed in need of a cigarette. Anything goes in this town. Etiquette is a fluid thing. And I like it that way. I am the oddity, I think. And I like that too.

Alas, there is work to do. And the beginnings are always the hardest.

The full moon is due on Friday. I love to walk under its light. And when the clouds cross it it is so magical. The sea responds and churns and tosses. I am always glad to be out by the time I reach the Perygyl and stand on its end for then the world stretches out before me and its huge.

I found it hard to challenge her. She scares me a little. I know that there is an element of transference going on, I can’t help it. And sometimes, in repose, she can look quite sharp. She cried when she spoke of how she’d spend Christmas with her mother. There were just the two of them. I don’t mind that. Her emotions are near the surface and I like that she feels comfortable enough with me to let them show. I watched her as I spoke. She was defensive, naturally and the blame was mine. Or so it felt. So be it, my shoulders are broad enough. But it no longer makes me happy, hasn’t done for quite a while. We will try again next week. It will be boring, she said. Must it be? Isn’t it the teacher’s job to make it not so? We shall see.

He reported back. They’d told him what is wrong with him. And it is fatal. I hope he isn’t in pain. What must it be like to be dying and know you are? Of course, we all are, but for most of us it isn’t imminent. I imagine peace, a yielding but forget about the possible pain and discomfort and tedium and fear. I wish him rest, and ease and a gentle acceptance. But I don’t know him well, perhaps he will fight that dying of the light. Who knows?

I like living here. I like to hear and be amongst the other flat dwellers with the walls dividing us, that is. But I do struggle with the smells. It was ever thus. I remember in Cambridge the stink of curry coming through our fixed wine rack. Here it oozes through the walls and floors of both bathrooms and then up the stairwell. He can’t smell it mostly, though yesterday even he reeled at it. It was definitely meat. Though we discussed whether it was mince or beef stew. It was there for hours. It’s his brothers. At least one of them. The man downstairs, that is. He isn’t well, though they are keeping mum about what is ailing him. They appear to be taking it in turn to visit. One plays the saxophone. They all cook but pungent stuff, sadly. I must learn to be more accepting, though even a double dose of lavender oil in two burners couldn’t eradicate it.

And then there is the noise. I’ve grown used to their TV being on very loud. It’s even comforting at times. Last night we heard the fair. It must be over a mile away but the thumping beat of the music carries. I like it actually. It evokes so many dreams of childhood. I was always a bit scared of it, he said last night. He remembers it as a boy. I was scared of them too, but that added to their attraction – the dirt, the stickiness, the hard-faced men, the lights, and the muddied turf under foot.

I walked without a stick today. I’m slower but at least I can still walk. Four girls huddled in a group opposite the sail on the Prom. I caught some of their conversation as I walked past. She says that men help, one was saying. Yeh, replied another, but druggies always say that. And she repeated herself for extra effect. Druggies always say that.

We got to the coffee shop a little early and followed a bearded man inside. Give me another 5 minutes, said the assistant manager, we’re not open yet. Somewhat shamefaced we slunk outside to stand by the door. Is that patchouli oil I can smell? I asked the bearded man (he was small in stature and there were strands of grey at the end of his beard, though he can’t have been that old). No, I don’t think so, he said, smiling, perhaps it’s Shea butter. Yes, I said, not wholly convinced. We struck up a conversation, nevertheless and I learnt that he was a chef (‘an unconventional one’ – he used real lemons in his humus and got the push for it) and a sound engineer. We ended our chat by agreeing that coffee tastes different (and toast) when someone else makes it for you.

There were a few soldiers in uniform and ex-servicemen in civvies in the café, one who couldn’t have been more than 30 had two medals on his lapel. His friend joined him at the table with shaven head and beard and a very very sharp suit finished off with leopard skin winkle pickers. Fantastic. (He had nudged me when he’d arrived and hissed, look at his shoes!) I tried to draw them all but my confidence was ebbing and there was too much to capture.

We stood together in silence as the clocks struck 11. The silence was inner rather than outer, cars still drove past and parishioners at a nearby church chattered. I held you all in my head and heart wishing you peace. I hope you heard and felt it.

We used to do them at school. This was the boarding school we were all sent to (well the eldest three). Even at the time it struck me as a rather antiquated form of entertainment, both for the actors and the audience. It was centred on the Nativity and we ‘struck’ scenes, holding our poses, wobbling and trying not to fall for the time that the curtain was open. I never got to be an angel, not having the required blonde hair (it was the 70s) and was mostly cast as a water-carrier or a shepherd, and usually with a glued-on beard. (My school acting career did reach a more giddier height than that when I was cast as Elvira in Blithe Spirit but that was sometime later and due to Mrs Plaice’s careful nurturing (up in that attic room) of what she saw as my talent.) But back to the tableaux. I thought of them this morning as I walked and saw various groups of figures, mostly students, in the dark. Most were still, leaning against walls, talking in huddles or, as in the case, of the two boys outside the corner SPAR vaguely communing, with one standing reading his phone as the other leant forward, his hand clutching a railing, being sick.

The White Horse has put up it’s Christmas lights – long trails of them flicking on and off. Nice. It challenges the darkness. I hope that there will be more to come.

It’s Remembrance Sunday today, isn’t it? I said to him this morning. I’d thought of it as I’d walked home. My head is so full of my own worries that I forget the loss, pain and aching of others all too often.

And my hyacinths are beginning to come through. It is too soon, isn’t it? There are just the smallest of pokings – a pin prick of green. Will they last till the Spring?

There’s nothing else to say or think about. Let her go. That’s all. Let her torment end. Return her to her family. Enough. Let her free. Please.

Journeying always throws me. I belong nowhere, I’m in an no mans land with only the occasional respite from a cold, bleak motorway service station. And then there is the unpacking and getting used to the smell (now unfamiliar even after only 3 days) of home. I cleave to spaces. I make homes of them if only for a brief time and the leaving of them (and all their as yet unexperienced possibilities) is a wrench. Don’t get me wrong I love my/our home but it is my place of work too and I long for a longer, more sustained escape (and one that is free from obligation, however wonderful). And seeing them was wonderful. Those brave, strong little bodies so full of life and hope. How I love them. And her. And her.

There is a red light shining on the war memorial. They make it red every November. It is a gentle and poignant tribute. And we forgot yesterday. I am ashamed.

It’s just a job of work, he told me after I’d received a 2nd edit request. It’s ugly to me, all that chopping and rearranging and questioning. I feel flayed by it. But I know that I’m overreacting. They want it to be the best it can be for their journal, I know this but the child in me wants to stamp her feet and yell. Which I pretty much did most of the morning yesterday. He was very patient. And then the café I’d set aside 3 hours to draw in wasn’t open. There were no lights on and that pretty, china-doll-faced barista was outside frantically texting. We went to Nero instead where the coffee is better and sat in the window. The drawing isn’t so good there, I can’t see faces as well. And we sat in his favourite seat – another customer, that is, and when he came in we both knew he would come and sit by us and talk. Which he did. I didn’t say much but he was kind. He’s the one who sells fruit machines to pubs (and has a huge store of Wurlitzers, and tried to sell us one – love to, but no room) and he’s just lost his father. I felt for him but said little. But as I say, he was kind. Like so many people in this town, the fruit-machine man says ‘isn’t it’ at the end of most sentences. I ended up listening for it while I drew. She sketches a lot, doesn’t she, he said to him. Yes, he replied, she’s an artist.

The better café (drawing-wise) opened eventually – the opener had overslept. And later we got our seat. I drew and drew – though not particularly well. But practice is practice, is it not? People are beginning to notice what I am doing. It has to be so, I suppose. The china-face girl came over to talk to him about it when I’d gone to the loo. She wanted to study fashion but Covid put paid to it. I might go back, she said. She’d asked him if I sold them. And an elderly man who’d sat next to us and I’d tried to draw noticed and smiled. He sat in silence while his wife talked or rooted through her handbag. I noticed he clasped a pocket calculator for most of the time. When they left their table was taken by a garrulous women and two friends. They spoke Welsh but with English words inserted in now and again.

This morning the wind was off the sea, blowing. I walked along Terrace Road into it. 3 lads ran past me, shouting and racing each other. There is no way, one roared, that I’m going to sleep in no bus shelter.