Author: Ellen Bell

I found a watch. It was lying on the pavement of the Prom just beyond the Pier Pressure nightclub. It threw me. I didn’t know what to do. He, being the boy scout that he is, would’ve taken it straight to the Police Station, eager as ever to do right and to be congratulated for it. That sounds unkind. He knows what I mean. I wobbled, prevaricated. Would the owner even think to go to the Station to see if someone had handed it in? Probably not. And besides, something stopped me from wanting to put it into my pocket. It would feel like stealing. So I picked it up and placed it on top of a giant bin, so that it could be seen more easily. It didn’t look like an expensive one, it was gold in colour but light to handle. Did I do the right thing? I just don’t know these days. I cannot trust my judgement. What, after all is right? What is the right thing?

The phone went in the middle of the night. Well, it was 8.45 pm which is the middle of the night for me. I struggle to orientate myself. Where am I? What is that noise? Then I had to reach for the receiver through the bars of my bed and then I had to get out of bed to close the window and switch on the light. Can you hang on? I’ll just get a pen. Who are you? Where am I? I scribble the instructions hoping that they will make sense in the morning. Did he think me odd? Did I slur? Was I unfriendly? Smile, he used to say, smile. Be nice. I try. I do try my love. But I was lost in sleep. And then after that I couldn’t return. It was a warm dream, soft, I wanted to go back. I always want to go back.

I pruned the geraniums before I went out for my walk. A rather dramatic cutting back. I thought he’d be shocked or at least a little cross. Oh, how lovely, he said. I hope I haven’t killed them. They needed it, he said. I don’t know what I am doing. I try to do right. As in all things. How is that one can get so ancient and know less and less? I fed them and watered them and banked them down with some fresh compost. I hope they will return, stronger for the cutting. Besides, it gives her joy our soon to be centenarian neighbour downstairs. That is reason enough, is it not?

The question is does any of it really matter?

Helen Lederer on Inheritance Tracks on the radio talking about her happy childhood. So why am I so anxious? she asked.

I wore my new coat. He’d bought it for me because I think he’d grown a bit tired of me getting his coat so wet, though he did offer it. That’s him all over, generous to a fault, though sometimes regretting it. I wore it. It took me a bit of time. I struggle with the new. I get used to things. It felt odd. It is very long and is fully, so it says, rain proof. I look like I am about to ride a horse across a prairie. It makes a shushing sound as I walk. It is marvellous and little ridiculous. I feel lost in it, anonymous. Nice body suit, a student called out to me as I passed between him and his mate talking on the Prom. Body suit? I wanted to say, it’s a coat. I saved it up for him, anyway, knowing it would make him laugh. Body suit? he called out to me from the shower, body suit?

It’s all change. New coat and new boots. My old ones developed a hole but I’d grown into them. I had them just right. These are stiff and unyielding. I walk like I’ve got wooden planks in my trousers. Ah, me. Old age. Gone is the fluidity. Will it ever return? My bodies are going too. My underwear that is. They will have to be replaced. It’s important to feel pristine close to the skin. I love beautiful underwear don’t you? Silky, something that holds you tight, close. I mend and mend them but to no avail. Time to go, to be replaced. But what with?

We saw a fox. It was early. It ran across the road just before our headlights. A small fox. Beautiful. I catch my breath at the gorgeous wildness of it. The gift of it. Thank you.

I must have compassion. I do have compassion. There is always a reason. People don’t generally mean harm, they, we just do our best. I want to feel kindly towards him. I’ve a lot of time for him, he said. Yes, I know. Why wouldn’t you? I wasn’t finding fault. He’s going to. A new boss, a new broom. A woman this time, apparently. Beware, she told me, beware of big organisations, they are drains. Drains and radiators. What am I? See the goodness, always. Always. He thinks me a Pollyanna, a little fey perhaps. But it is for me, you see, not them. See no evil. And I don’t. Not now, not ever.

I was less than friendly to all those women of a certain age sitting around that table. I don’t know why. I tried to warm a little. It wasn’t what I was expecting, that’s all. But there was something to learn. Certainly. And the scissors were lovely to hold. A child’s paper scissors, she thought. For that I am grateful.

She is my joy. Pure. Her smile. She smiled at me. I felt chosen. I was chosen. I am chosen.

Even though her voice is croaky she sounds so much brighter. She laughs as she tells me of the dogs and the cat who find their way to her door. Two dogs, cross-spaniels, Spot and Bobbo. I gave it that nickname, she says, cos it bobs up and down all the time. She is delighted with them. They wait for her in the porch and accompany her on her walks. They love having a ball thrown for them, she says. Are they from the farm? I ask. Yes, she says in that husky voice. The last one that used to visit and then eventually stayed, Bonnie, died. And these seem to have taken her place, migrating towards this kind, gentle women. The cat is a different matter. She stays in the shed, she says. There a basket and a pillow there for her and she just prefers it, she says. She has a lovely nature, she says, though she can scratch. She just suddenly turned on her. I know now, she says, to watch out when her ears go back. A lost cat, abandoned, not feral. A neighbour had seen her in a thorn hedge. Was it hers? We asked around, she says. I thought I’d give her a neighbours’ children, they’ve a little terrier who loves cats. But she can’t stand dogs. But now she’s got so fat, eating three pouches of Felix a day. She laughs. I hear her kindness, her attention to detail, her love of the land, the animals, her fragility, her protective love for her daughter. She shouldn’t really have gone into work yesterday, she says, the cold was still in her head.

I am glad she is in my life, a short chat every Friday. We’ve never met. We don’t need to. It’s been almost five years now. It’s part of my week. A connection. Something good, something innocent, something true.

We rarely exchange them but we do do them. Crosswords that is. It’s a gentle thing between us. I like the play with words. To play with words, to feel them on my tongue and in my head. Words come up that neither of us know the meaning of, or at least we think we do but are not certain. Picaresque was one from yesterday. A picaresque novel. Now, what’s that then? he say. I’ve just looked. It means an epic-style novel where the hero is a ‘rough dishonest type’. Well what-do-ya-know? And then I came up with pettifogger. What’s that then when it is at home. As my mother would’ve said. Google tells me it is a rather bad, tawdry lawyer who deals with petty cases. Petty presumably comes from ‘petit’. Lovely isn’t it. This kind of delving. Pantry did you know comes from the French for bread, pain.

A quiet morning. Few people were about. The three rough sleepers were tucked up under their duvets in the Prom shelter and a couple of strange girls wandered about, clearly unable to sleep. They have a wildness to their eyes. And I? I fretted as usual while trying to take in the firmament which was marvellous. Isn’t it? Two boys had lit a fire on South Beach and its smoke billowed. As did the cloth in the giant deckchair by the ‘ship’. It was a sail at sea.

Off to work soon. I am nervous. You just feel alienated – that’s all, he said. Yes. Spot on. How I love him for knowing. For knowing so much about me. And for wanting to. I am blessed.

The Prom sandpit has become a paddling pool. The two oversized deckchairs seem to be floating. There is sea debris and flotsam everywhere. It’s as if it has been hurled across the road. Pebbles, seaweed, shale and bits of wood. A raging sea. It has calmed down now. Will they clear up? Or are they expecting more of the same?

Four big-thighed girls are walking along Llanbadarn Road as I set out. They are returning home as I was leaving it. One of them is talking while the others listen. Warren said, she is saying, that he’d only had five shots of rum. So much for the newspapers purporting this week that young people are not drinking. Not so Warren, eh? The wind was up. It seems to the buffet the students roaming from club to pizza shop to halls. A neon signed flashes outside Pier Pressure – CLUB OPEN. Several revellers were spilling out, two large security men in high vis jackets look on. And music still pounds out. An A4 sign affixed to the window in both The Celtic Bay and The Cardigan Bay guest houses advise residents that they are ‘welcome to borrow the fishing nets, buckets and spades’. Further along the terrace the Marine Hotel is already advertising for Christmas Lunch. Through the window of the bar I can see several guests still drinking, the bar staff long gone. Has there been a wedding? Down by the harbour the lobster pots have been taken out of the water and piled high behind railings. There is that same warm, fetid smell of fishiness. The boats’ rigging jangles in the wind.

I’m trying to pay attention. To listen, to watch, to fox my mind, to bring it to a stillness. To now. This moment. To drink it in.

I worry you see. I worry too much. Have I done or said the wrong thing? What if I upset someone? What if it all dries up and there is nothing? What it? What if? Worry, worry. I want to trust. To let it go. I do my best. Always. I have my Sunday. Chores done. Some yoga, then work. My work. My gentle work. Preparing. Repetitive work. I need it. Next week there is joy to be had. Friends and love, holding her and being with him all day. You see it is enough. To know what he feels about me is enough. The rest is tripe. Mind-bullying tripe. Bah.

I hear things on the radio and try to recall them. It isn’t always possible. My mind has become sieve-like. I have metamorphosed into a constant note-writer. The other day it was a quote from Mark Twain. It was in a play, so whether it is truth or not, who knows? When you see and adjective, he was supposed to have said, kill it. It stuck with me as I wrote yesterday. Do I need that word? Or that? Yet another judge to sit on my shoulder. But I agree, less is more. It’s just a confidence thing. Does that say enough? What is enough?

I overslept. My alarm may have gone off, I don’t know. I didn’t hear it. Half an hour late. So I had to shave it off my walk. So regimented. I know, I know. A brisk jaunt. Missing out the gentle bits, though in this weather, with all that rain it would have been hardly gentle. It is still lashing now. And the Prom is littered with stones and shale. A student was throwing up in a shop doorway when I walked past, my umbrella aloft.

And no bakery smells.

Cleaned the house, did my emails and stuff. It takes so long. And now some yoga then work. A bientot. x

Sometimes I forget to mention things. I write little notes, scribbled scrawlings when I get back from my walk to remind me. I meant to mention Toni Morrison’s Beloved too. Hence the title for today and yesterday. Carried over because I forgot. They are broadcasting a reading of it on Radio 4 Extra while I make breakfast. I didn’t want to listen. They made a short announcement beforehand warning that there would be material about abusing women, hurting women. I didn’t want to listen. I know it is important to know, to let it be heard. But do I have to hear it? I know of it. I dream of it, I see it in my mind’s eye. Is it enough? So I turned it over. I turned it over to Radio 3. Lieder and big pants. Wailing women and marvellous motets. Who knows? I’m sorry for my lack of courage, my lack of bravery. But sometimes I just cannot.

The wind was getting up. The Angel’s pub sign was pulling at its chain. I’ve never seen that before, a pub sign chained to a wall. It yanked and tugged, like a wild animal trying to break free from it tether. There was coarse sand on the Prom. No students this morning. No students climbing the fence into the sandpit and sitting on the giant deckchairs swinging their legs. I smelt charred wood in the wind. Someone had lit a beach fire the night before. It was still smouldering. A black smell, a warm smell, smoky. A lad crossed the street ahead of me. A tiny bit of lit ash flew towards me, still alight, a yellow-orange firefly. Then it was gone. He walked on the balls of his feet. I watched him. His heels never touched the ground. It was a bouncy, rolling sort of gait.

I want to let it go. The work is drying-up. No one calls. Can I find something else? Can I write instead? Can I use my talents? Work from home? See I am pro-active, sending out suggestions. A yes, today. That is good. And two more suggestions sent. All is change. Go with it. Let it in. Don’t fight it. All will be well. All is well. To work.

I walked with music in my ears this morning. I like it but I miss things. I am one step removed. I don’t hear the students’ chatter. There is a wall of glass between us. I thought it might help, fox my mind a little. It didn’t, not really. I had on shuffle. Kate Bush came on twice. Breathing. My Beloved. Her mother’s nicotine.

I irked him. We didn’t talk, just texted. I felt his rancour. Has it been resolved? Possibly. He probably won’t pass any on anymore, will I mind? No. He is a nice man. I am just prickly. There is so little to go around. I’m sure that he feels the same way about me. My shoulders carry my dis-ease. Like pins, like knives.

I found some more money. A ten pound note this time. I was sorry for the person who dropped it. What should I do? Keep it. A boon, a prize, a gift. I feel looked after, looked-out for.

She replied. It is going to happen. I will see her, and her. My loves. My beloved.