Author: Ellen Bell

I have this hankering to bake a cake. To make a cake. I don’t have all the paraphernalia, not anymore. I’ll have to buy a cake tin, a baking tray, icing sugar and greaseproof paper. I think about the stages involved, the mixing, the cutting out of rounds of paper, heating the oven, peeling off the paper, placing the cake on a wire tray to cool and the smell. Is that why I want to do it? For the smell. The cosiness of hot sweetness permeating the flat. I won’t eat it. He may, though ideally he shouldn’t. What will I do with it? Take it to work as the other women do? Leaving the tin opened. Go on, help yourself. The men eating it between typing, not worrying about hips or tummies. One piece left out of politeness. Oh, I couldn’t, I’m stuffed. Or I could divide it into pieces and leave it at various places around town where the homeless sleep. A gift. Will they want it? Does anybody want my gifts? Something from home, a gift from the kitchen. Do you remember? Those Friday nights. Those dark November Friday nights. Me sleeping in your car on the way home. I want to make it, as I want to make so many things. A full life, a layered life. A domestic life. She makes one every Friday. I like that. I’d imagined a big family, a full house, and baking. There is no need now. We live quietly, just the two of us. I could take one to her, as gift. But I don’t know what she likes. She said she’d like me to make her a cake. Is that where this has come from? We were still there this time last week. The day after my birthday. How time passes. She hasn’t left the house. Housebound and anxious. Has she changed that much? She was always fretful, as was I. All that sun. Glorious. I miss that. But today looks good. The sky is big, the clouds softly pink.

She stopped me. Called out to me. Her car had gone flat. She needed help to push it. I couldn’t say no. She was in what looked like huge-spotted pyjama bottoms, almost a clown outfit. There was a Canadian flag flying from the aerial. It’s not a heavy car, she said, as I got behind it. We tried it twice, nothing. There is no hill on the Prom. I ran over to two lads walking past the Bandstand. Can you help jump start the car? I asked pointing at it. Jump start? one of them asked, you’ll need jump leads for that. I should’ve said bump not jump and felt suddenly silly and ignorant. It throws me, encountering my not knowing. And there is so much I don’t know. Ah, it is scary, having to go out into the world with one’s uncertainty. Should I write that book, I’m half way through? Is it crap? What will they think of me on the course? So scared of being judged. Ah, find your courage, Ellen. Even with the boys help, both of which reeked of booze, the car refused to start. Sorry, I said. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help. The lads, it seemed were more determined and began to push from the front. Oh, the girl said, we’re going backwards. I left them too it. I wanted to walk – to be in silence with my thoughts. Sorry.

Later walking down Great Darkgate St I noticed a pair of lovers outside White Stuff. She was a tiny thing with long curly hair, he was taller and sported a white baseball cap worn backwards. As I got nearer I realised that they were arguing. How can I be expected to believe you care for me, she was shouting, if you walk away from me? I was sorry for her, for them. Their rancour hung heavy in the air. The town was teaming with drunk freshers. The Pelican Bakery didn’t disappoint, lovely odours of baking bread hitting my nostrils way before I crossed the road. The usual pony-tailed woman wasn’t in there as I peered through the window, it was a man in a grey t-shirt.

I want to finish it, soon. I have just over two weeks. Why does it make me a little nervous? I want it to be lovely for her. My gift, to them both. I fills in for all the silence, all that space between us. Wanting to know them, to cherish them, to hold them dear. My loves.

Did I hear him or see him first? I can’t remember. North Road is always in semi-darkness at that time of the day. I like it for that. I saw him because the house ahead had its security light on. His form lying there on that front lawn was lit up. He turned and murmured as I walked by. I got a little shock. It was unexpected. You think you are alone then you realise you are not. But he was out. Out for the count. Fast asleep on the grass. Wasn’t it wet? Didn’t he care?

They’re back in force. The students are back – a returning made manifest by the boom, boom of the music pulsing from Pier Pressure nightclub and the various, ill-clad bodies making their way home to Alexandra Hall. I watched as three girls pushed in through the door of one of the other ‘Homes’ just up from the Hall, the other two waiting patiently as one put the code into the lock. There was much shouting, much sitting around on benches eating. KFC boxes, empty now, stood abandoned on the roads and pavements. Seagulls, as if in competition, also screeched and exclaimed, waiting for the scraps of pizza and chips. Others stood in a messy array on the shoreline, watching, waiting for the dawn.

The Shoreline B&B is full again, no doubt with parents bringing their issue to University.

A lad slept, head in hands, on a table outside Wetherspoons. Taxi fishes darted here and there.

Back to normal and I’ve a day of sewing ahead. Emails written and sent. Another list complete. Rest now before the next. A grey, cloudy sky. I think of a house out there in the sun and warmth. A part of me left behind. I have an apron and a little wooden animal stolen from a Noah’s Ark. What is it? A porcupine, a hedgehog, or even a bear? Who knows?

She sounded better. Much much better. I went to the doctor, she said, he gave me some anti-biotics. Usually she is averse to them but this time she succumbed and benefited. I am glad, it is good to hear her being so bright. I’m out walking the dog, she said. Then somehow we got on to talking about Sunday School. She was animated on the subject. My grandmother was Church, my father Chapel, she said. It was a two mile walk to Church, she continued, with Sunday School in the afternoon. So to save us having to make the journey twice the vicar’s wife would make tea for the children in the Rectory. There were jellies and trifles, she continued, clearly delighted by her reminiscences. A bachelor led the classes, she said. Imagine that now. Sometimes there were three or four. It’s all changed now, the congregations are so small. Are there still Sunday Schools? I certainly went. I remember colouring books of stories from the Bible, orange squash in metal jugs and cream eggs at Easter. Cosy. Safe. She clearly thought so too. She remembered a congregation that met in someone’s house. We even had communion there, she said.

I am rushing. There’s been too much to do this morning. I hurry to complete those small, fiddly tasks and get nowhere near. But the house is clean. That is something.

No rain this morning as I walked.

The girl seemed on fire. Green emerald fire. As she got closer I saw that it was a sequinned top. Gorgeous.

The air smelt different this morning. Was it the storm? It raged most of the night. I didn’t want to go out into it. That great howling and the lashing of rain. But I did. Though not for long. I thought I’d be alone out there. Not so. Some giggling girls hugging pizza boxes to their chests tripped up Pier Street in their high heels and boob tubes and three students, coats over heads, hurried into a doorway just beneath the old Library. The storm made boys shout. I heard them on my way home. It is easing now.

They got him out. After two months the body is out. What a state it must’ve been in. It doesn’t bear thinking about. What about if it were your loved one, or yours? Terrible.

I’m rushing. Too much to do. A review to write. Not sure what yet. And my Friday phone call to make. And another set of images to send. Wrong ones. Confusion. It is often the way. Why don’t you call? he always says. And he is right. But there isn’t time for the niceties.

She died last January. I didn’t know. I didn’t feel the passing. I would’ve liked to have gone to her funeral. May she rest in peace. I loved her.

I was brushing my teeth and I felt something in my mouth. I spat it out. It was an earwig. And it was alive. I heard myself scream. Had it come from my toothbrush or was it in my mouth already? I hate to be so girly about it. So squeamish. It is just the thought of it. And I flushed it down the plug hole. Will it survive? It isn’t it’s fault, it was just doing what earwigs do, crawling into somewhere dark, dank and warm. But ugh it has stayed with me all morning. It makes me shudder. Ridiculous really. It has become a symbol of all those biting things I have said over the last few days. My back carries it too. It is almost done. Almost finished. Just keep going. Stop holding your breath. Let it go. Let it out. Bless it. Bless me.

I don’t know where to begin.

I am home. Weary, flea and mosquito bitten, but I am home. We did it. The job is done. Has she been put to rest? Who knows? The sparrows, the radio coming on sans battery, the stick insect reluctant to leave the bonnet of the car and the laughing My Little Pony imply the contrary.

I behaved like a child. I felt like a child. Hurt, petulance, anger, grief, frustration, fear, panic and loss all of it – held like a ball in my stomach. It had to come out. Poor loves. They felt the same, clearly. And I love them all, even so. I just want to say sorry. Sorry for it all. But the love was there, too. The swim in the sea holding her hand. The offer of a spray of perfume. The smell of the both of them. Hearing them laugh in the other room. Talking about sex and vibrators over dinner. Do you pleasure yourself? Finding one thing after another that burst memories in our heads. The booze. Bottle after bottle in every cupboard. The dirt, those bites, the dust, the stink of furniture polish, the tiredness of the house. And those walks alone. The aroma of the bakeries and the jasmine. The downpours, being drenched and feeling high. My tears at the airport. Never again. I won’t happen again. It can’t.

It is just love. It is just about being human. I can’t make it neat. I can’t always make it kind.

At the airport overhearing two middle-aged women ahead of me with strong Birmingham accents and poodle perms. One of them saying, as she nudges her friend in the arm and looks down at her walking stick: ‘And she checked me stick for drugs.’

The kind men sitting next to me on the plane getting down my suitcase but not seeing me crying before we landed.

Home now to the wind, rain and peace and him. It is enough.

I’m off again. I don’t want to be. I want to be still. There is so much work I want to do. And the peace of being still. I yearn for it. Yet, I have an hour before we are off. That is something.

No rain this morning, just a momentary drizzle. A rogue cloud probably. I woke from a dream where I was breakfasting with an old friend. He is dying. His wife had to go to an appointment leaving us to breakfast together. He was a little awkward, as was I. We had to go downstairs in this enormous house. I laid it out ready on a table by two huge red velvet armchairs. He was distracted. There were other people about. Perhaps it was a hotel, or a canteen. Nothing happened. It’s portent seemed to rest on our discomfiture. At one point he directed me towards where to find the coffee and tea. He appeared to know his way around. He was detached, almost laughing at me, as can be his wont.

The sky is slightly pink. The clouds hang in the air, barely moving. No wind. We shall stop for coffees on the way and do crosswords. No hurry, no stress.

I will accept what is. I will trust. Show me how.

I’m irritable today. I don’t know why. I woke up feeling this way. It’s under the skin, a dis-ease, an awkwardness. I drop things, cussing under my breath and I want to snap, to hit out, though I don’t. Best keep away, keep indoors, out of harms way. It’s unbidden. Has it come from my dream world? I remember one where I was literally pulling myself up this rocky, mountain-face by my fingers, grasping at it’s stony surface. It didn’t feel dangerous though, more strenuous, and hard going. I was talking to someone. I had to do it. I felt compelled to. And in another there was a lover. I’d heard a voice I’d recognised on the radio the morning before but I couldn’t put a face to it. Had that inspired the amorousness of my dream encounter? It was nice. I wanted him. And then he had a birthday and wanted a fuss to be made. But before that he’d been locked away, and only I was able to get to him. All very unclear, sorry. Oh, and I awoke with the phrase, ‘It’s not your responsibility’, ringing in my head.

Pissing down again this morning. I wore his coat again with my waterproofs underneath. Try and enjoy it, I told myself, my hands snug in the side pockets out of the wet. It is only weather and we need the rain for just about everything. There were two bodies in the Prom shelter. One man was awake and rolling a cigarette when I walked by. Should I speak? Should I greet him? I called out a good morning. He raised his head to look at me but didn’t reply. Why should he? A couple stood under the Bandstand awning snogging. They pulled away as I trundled past. My hoods squeak as I walk. It is not a silent, calm thing wearing waterproofs. It’s noisy. An oystercatcher peeped in the distance. The tides must’ve been high that night for there was seaweed on the Prom. Nothing happened. I went the back way home, sad to miss the smell of the bakeries. But I got it. Just then, a hint, a positive aroma of bread. It had carried all the way to the station. Nice.

We managed to speak. It is becoming real. She wants to do it. It will be wonderful to work with her. An undercover performance, a subterfuge. It’s OK. The least fuss. The gallery as performance space. And unasked for. Without permission. What harm can it do? Frightened and excited in equal measure. Such is life. Such is being alive. Amen to that.

They were all wearing the same black trousers and jackets, made from a kind of matt, waterproof stiff material. Two arrived in a saloon, another two in a white van, then another two in a Ford Escort.

We were sitting in the car waiting for Ta Med Da to open.

They’re police, I said to him. Look they’re all dressed the same. There were no markings or badges, though. The uniform but not the uniform. There were women and men. Oh, he said, I’ve seen them here before, loads of times. They come here for breakfast.

I looked down the hall and there they were all seated at the same table, eating. Do you suppose that they have to socialise together outside of work? I asked him. Or do you think it is just what they do? Dunno, he said, maybe.

Coming back with our coffees he told me that he’d told L. that they were coppers (I’d seen his head jerk in their direction). Oh, she said, unimpressed, once a copper, always a copper.

My dreams feel portentous and more than a little alarming at present. I only caught the last frame or so. I was watching from a short distance as a woman ran after a couple of dogs. She was wild with fury, screaming and shouting. She was running and the dogs were running, seemingly away from her. She caught up with them and grabbed one by the scruff of its neck. Then she stabbed at it, driving the knife into its neck. The dog acquiesced, didn’t cry out in pain, or bite or snarl at her. It seemed to accept the punishment, submitting to it willingly even. I was horrified. Such anger, such revenge. What had they done? There was no blood but I felt the wounding as if it were done to me. When I woke the word idiocy was in my head.

The rain was relentless as I walked. I’d heard it through my open window as I dozed, trying not to dread my encounter with it. I attempted to find the pleasure in it as I walked. It kept everyone indoors. I was alone, seeing only the homeless man sleeping on his cardboard box in the Prom shelter and a couple of kids hanging around in the doorway to The Angel. I like the rain on my face, it feels clean. I like to wear his big coat, it envelopes, drowns me with its heaviness. The sound of the rain on the trees, on the roofs and rattling the rigging on the boats down the harbour is beautiful. And my big boots kept dry even when I stepped into several puddles.

A busy day yesterday. It is beginning to feel real. The filmmaker got in touch and the costume is also seeming possible. I fretted a little when I went to bed. Ideas taking form, taking shape are always exciting, if a little alarming. I shall have to do it. Will I find the courage?

A fretty morning. You’re a born worrier, Nanny used to say. Our lovely Nanny whom I think of so often. Her with her big, masculine face, dark, heavy eyebrows and good, solid, steady kindness. And she is, was right. I am. All the time. Mostly about minutiae, sadly. I worry what people will think of me, I worry about what is best to do, I fret over what to eat, what to wear, what to say, how to make money and where to direct my creative energies. There is no right or wrong, not really, not with the small things. And there is no certainty. Nothing is certain. Except death. That is. That surely is.

And then I am chided by hearing of the big things. The real stuff of life. The life and death of life. Such as those who spoke with Sue Macgregor on her Reunion programme yesterday. Just voices. Voices recounting the terrible atrocities of Sierra Leone’s civil war on the 1990s. Beyond comprehension – public rapings, eyes gouged out, limbs cut off, maiming and child soldiers forced to kill. The ex-High Commissioner spoke. Seemingly a bit of a stereotype at first, worrying about his highly-polished dining table when the rebels came to call with their Kalashnikovs, but then turning into a good man who still visits out of a true love for the people. Two women also spoke, passionately, one who was at the forefront and the other who cares for the ex-child militia. How do you ever recover? How do you find your way back to any notion of safety? And yet amidst such horror there is always kindness, someone steps out from the shadows full of light and love. Is that what it is about? Or is that kind of knowing, understanding beyond our reach? I can but marvel at their lust to survive and to do what is good.

I woke from a rich tapestry of dreams. I was walking first through a city, then a town then out in the countryside. I was trying to find a place to meet my friend H. There was a café I popped into. But it had no coffee and only seemed to offer boiled dumpling-like breads. A woman called out and pointed to the board, indicating the range of teas. She seemed to want my company. Should I stay? No. I opened my rucksack and it was full to the brim of white sticky rolls. I didn’t want them. I was hungry but didn’t want to eat them. But didn’t want to throw them away. Then I was out on the road. There were two paths. One higher than the other. I opted for the wider more popular route for there were birds to see and lovely landscapes. Then I was inside and I had to go down through a hole to continue my journey. I was a tiny hole, and I couldn’t see how I’d get through it. There were metal pipes hanging down inside it. Then people started to come through the other way. A large man, then an old woman. Thanking me for letting them come through first they shook plaster dust from their hair and walked on. A woman sitting behind me, apparently on a bus seat, told me that she’d asked them to make it easier for her. You can apply for them to remove some of the pipes (the obstacles), she said.

I woke with the words ‘Butcher Benny, the gift of Denmark’ in my head.

It made him laugh. How does it go again? he asked.

It’s the two worlds not matching. Lost in translation. A tower of babel sort of babbling.

Crimson Rhino is shut. I am sad. I never went in. Have they gone on to better things? I hope so. So much enthusiasm. It all has to end in the end. All of this. None of this will matter.

Till then. Well, just do the best you can, eh?