Author: Ellen Bell

Sometimes it all seems so fragile, so impermanent. Do you ever feel that? A shifting. Nothing is safe, nothing is solid.

The wind was strong as I walked. No, not strong, just gusty. The students have mostly gone. A few stragglers that’s all. Three men were in the shelter. A mess of duvets and sleeping bags around them. One of them seemed to be wearing a  party hat, a white plastic glittery affair. They were wide awake, the one in the hat standing, then lurching.

An oystercatcher called from what seemed like across the sea. I couldn’t see the lights of Aberdovey.

I just don’t know if I’m good enough. At any thing. Shall I try this, or that? When will there be peace to it all? I walk past The Pelican Bakery hoping for a smell of bread, something comforting. I often fantasise about being a baker. I want something real to do, something with a beginning and an end. Something that is tangible, true and of use. I’d like the solitude, I think, and the sensations. And the hours. And the warmth, particularly in the winter.

Off soon. I will have to wake him. Morning was coming up over the sea. That white line of hope.

A bientot. x

I tend to listen to it on a Saturday when I’m doing my yoga practice before making lunch. The writing is exemplary. And it engages me with people whose lives are often so hard, so relentless. I am moved by it. Yesterday the programme ended with a correspondent talking about he and his family leaving India to return to the UK. It was so touching, so deft. He pitched it around his daily shave in the local market. He’d go there each day for a wet shave in the open air under the trees. As he sat on the chair, a towel around his shoulders being lathered up ready for the blade he reminisced about his experiences, the stories and political events he’d covered. But he also relayed the sights and smells of the market and how the perfume of the ginger chai being sold on the next door stall would always remind him of that moment. He ended his piece with a plea that we might always live in a place as if we were about to leave it, alert, alive to every sensation as if it were our last. Amen to that I thought.

I did my 500 words and a little more. I will finish it today. A simple piece of writing. It is just about showing her voice, her thoughts and her practice. Nothing more. No flourishes, no showing off.

I go into overdrive when I am about to travel and leave home. Just a day. Just one more then home for a bit. To catch my breath and work and clean. My mind keeps writing lists over and over. Don’t forget that or that.

Town is quiet. A few stragglers. Boys with ties on outside their shirts, loose tails.

A quick sit to gather my thoughts, a pot of coffee and then work. Last stint then rest.

A bit cold this morning. I had to put the fire on. And then I remember her telling me about the new dog she is baby sitting for. She loves smoke, she said. I’d made a fire, you know it can be chilly first thing and I caught her staring up at the chimney. Funny that. I’m glad she has a new companion.

To work. Adieu.

They’ve got gooseberries, he shouted from the bedroom.

He’d been calling our local health food shop. He always calls first, usually on a Monday morning, to place the order and they bag it up for him. It’s a nice touch. They all know him by name and remark on it if he doesn’t call. The owner usually takes the call and says yes, after each item, with a slow deliberate stress on the word, as she writes the list. He puts his hand over the phone and mimics her, in a kind way, for he is fond of them all. He likes being known, far more than I do. This is his home and it enfolds him.

The gooseberries are lovely. I stewed them this morning and put them on top of my fruit salad. I love the hairiness of them and that sharp tangy taste. Gorgeous.

They’ve put two enormous deckchairs in the paddling pool now sandpit. They are super size and no doubt for kids to clamber over. They didn’t look too safe this morning as I walked by. And what about the rain that has just come? They are doing their best. The name of this shabby old town is emblazoned across them.

500 words. That is my aim for today. Half today, half tomorrow. The beginning is always the hardest. Where to start? I get waves of fear. And I try to steady myself. I love the process and at least it is within my control. It is only writing. It is already there in me. Its just a case of letting it out. I can do. I can.

A girl in Doc Marten boots walked past me using a walking stick. It made her look interesting, elegant even. It is getting quieter. The students are migrating home for the summer.

Enough. Work now. Cup of tea. A quick sit and then write. It will come. Breathe.

They’ve filled the public paddling pool on the Prom with sand.

We’ve only been away three days and already there are changes. That’ll please the parents, he said, sand everywhere. Though I suppose it’s better than nothing, he said, as we left for the supermarket. Why can’t they mend it? I ask. Perhaps they haven’t the money, he said.

I haven’t got much time. I’ve got a head full of stuff to do and the house needs cleaning. No time. Breathe. All will get done. I’ve done the technical things at least. It always makes me edgy. Did the audio work? Did the videos take? They are sweet. Slightly shaky. I ask so much of him. And he is ever willing.

So much to take in, to digest. It has been a rich few days. But there is sadness too. I come down hard. And then the phone call on the way home. I did say yes, and she was grateful. Though it was cancelled in the end. A god send, for I would’ve only had four hours sleep.

Must be off now. I know, it isn’t enough. I want to stay, to tell you of my trip but work calls though it is her call first.

Does she still grieve for Bonnie?

Such life. Thank you. x

I thought about possible collective nouns for night clubbers leaving the clubs for home in the early hours. A madness, perhaps? They lurched and sprawled. Admittedly, I am stone cold sober as I stride along past them. They in their now dishevelled finery, me in my waterproofs, hat and gloves. Our worlds do not meet. They do not see me. And I watch them as if through glass. A large man in a white linen shirt is moving towards me. His eyes are closed as he walks. Is he asleep? No, he jerks awake, but his gait is unsteady. A big man. Nearer the Pier Pressure club, a group of youngsters sit on a bench, all female. Another it standing up clinging to, or wrapping herself around, a sign post. Just beyond them a boy is lying on the ground. A girl leans over him. Do you need the kiss of life? she asks, then cackles. A taxi driver observes the scene from behind his windscreen.

I think I go unnoticed but it is not so for the man who I see often sleeping under the Castle calls out to me, just as I turn the corner. He is wide-awake and drinking from a large spirit bottle. Good morning, he shouts, in a voice that reminds me of Will in The Archers. Good morning, he says again, and I wave and say Good Morning in return. I see you every morning, he shouts before his voice trails off, bored now. But I am cheered. I’ve not known what to do. Do I greet him or not? Does he want to be left alone in solitude? Just because you sleep in the open air it doesn’t mean you want to be disturbed by every Tom, Dick or Harry who passes by. And yet, I am also wary of intimacy, what are the rules, the boundaries. Wait and see. He knew me and that was nice.

I am slipping my moorings. We go to London tomorrow. I am excited, yet disarrayed. I hold too tight to it all, I know this. It will be an adventure, I know it. And yet, to be home is safe, safer. I need to travel but the physicality of it tires me. My energy is precious. I shall do my best, try out these experiments, meet and talk to Caren and wait and see.

Just wait and see. You know you’ll love it, he says. And I will. I do. It was once my home, after all. Adieu for now.

Another one was spotted on the skirting board. That’s five sightings in all. Does this mean we’re infested? Any ants this morning? he asked as he sat down to breakfast. None, so far, I said. They make me itch. I know its all in my head, but isn’t most things?

They promised dry and its raining. I didn’t mind. It isn’t cold and the rain distracts me. It gives me something to focus on. But alas, no Perygyl and I ended up going home the back way so I missed the bakery smells too. Did I tell you that I usually go back the Great Darkgate Street way so that I can catch a whiff of baking bread from Slaters’ and then The Pelican? Slaters’ must’ve had air conditioning installed because their door is rarely open in the mornings. So not much joy there, but The Pelican more than makes up for it. A lovely salty, yeasty aroma oozes from there, warm and buttery. It’s cosy, it’s comforting, a blanket against the bleakness of the early mornings before dawn.

They were still out, even in the rain. Two of them sat on the wall by the Bar, a boy and girl. The lad was in an army greatcoat and he held a walking stick between his knees. I kicked the bar all the same. Coming home, towards the station, two male students were ahead of me. They were talking loudly, all restraint and self-consciousness, gone. One, wearing baggy khaki shorts, walked into a parked car. Sorry, sorry, he said, holding his hands up and backing away with large, over-exaggerated backwards steps, before continuing his rant. It’s not right, mate, he said to his friend, it’s not fucking right, its the Establishment…..

It was a repeat, I’d heard it before. I even think I mentioned it was coming up a few days ago. Did I? That radio programme about doll’s houses with Lauren Childs. Do you remember? We’re miniaturists, one of the makers said and went on to describe the tiny ceramic objects he fashions. We make under ten pounds an hour, he said. I pay my plumber fifty quid an hour and the garage who mend my car charge over ninety. It’s a mugs game, I expected him to say but he didn’t. He loves his work. He accepts that it won’t bring riches. But is it enough? I love that kind of focus, and the desire for to-scale perfection. I second that. I second that.

I spent my walk fretting about money. I had to say no to two bookings when I can scarce do so. Well ring them back, he says, say you can do it. It is too late and besides I wanted to stand firm. This is to be my leave, can I not ask for a complete day off? I’d we’d stayed to do the shift we’d be off two or even three hours later. And the journey is part of it. The adventure. The getting away. Seventy-two pounds is what I’ve lost. Can I make it somewhere else? Show me what I can do? Let me find my easeful abundance. It is there, if and when everything comes right. And it will come right, said the man with no teeth and the Siamese cat, it will come right.

She is still grieving. She poo poos her mournfulness. I miss the old dog, she says, not saying its name. Is it too painful? She was company that old dog. Good company. I hear the tears waiting in her voice. She is forcing a smile. And how are you? she asks.

I think of the elderly lady. I won’t look at the bruises. I can imagine. That is enough. I hope she feels safe, that her family have enfolded her. I want to ask why, and how? But I know nothing, my understanding is limited. It is beyond me to fathom. Ask not. I take your hand. Sleep well.

It must be May Ball time. Though there is only one here. And that has become a much reduced affair. They used to have it out in the sticks somewhere, didn’t they? he said at breakfast. Yes, they used to bus people out there, I said, sounding like I knew what I was talking about. They lost interest, or it was too expensive, I said. It must be May Ball time (even though it is June, an Oxbridge thing, don’t ask) because there were some couples walking down the hill and the men were wearing black ties. Not bow ties and dinner jackets, just black ties and white shirts. I used to love dressing-up. It marked the occasion as out of the ordinary. There clearly isn’t the will here. The girls wear short, tight dresses or shorts, anything that reveals legs and cleavage. Though when I see them in the morning they are passed their best. As I walked towards The Angel this morning there was one that sparkled in the lamplight. A shimmering. It was beautiful. From afar. Up close it was just another sequinned dress with a swirly pattern of lines embossed with glitter. She clearly felt wonderful in it, though and pranced about as they called out her name. Another girl was standing in the pub’s doorway, singing. You don’t like my singing, you don’t like my singing. The boys wore their shirts out of their trousers, which were tight and black. Some looked awkward, unsure how to behave. Lip Lickin’ was open.

I saw one yesterday. An ant crawling along a flex in the kitchen. Is it just one? Or is there a nest? Bide your time. I didn’t kill it. I don’t like to kill anything. I remember getting the insect man in when we lived in Cambridge. He’d come with his spray, its container strapped to his body, and spray inside and outside. We had to leave it till the next day. I hated it. All those nasty chemicals. A taciturn man, who took real pride in his job. It just seemed a little over the top. There were only a few. Give ’em and inch. Its just a balance. The world, the universe teems with insects. I saw another one this morning. Or was it the same one? It’s the food, he said, they come for the food. But I don’t leave food out and I’m always wiping down the surfaces, I said. I found it later and put it out of the window.

The plaster came off in the night, he said, calling from the bathroom, still bleary from sleep and peeing. It’s gone all over the sheets. And it had. God, I said. One tiny blister making all that mess. It gets to me. I try not to let it. I can’t contain it all, him, the bits that come off us, the chaos, the grime. I just want order. Its unreal, impossible. Like putting all the insects we find outside. The house, the world, even we, teem with them. It is gestural. He will age, as indeed, will I. I just need to accept the mess of it and not make him feel uncomfortable about it.

I think about our trip to London. All those muggings in the papers. I want to be safe. At least I want my work to be safe. To be able to do my work. It’s all about the writing. I want to write about it, fathom it out. I think about a ‘stuck’ diary. A journal about Artist’s Block. Can I do it? Is there enough in it? Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans, wrote John Lennon. I’m interested in the work we do when we are not working. Not able to work. Blocked. What happens in those spaces? The negative spaces.

The washing machine has finished. I need to go and unload it. Sometimes writing this doesn’t give me the relief I hope for. Sometimes it is just too pedestrian. A light spotting of rain on the window. Murky white clouds. An inside day. Much to do. Much to do.

There was one in the middle of the road. Another dead blackbird. Are they fledglings, do you think? I asked him as we walked to our seat, our bench, on North Road. Yes, perhaps. It had been driven over several times but even so one of its wings was bolt up right, half-opened as it arrested in mid-flight. Poor love.

The commission has come through finally. Not a large one but it is money. It is money. It is money, says Victoria Wood’s character Brenda in Dinnerladies, the stress being on the is, as she puts her hand in a black bin bag of her mother’s remains. I don’t fight the work. It isn’t soulful. It isn’t necessarily satisfying but it is money and I am grateful. As I was for the phone call that woke me last night. A booking for this morning, so I have to rush. It is money. And I need that safety. I need to see that it is still flowing to me. This time he sends a picture. This is what he wants. I will do my best by him and by myself. I collect images that thrill knowing all the while that they will play safe. They know what is needed better than I. Never mind. It is work and I am grateful.

We sat in the sun. No one was playing bowls. It was quiet. A few people with dogs strolled by. Another sunny day is promised, the sky is already blue.

Off, I must be off. Adieu.

They are shadows. A boy and a girl. I see them at the entrance to the Castle grounds. The light is still too dim to make out their faces. I see their forms. He is stocky, big-shouldered, she is small, with long hair. Are they fighting, wrestling with each other? They move together. Are they dancing? She is talking. But I did, she says, her voice a whine. But I can hear the smile, the teasing, the testing. This time, she says, I said hello. More kids sprawl along the mini walk street by The Angel and leading up to the town clock opposite the Why Not? club. Two girls sit on the steps of The Academy. One of them is talking, her voice a screechy one with a South American twang. My problem ees….

I didn’t want to see the blackbird again. The dead one that lies on North Road decomposing. Someone had moved it onto the road on Monday. Is it still there? Had a cat got it? Or had it flown into the telegraph wires? There was a seagull chick on the sill outside the bathroom of the beauty salon. I told her. I know, she said, there’s two. They come back every year. It seemed perfectly content, fluffing out its downy plummage. They’d better watch out, he said when I told him later, the parents will dive bomb them. She told me they were friendly, I said. Hmm, he said.

They all greet him when he arrives. All hail fellow. One calls him by his Christian name but with a Mr at the front. His name is a shortened. Like Great Expectations, one of the women said, adding, Oh, I love that film. Poor Dickens, he said to me.

I let her talk. I don’t usually but I just let it happen. It was nice actually. I like her. She is strong, such calves. And her manner is just a little cool, that’s all. A cultural thing. We talked of families, work and Sweden. My cousin is an artist too, she said. Though it turns out she is more like an architect. An urban designer she called her. How I love the way Scandinavians do things. She told me of a mining town that the State is planning to move further up North, lock stock and barrel so that the community , after the closure of the original mine, can keep going. Wonderful, eh? Then she told me about what she called ‘Home Language’. Children from ethnic communities are taught their mother tongue by a special teacher at school. I wanted one, she said. I wanted to be taken out of normal class and given my own teacher. They will do whatever they need, Hungarian, Dutch, Serbian, whatever, she said. They want these children to know and keep their culture, she said. I am so impressed. She is good. My body feels battered, pumelled. I am so tight. Tight as a drum. She is non-plussed, just gets on with it. One day I did seventeen massages, she said, I was knackered. She is a doer, so capable. Last night I was putting up a greenhouse, she said.

A milky sky. The birds tra-la-la. Much to do. A rook caws from the roof opposite before taking flight. Time to work. Adieu.

They’ve been working on the house for the last year. Renovating it completely. The new inhabitants moved in last month and in the front room, just by the window they’ve placed a doll’s house. I can only see the side of it. A wooden structure, crisp, unpainted, shaker-style. It looks like its standing on a table, but even so it is of an impressive height. How lovely to have a doll’s house. I always yearned for one as a child, but not one of those plastic ones that became all the rage in the 80s and 90s, my desire was for an antique, wooden one. Classy with all the correct furniture, beautifully made and absolutely to scale. Lauren Childs is hosting a programme about dolls houses on Radio 4 Extra on Friday. I’ve heard it before. It is a repeat and they keep playing the trailer for it. The curator at The V&A’s Museum of Childhood is one of the talking heads. I’ve met her several times when I went in to draw the houses there and various games. I even when on a behind the scenes tour. It was delicious, all those boxes and drawers of precious things wrapped in tissue. I love the care, the reverence they have for things that were often considered trivial at the time of their production. The past in tissue. Wrapped in tissue and unpacked with white gloves.

I missed something out. Half a pound of tuppenny rice, half a pound of treacle, and it should have followed, that’s the way the money goes…then pop goes the weasel. That’s the way the money goes. Yes. I walk asking for help. Help me find, open, release my abundance. Don’t we all have it? That potential for success, for wealth and abundance. Just by being authentic. I thought it would happen. If I can be brave. It will come. If I give up my teaching job and become a full-time artist it will come. And it didn’t. I was profoundly disappointed. I still am. I thought it was right. I wasn’t avoiding, I was going towards, open to my fate. Where is it? Where is my metier? Don’t we all have it? Don’t we all have something that we can do that will support us? It saps my energy this fear, this fearing. Is there enough? Do I work hard enough? Do I earn enough? Is there anything more you can do? he asks. No. Well, then, he says, be patient.

Town was quieter this morning, just a few kids spilling out of The Angel. One, a girl, lent over to spit something out of her mouth, she looked up and saw me watching, a trail of spittle hanging from her lips. Later, along Llanbadarn Road, three boys walking towards me, one was holding up a bottle to the glare of the street light. I think I’ve killed it, he said.

I want to learn acquiescence. To do all I can then leave it be. Work is coming. It is slow. But so be it. I have much do, though nothing that brings in much money. I am busy, busier than I’ve been for a long time and yet… Perhaps my wealth manifests in other ways. I need to see this. A seagull suddenly takes flight from behind a car. A flurry of white. They’re hosting Board game Nights in the Crimson Rhino Café, from 6.30pm on every other Wednesday. I’d love to go. Too late. Way past my bedtime. And he wouldn’t go. At least I don’t think so. A home bird, as indeed am I. We sat yesterday afternoon and then walked to the library. Two books. Two gorgeous books. There is richness there, undoubtedly. A mine. A gold mine. Let it be. Enough.