Author: Ellen Bell

He talked about how much he respected me. It was nice to hear it. I value his judgement. And I know how he rates decency, morality and goodness. Do I have those qualities? I try to. My thoughts can go rogue if I am tired, particularly or hungry or scared. But I try. Respecting each other is so important. Not sexy but crucial. I think.

My thoughts continually stray to holidays, those we have gone on and those to which I aspire. The heat, the sun, the escape, the being someone new in a different environment – I long for it. But there is work to do and money to save, so we shall stay put and be grateful for all these blessings, not least, each other.

I need to open myself to wonder, more. Fear closes me down, narrows my vision. It shrinks me and the life that I have been granted.

The mornings are growing darker. I don’t want to go out but I do, knowing that the smells, the sounds, the quiet will, in time, entrance me. I open myself then. And wondrous things happen. The fox, the hedghog, the birds, the wanderers, they are all part of that dark-ridden magic. And it’s mine.

I moan and whinge. Weekends always bring this on. It’s my own fault. The housework must be done, and I want it done swiftly and for it not to span too many days. So I cram it in, early and it both tires and irritates me. BECAUSE I WANT TO GET ON WITH MY WORK. And yet, I need, nay crave order and neatness and cleanliness and drawers that are tidy and clothes that are ironed and food on the table and I also need these for him too. And it takes time. So why moan. Accept. Try it. And count your blessings while you are at it. You have a home, you have order, you have means and good, meaningful which will get done and well. Believe, trust and accept and you will be a nicer person to both live with and know. Amen.

I’m re-reading Simon Gray’s Coda. He writes of his cancer diagnosis and of the doctor’s telling him he doesn’t have long to live. In much of the book he is in Crete with his wife. I can see it, hear it and feel it. I know it through his words and my own memory (though I’ve never actually been to that particular island). I want to escape. I know why. This writing is hard. I don’t know the path yet. I am inching along in the dark, mostly. All I can do is continue and keep writing. (I can still fantasise at the same time, of that blue sky, warm sea and nothingness). If I was dying (which of course I am) would we go?

It was a huge articulated lorry. I’d seen a similar one before. ‘Pretty Little Things’ was emblazoned on its side, embellished with a repeated motif of pink, what looked like, ‘My Little Pony’, pink horses. The transferred PVC signage had begun to peel away. Underneath this array of ponies was the strapline ‘Delivering Happiness’.

Sometimes, like this morning, it utterly assails me. What am I frightened of, exactly? Writing? Yes. The words not coming? Yes. Being judged? Yes. Being found wanting? Yes. Feeling stupid? Most definitely. What to do? Face it. Face all of it. Bit by bit, word by word. And? The courage to continue (and even, maybe, possibly joy) will come. So go. Take yourself to the page and write. Simple.

I saw a hedgehog this morning. What a joy it gives me to encounter such beings. It was sitting in the road, waiting. Its only movement, or sign of life was the slight vibration caused by the beating of its heart and in and out of its lungs. And then it stopped waiting. Hauling itself up onto its legs it trundled towards where I was standing on the pavement and proceeded to take its rest in a clump of grass. I was glad. A car would’ve flattened it.

Yesterday I saw the fly that had been swirling around the first floor of the flat for what seemed like days. He was dying. Though he was not yet dead. He lay as if dead (why I am referring to him as a he, I don’t know) but every now and again he would buzz himself back to life and whirl around in a circle on the floor. I put him out of the window in a vague hope that the breeze would carry him off, aloft on its zephyrs.

She was only 46. A single-mother with two children. Her death was sudden. She had cancer but they’d been trying for a new treatment. There was a hope. Small. But it was something. It was never administered. She went into a hospice and died three days later. I met her once. She was a child then. Earnest. Open. I imagine his grief.

I dreamt of them both last night. There was a big party. He was exuberant. Talking of having a personal-trainer. She was there too. A Norwegian. Bossy. His daughter spoke to me, though I cannot remember what we talked of. There was a joyfulness of the event, that happened inside and outside, where there was big marquee. What the celebration was, I don’t know. There was no grief. No one had died. No one was lost. Not that beautiful daughter.

I weep for them all.

I’ve finished another book about dying. That’s not to say that each one I read doesn’t have merit or that the individual story isn’t moving and real, but there is, nevertheless, a layering of that sense of disquiet, of fear and of sorrow. Layers of it. This particular layer was Jenny Diski’s. I’ve read it before but that was quite some time ago. The end of it is abrupt (though it is followed by two afterwords by the Poet and the Daughter). She died in 2016. I do a quick scan of my internal calendar of years. Where was I living then? Did I read it in the paper? Did I stop a moment and mourn? I’ve always loved her writing, though what her daughter refers to as her ‘fury’ has also always unsettled me. I often think about whether she would’ve liked me. Not that it matters. But somehow it does. Rest in peace.

It hurt. She didn’t mean it. She can be chaotic, they all can. (As indeed can I). It was a tactless thing to say. It bruised. I cared. I wanted to help them go beyond their safe, cosy familiarity. Perhaps I was wrong. Teaching is a hit-and-miss craft. And it doesn’t matter if they don’t see or appreciate my place in all of this. I need to let it go. My ego hurt, that is all. I am not important. They are. And I hold them there, in my heart, along with the other wounded. Grant them strength.