Author: Ellen Bell

It was a painless visit. That is it was relatively quick and smooth. The nurses are so gentle and kind, and the surgeons, though a little aloof and distracted, are solicitous when you are before them. Well, I am the list. It may take a year the surgeon said unless the X-ray shows a collapse. I asked him what he meant though his explanation didn’t really make it any clearer. It’s just a phrase that they use, he said as we walked him, like heart failure. Waiting for the X-ray the technician put me in a tiny cupboard like ante-room with a blue concertinaed curtain. I sat and listened to him talking to the farmer’s wife from Aberaeron. Lambing started and her real name is Nanci. I wasn’t having that, she said. The girl doing the X-ray spent ages feeling my bones. What are you looking for? I wanted to ask. Previously a woman had tried to verbally spell out her name – Micklewright – for her. In the end she had to write it out. She was kind about it, thankfully. A&E was empty. No war zone today.

Is sleet preferable to rain? I wasn’t sure at 4.00 am this morning as I readied myself to go out. Is it less wet, perhaps? Whatever the answer, I went prepared. I put on three coats, two hats, one scarf, two pairs of gloves and two pairs of waterproof trousers, oh and my waterproof gaiters over my boots. I must’ve looked utterly ridiculous. Do I care? Do I poppycock. There were two men unloading a delivery lorry outside Holland & Barrett when I came down Great Darkgate Street. One – the one who called out Good Morning to me in a cheery, not a typical 4.00 am voice – was wearing shorts and a thin kagoule, as a nod to the weather I suppose. It was nice to hear his tones. God, it is bleak. Winter is a challenge. And now, I must write. The heating is off, naturally. I’m in the studio with two hot water bottles, a blanket, two jumpers on and the little fire going (which I will soon turn off, well when I’ve opened my flask of tea). Then its the hospital…

He’d insisted that if there was ice I was to come straight home. I promised I would. But there wasn’t. In fact it was a good winter’s morning – cold but still. I walked stiffly, as if my legs were iron. And it wasn’t long before I lost all feeling (other than a kind of stinging numbness) in all my extremities. I remember the pain of cold hands as a child. And it was pain. A sensation that was sometimes made worse by going into a warm environment. Is this was frost-bite feels like? I thought as I walked. The rest of me was as warm as toast, it was just my hands and feet. No one was about, except a tall, rangy student who loped past me, no gloves on his hands. I didn’t check to see if the rough sleeper was still in the Prom’s shelter. He can’t be, surely not?

One written, one more to go. And I’ve no idea what I’m going to say.

I forgot to mention the fox yesterday. How could he have slipped my mind when he forged such an impression by his brief appearance last Saturday morning? I love seeing them. I’ve seen four. I remember each one. One was in our garden in Cambridge. It stood by the kitchen door holding my stare for what seemed like hours (it wasn’t) before turning tail and bounding over our fence. The other was years before in Manchester. It was another early morning and it was crossing a busy, though then empty thoroughfare. Then there was the one I saw on the Prom. He too held my stare. I could see his body move with his breath. And now this one. It crossed the path of our car just after the new Dovey bridge roadworks. He was a flash of fur, a pointed nose, sharp-ended ears and then a brush tail escaping into the scrub. Seen and then gone. Marvellous. Life is made anew by such wildness. I thought about how he saw the world, the smells he caught, the sensations of being out there scavenger, trying to survive. How I love them.

He puts his head round the studio door to say, “Look it’s only eight o’clock and dawn is coming.” One of the woefully small hyacinths in the window box outside our front door is beginning to open and I saw a woman carrying some freshly cut daffodils into the gallery yesterday. And the buds on the magnolia trees are beginning to show. Do I need more evidence? Can I not be heartened by it? I shall try. I promise.

A rich day yesterday. My soul was fed.

I went on my walk this morning all prepared to listen to music. I had my headphones on all ready. And then I forgot. I was outside before I remembered and by then both coats had been zipped up tight and there was no way I was going to unzip them and then remove my gloves to find where my iPad rested in that inner pocket. So I walked in silence. Well, it wasn’t strictly silent. How could it be? This is an urban space. I listened as I walked. I heard birdsong. A blackbird and then a robin, perhaps. I heard an occasional car and a low continuous hum. What was that? Generators? Electricity cables? Drains? I don’t mind it. And besides the countryside as we know it here in the UK is certainly never really quiet – there are birds there too, and foxes barking and maybe even the grunt of badgers. I like being part of the noise with my footsteps, the click of my stick and the swoosh of my waterproofs. Its a vocalising of animation, of life. And I’m glad that I can still participate in it.

I dreamt of messages and of phone calls I had to make and receive. One was from Aberdeenshire, I think. I couldn’t work my mobile, it’s screen was full of arcane images. But there was a sense of optimism, of hope for for all the chaos of misunderstandings, there were opportunities coming. I knew this even when I woke.

She’s an odd mix of scatological boldness and maidenly prudery. She needs constant attention like a child. If she’s not being asked questions or being listened to she looks away either staring out of the window or around the coffee shop, or she’ll resort to reading her phone. To get that attention she has various ruses from bringing in her Jack Russell pup to listing her aches and pains. Over the last few days it moved swiftly from being all about her hip to a kidney infection. As a result she turned up on Friday bra-less. “I can’t take my coat off,” she said to me in a conspiratorial whisper, “I’ve got no bra on. It hurts too much.” I encouraged her to take the risk and take it off. She did, blushing a bit. This is from the woman who calls her erstwhile fiancé all numbers of names…. Funny.

There were two denuded real Christmas Trees with their bases lopped off leaning against the back doors of The Glengower Hotel this morning.

The volunteer came in the coffee shop, as did the caramel latte. It was good to see them again. A sense of some kind of normality is almost returning. She told us that she’d had a guest for Christmas dinner. A new relationship and she is as pleased as we are. “It’s been ten years,” she said. She looks lighter, happier. And CL was laughing too. A good morning. I worked hard.

No rain as I walked, but the wind was strong. Tuesday is bin day and if it isn’t seagulls playing havoc with the bags left outside flats and houses around the town it’s the wind. A clear recycling bag skidded across the stretch of North Parade to come up sharp against the kerb opposite the launderette. Another bag followed spilling it contents across the road. A large plastic pop bottle rolled along the pavement followed by a series of cans. Another smaller bag was lifted off the ground and danced and whirled like a dervish.

E’s book continues to bring me burst of joys as she writes of searching out indigo in London and of cafes……

He’s a student studying Astro Physics, I believe and he works as a barista in our local coffee shop. He’s a good-looking man, slightly effete and a mixture of earnestness with a sprinkling of camp-ness. I heard him talking to him at the end of the as he made our drinks and telling him about his partner’s visit during Christmas. “He prefers cities but it was a rest for him, ” adding, “I’ve got my other partner coming at the weekend. I’m a bit of a Polly.”

I think about her everyday. It is a scar on my heart and on my soul. Did I do the right thing?

I want to make the ugly beautiful. It was always the case. I want to write it out but cannot find the words. Will they come? And I also want to sew out the grief. A black square made with simple stitches.

Ellie’s book is a joy. And how I need it in this dark.