I get easily thrown. I hold onto life too tightly. I need to be in control. It is an illusion. I know this. All of it. And when I am still I can see it. I can see it all so much better. It wasn’t his fault. And I felt and heard myself being sharp. So sharp that he became defensive. He is a gentle soul, a good man. And I am sorry that I showed some teeth. He emailed me later. He has made it all OK. And now I can breathe. Thank you.
I think about it all the time and I just don’t have any sense of what is the right thing to do. I cannot and do not know her. There is no second guessing, ever. I do my best, I do believe that. I want to be kind, to do what I can to smooth her path. We bought him a coat. We took time in deciding upon the right one. But we are in the dark. I am in the dark. And there is never any response. Does she like it that way? I don’t ask for thanks, just an acknowledgement that she has received whatever it is that I have sent, that I have made a difference, however small. Maybe I will stop sending them things. Maybe it is not an entirely selfless gesture. I want to touch them, to be there, in that room with them when they tear the wrapping. Perhaps she senses my wanting and that makes her crueller. Her lack of response strips me of my skin, just as she did. I need it. I need to hold myself together. I cannot be always opening myself up like this. I will save for them. Won’t that be better?
I’d held it in my mind as a place of serenity, of succour, of even mystical memory. I used to go when I lived there every Sunday morning early, to sit in the ancient, high-backed pews just by the altar and to worship and take communion. I relished those early services. There was no singing, no grandness or pomp just a small congregation, prayers and the preacher reading the lessons. It was often cold and austere but I loved it. It felt true to the puritan in me. And now? We went in and the pews in the main part of the Abbey have all gone, replaced by wooden chairs – very modern and minimal, tasteful even but it still looks like its been laid out for a recital not worship. There are no kneelers and no rests for prayer and hymn books. There was a huge inflated globe hanging in the centre of the building and it was so light. People were everywhere. Tourists mostly, guidebooks in hand, taking pictures and talking and pointing. Even the private chapels were light and bright. There was nowhere to sit in peace and think. We lit two candles for those that we’ve lost and left. I’d cried. I am not sure why. Change, loss, possibly the loss of something that I’d held as a treasure only to find that it was either gone or merely gimcrack, fools’ gold. I am sorry for it.
She didn’t have to do it. It threw me. Such generosity. Such kindness. It’s her way of showing love. I cannot match it. I can only touch, listen and care. And I do. I shared it. It felt right. My love had some and so did my other erstwhile one. I hope it pleases her, or even gives her some ease. I won’t hear one way or another. I texted her and left a message on her answer machine. Will she understand that it is a loving gesture? Or will she read it as a playground tactic – a buying one. I cannot control how she thinks or feels. I don’t know her. It is done and I am glad of it. It felt right.
Moon activity always plays havoc with my dream life. They are made more vivid, more memorable and often more perplexing. I dreamt of having a conversation with Keir Stamer where I asked him, not once but twice, where he came from. Then I asked him if he were pacing himself. I clearly didn’t interest him. I dreamt of DH too, asking him questions I’d never ask in this reality.
She replies with a different account, or should I say an addendum to what I wrote. She is the self-appointed repository of our family’s stories. I don’t mind. Though I understand, or I ought to say suspect that we were each told different things. The telling and the remembering of such occasions are subjective. There is no absolute about such things, however much we’d like to think there was. We choose our corners. I lean towards hers, always, for that is where my compassion lies. All our stories can co-exist. It is all right. Everything is. It is.
We shall miss the water, she said. It brought it all back. That boat. How did I ever think we could make it into a home. I clutched at things. Anything, however flimsy. I was cornered. It was my own fault. I’d lost my practicality, my sense of truth. And yet, for that short time it was ours. I liked the rocking, the movement. I had hopes for something, though what that was, I didn’t then know. She makes it look beautiful, that kind of life. I could have lived it. I could.
Watching The Woman in White triggered it. Percival Glyde was being violent to his wife. But it was the threat of it that was worse, not the dragging of her and the slapping across her face. And then his hammering on her door. I lay in bed and remembered the threat of her. I was a child and then a teenager and still scared. I was always scared of her. She’d hurt me when I needed comfort and frighten me when I needed to feel secure. It wasn’t her fault. She was unhappy. Always was. I have forgiven her. Of course, I have. But those images brought it back. That dreadful vulnerability and no means of escape. Under the thrall, as Laura is. He was angry on my behalf. He sat on my bed and seethed. I do love him for that. She didn’t mean it. I believe that. Her pain overwhelmed all else. Rest in peace, my love.
Stepping out of my routine so easily displaces me. Though it was nice to implode, as we did yesterday sitting on the sofa in that dark little cottage in the Brecon Beacons. I loved watching and drawing the children. What beautiful beings they are, so vital, so robustly full of life and energy. By the afternoon I needed air and walked out into the intermitten sunshine and down the hill towards the Cathedral. I had no plan but just wandered in. A few people were milling about and the cafe and shop were still open. A series of iron tables and chairs had been placed outside but the chairs had been tipped up and leant into the tables against the rain. I walked along the tarmaced path and beyond a small car park. A few PRIVATE signs had been placed on the grass but everywhere else in the courtyard garden appeared to be open to the public. I took the steps down into a small, strata-ed series of beds profuse with herbs and plants made straggly with rain and the onset of their autumnal demise. It smelt glorious, a mix of mint, thyme and sweet pea. Walking back up the stairs I saw a little creature in the grass. Getting up close I could see that it was a small hedgehog. It wasn’t dead but seemed to be nuzzling its nose into the greenery as if wanting to sleep. Its eyes watched me but they struggled to stay open. Then, for no reason whatever it raised itself up and wandered off into the thicker grass by the wall. I love watching hedgehogs walk – though I must confess I haven’t seen that many. Its a rolling, low-in-the-bum sort of walk, careful and deliberate, its utterly unhurried. I felt touched by the wild. And early that day we’d see a stoat crossing the road before we got to Capel Bangor and I also spied a heron along the river in the Usk Valley. Wonderful.
We’ve began watching Fiona Seres’ adaptation of Wilkie Collins’ The Woman in White again. I feel completely different about it a second time. As P seems to do also. I am seeing, noticing things I didn’t the first time. It is luscious. And the actor playing Count Fosco has me completely in his thrall. His features are full, his face is overripe, gone but still so beguiling. And his use and pronunciation of English is equally over….over what, over done. He laps up the word, a cat with cream. A dangerous character, a dangerous face. I love it. We take our time….
He talked about spending a month living in Paris, of renting an apartment. He could work there, he said. For a brief moment I stopped listening to what he was saying. Paris. I loved those days we spent there. Ah, the beauty of it. Could we go? A month. An upper floor room, the windows open to the skyline. A curtain billowing in the breeze. The street smells of croissants, coffee, chocolate, the Seine, petrol fumes and cigarettes. Can we go?