ellen bell

It was raining but I need some air. I wanted to go somewhere wild, forsaken and emptied of people. He took me somewhere in the car and we rocked over craters and rocks. He parked and I walked. Not far, just a small circuit. There was no one there but a woman with three dogs who kept seeking out rabbit burrows and sticking their noses in. She’d put different coloured coats on each of them, pink, blue and yellow I think. I stumbled over the uneven path and felt the rain on my face. The ground was waterlogged and soggy. I walked back by the river and felt better for it.

We hadn’t seen her for a while. Not since they’d mysteriously put scaffolding up outside the shop, and ultimately putting off potential customers and leaving her with nothing to do but read her book. Did you find out why they erected the scaffolding? I asked her yesterday. Yes, she said, they painted it. They painted they outside. Mystery solved. That’s good. She was on good form. Does she mind that I pump her with questions? Does she know how much she delights me, us, with her laconic humour. We talked of all sorts of things from Christmas decorations (‘I’ve these little birds of paradise with feathers and sequins. I love my knick-knacks.’) to advent calendars (‘I’ve bought my daughter a chocolate one. We often reuse the old ones using blu-tack to stick down the doors.’) to sofa beds and Christmas trees (‘My brother is meant to come down with his car to help me. Or perhaps Morgans might deliver. I always have a real one.’) I reminded her of what she told me last time of how she hurls the spent tree over her balcony (I live on the fourth floor, its the only way. And I always make sure there is no one underneath.) We talk politics too, some serious some silly, such as Boris Johnson’s ‘cultured dishevelment’. I’ve an ironing board, she said, perhaps I should use it. How I like her. She lifted my sinking spirits yesterday and my drawing improved as a result. What a gift good people are.

She was crying when she answered the phone to me yesterday. It has been two weeks since we last spoke. It’s my sister’s funeral today, she said. She’d never mentioned her before, well not since she’d gone into hospital and told me of her in a home that she said was depressing. She has a brother too, she tells me. It seems the social work saw through her threat to not organise home care, for she has been relying on The Red Cross to help her dress and wash (alas, though not in this severe weather, the roads are too icy). She weeps from grief and frustration, for can do nothing for herself anymore. She will go to the funeral but remain in the car. It’s too cold for me, she says. I will stay with the little one. Her sister was younger than her but stronger, she says. I feel her sadness and ache for her. She’s to be buried at the foot of my parents grave, she said.

I cannot stop thinking about them. Those poor loves. Just babies playing at being brave, dare-devilling each other to go onto the iced-over lake. And then it cracked. Hearing on the news how their rescuers had to punch through the ice. And three were lost, or was it four? I cannot listen properly and yet I cannot help myself. Yesterday the news said that three were brothers, and so so young. One apparently tried to save another boy and they were strangers. One of the rescue workers’ voice broke when he said on a news bulletin that they had done all they could. I can’t stop thinking about them and their families. Such loss, such heartbreak and the biting of that cold water, the going down and not being able to breathe. Trapped under the ice for eternity. What I would give to warm them, to revivify them.

It is still minus 5 out there. I miss my walks, not that they are as pleasurable was they used to be. My legs can feel like iron. And the cold bites at my poor beleaguered hands. I must wait for fresh air and the movement of my body till later in the day when there is the promise of sun. So I work and try to organise all the bits that spin around inside my head. A good day yesterday. No, it was more than that. I was filled up with it. And those Claire Curneen’s were exquisite. How blessed I am.

Are dreams gifts? Are they a way of giving you in your sleep what you cannot have in your waking hours? Last night there was a gift. I was able to hold her. I felt my arms around her little body, so small yet so strong. I thanked God for it. And then I asked after her little brother. Oh, he’s fine, she said.

It was a freezing world outside. I didn’t walk. We decided it wasn’t worth the risk of falling. I miss it. I always do. Though the cold this morning is extreme, for us at least, I have known colder.

Smoker (2) didn’t have his window open as usual. His pants still hang on his airer.

Another interview, the third one. I anticipate her being gentle and warm. They mostly are. I wish I had more time to enjoy the richness that this life brings…..

She was born five years ago today. I remember the first time I held her and the times I have seen her after that, few though they have been. She is a golden child. As is her brother. The love I feel for her and for him is an instinctual one, it is a warmth, and something like joy. I am bereft at the loss of her, of them.

Yet more minus temperatures. We are cautious with putting the central heating on. Well I am. A couple of hours in the early morning then off till lunch time. It is cold. I heard the hail shower in the night and woke to a whitened world. And the moon outside my studio window is still there though not quite a full circle anymore. He bought me some pyjamas. I prefer to sleep nude but these felt nice and cosy. He does his best to keep this body of mine warm. I love him. Though we bickered this morning over the lack of Times’ birthdays. It was my fault, apparently, when the app wouldn’t work. Fair enough. I interrupted his reading like a demanding child. And like a demanding child I felt ticked off and consequently sulked for well over five minutes. Can we be friends now? he asked.

Smoker (2) was at his window smoking at 6.30 am. His clothes airer is never put away, the odd pair of knickers always hanging there. There is a loneliness to him. Do the children still come? What does he do for a living? He has a line of lights flashing blue and red in his kitchen below.

I can hear the birds. Are they getting enough to eat? And is the man still sleeping on the Prom?

He made the mistake of asking “Did you have a nice walk”? when I went in to wake him. I let rip, moaning about my numb toes, freezing fingers and stiff legs. He listened patiently as he always does. And then I felt terrible. What is my discomfort – which after all is self-inflicted (I choose to walk at that time) and of short duration? And the moon was a glorious sight, as were the occasional lit tree and the garland of lights strewn across the front of a house on South Road. There is still much to cheer even in minus 4 temperatures.

Oh, God I hope that poor man isn’t still sleeping in the shelter on the Prom.

No more long journeys for awhile. We’ve both agreed this. Though there are few day trips. It must be so, work demands it as do family obligations. For this week at least we are staying put. I must write. It is a big haul for me. My body is made tired in the cold. I walk nevertheless, albeit gingerly watching out for ice with my legs like stiff iron poles. The moon helps. She shone brightly this morning, dispensing with the need for a torch (thankfully, as trying to get my three-pairs-of-gloves-hands into my pocket to get it out is virtually impossible). I love that silvery light. And there was no-one about other than the man (I presume it was a man) driving the yellow gritting lorry. He looked like he was taking a detour or was out on a joy ride going round and round the Prom. Perhaps he was taking his mum out on a trip, he said at breakfast. Yes, I said, handing her the occasional Werther’s Original and going slow whenever she wanted to pour herself some tea from her flask.

It was nice to laugh.

How I love him.