I am cut through, lacerated. She has told me the truth about how she feels about me. It is out. It has waited thirty-two years to come out. I hope it makes her feel better. I hope she is lighter for it. She cannot know me. Or how much I have tried to make amends. I have failed. God bless her.
I woke from a most disconcerting dream. I was with another girl (were we both girls) at a swimming pool. It was an old, dilapidated one (rather like the one I remember from boarding school) and I could see vague figures both in the water and out. The air was grey and murky and the water dark, opaque and dingy. I shuddered at the thought of going in, but knew that I would have no choice. And I had a bunch of flowers in my hand and thought I saw something big and furry moving amongst them. A rather bossy woman who had appeared from nowhere told me not to be so silly. I separated the flowers and there was a rat. A benign looking rat (was it a toy) but a rat nevertheless. I took myself from my bed, the wind and rain raging outside in low spirits.
It was lovely to see her looking so pink yesterday. A pretty woman. She is force of nature, just like her mother, and him. I am growing so fond of her. I drew the road as we made our way there and posted it. “It’s got ten likes,” he said at breakfast.
Drawing has taken over, and I miss not having the time to write this journal each day. It’s a gentle pursuit and one in which I can freefall a little.
We were in the coffee shop again yesterday. Sundays are never the same as the weekdays. They are frenetic and full of strangers. Well, mostly. The ex-butcher and the ex-nurse were in, pretending not to wish us gone so that they could have our table. I tried to be more charitable towards them. I do like them. They ooze cosiness and uncomplicated-ness. I asked him about his health. He has lots of things wrong bless him. A gently bovine man (hard to imagine him hacking away at some poor animal’s carcass) he told me it all (not that I was able to understand most of it). She clearly looks after everything for him. They used to be childhood sweethearts but married other people before finding each other after the death of his wife and her divorce. Nice. I asked him where they lived (feeling sure that he had told me before). On the Waun, he said, it’s a little estate of bungalows. Yes. Perfect. I felt a warmth of such love for them yesterday.
I must try to be kinder.
I wanted to try and capture some of the servicemen and ex-servicemen who might come into the coffee shop prior making their way to the war memorial. There were a scant few. I recognised the bearded lad in a the same blue blazer (was he an officer perhaps?) but other than that there was a older man in a black beret – straight-backed and serious (he said he would be a paratrooper) and another man in khaki with a huge tranche of medals on his chest. I asked where he had served. “Bosnia, Afghanistan, Iraq and Ireland,” he said, adding, “and I am still serving.” I was moved but his bravery. Was it OK to ask him? Later some of us stood up to watch the parade go past the window outside. They were motley crue from aged soldiers still ram-rod-backed to young, pink-faced cadets and slightly bemused sea scouts. The marching left a little to be desired but the thought was there and the band played them along. It was a nice, sweet, parochial affair but important, I think.
Walking back from the car I strode purposively up the little steps. “You didn’t stroke the lavender,” he called out behind me, “so I did it for you.”
All that way and the greatest pleasure for me was being in that small warm room waiting for night to come. There was much pain but much joy too. And I was lifted by the novelty of being there in a place that was both familiar and now strange. We visited our haunts seeking light and warmth. We found sun between the showers. And there were hugs from a dear friend, meetings with strangers (like the grieving ex-beautician from Eccles) and opportunities (he always calls them that) to draw. I saw her briefly – a too thin face looking haggard and scared. And one of the little ones, so bright and open. I want to help but she won’t, or can’t accept it. All I can do is be there, steady if she needs me. Which she won’t but might. A legacy. I can do that. I will do that. And now we are home and I am shattered. Just stay in the lines today, Ellen. That’s all.
I forgot to say that the little, rather tatty, odds & sods, bric-a-brac shop on Northgate Street where we got Edith (the bust) and on of my many many radios (a repro one but it is such a nice shape) has had its window smashed. I saw it this morning as I walked home. The glass had huge jagged holes in it and someone had banged in two strips of wood to stop further looting. It was a shock to see it. She (the owner, I think) can’t have much money, it is, as a say, a tatty affair. I am saddened. This is a peaceful town. It was a heartless act. Shame on them.
They’d promised howling gales of winds and rain but I went out for my early walk regardless because it was the night after Halloween and I wanted to see what I would see. I was disappointed. A cluster of revellers stood or slumped at the taxi rank beside the train station, one of whom was shouting while the girl next to him clutched at a lamppost, her head lolling forward. Her skirt was cut in crude jaggs along the hem. Costumes had become damp in the rain and makeup ran. A lad with a tinsel halo fixed to the top of his head crossed the road to join the motley crew. Two young men were pushing an elfin looking girl in black shorts in a shopping trolley past Domino Pizza. Later, coming back along the end of North Road I saw a man in a bear costume, its head hanging over his back. He looked dejected, as indeed did the quasi bear. Poor loves. I then walked up to the hospital and then down towards St David’s Road, noticing a huge leaf (was it a sycamore?) come to rest on the bonnet of one of the parked cars.
She was crying in the coffee shop. Her whole body shaking with the pain of it. What could I do but go over and hold her? She didn’t warm to it, remaining stiff and rigid. She talked about it over and over and over. The next day she sat with her back to us. I went over and asked if she wanted to join us. No, she said and told me that her friend was coming. She’s probably embarrassed, he said when I sat down. You did your best.
He’s such a funny man telling us about his parents’ miniature dachshund and how it overeats when it stays with a neighbour, coming back looking like a barrel. I watched his videos and told him so. I think he was pleased. I’m going through a dry time, he said. Does that happen with your drawing? He wants one of the drawings I made of him for his mum. I’ll pay you, he said.
The town seemed to echo with students’ voices, shouting a little too loud. I think they had been pre-Halloween partying. I saw a three of them on the Prom by the Bandstand as I was walking. One of them, a lad, was dressed in a Dracula cloak. His voice was the loudest – sharp, strident and laughing, too much. They seemed to be following me home (even after I took the short cut down the old life boat slipway) and consequently I heard him down every street and round every corner, or so it appeared. Autumn has set in, though turning the clocks back has helped a little. The street lights were on down St David’s Road. An aberration but a welcome one at that. They usually don’t come on until about 4 am. I love the lit windows too. There are many in town – students working late, or insomniacs unable to sleep. I love the yellow oblongs against the black, or even the purple one I saw in that 2-storey block of flats behind The Glengower (is that the dancing man’s?). I usually listen to Radio 3 first thing but Jonathon Swain (the presenter for this particular 3 week slot) was playing a dirge-ful, droning-sadness-of-a-song by Penderecki and it was too much for me in all this darkness so I switched to Classic FM. I wanted warm voices and light music. Bill Overton was on with his milk-chocolate tones and he read out a text from a man who couldn’t sleep and was making Christmas cards instead. Nice.
I do miss my early morning walks at the weekends (its my domestic chore time). I don’t miss the physical walking, my hips just plain hurt, but I do miss that first hit of fresh air, and of being out, alone and open to the elements. There is a glorious cloud beginning to build up outside my studio window. The top of it is pure, snowy white, puffy and soft but anvil shaped ones are growing beneath it, while grey insubstantial lines of smogginess sail by like floating seals. I’ve just remembered that last Saturday we passed a couple on the Prom who claimed to have just spotted a seal. See there it goes, they kept saying. Do we have seals here? They were delighted. Clearly from Essex, he muttered to me as we left them.
Listening to the beautiful widow yesterday has stripped me bare of virtually all skin. My sleep was restless too. And now I must write it. Help me to pace myself.
It was mentioned once on Global News (I was listening to Classic FM for my sins), squeezed in between the publication in January of Prince Harry’s forthcoming book and Labour’s uproar at Rishi Sunak’s decision to elect Suella Bravaman as Home Secretary. A tiny squeak of a comment. We’re heading for a global disaster it said. It will happen. And soon. Then it was forgotten, like the Covid 19 pandemic seems to have been forgotten. All those deaths. All that suffering. And yet the PM isn’t to attend the conference and it appears the King isn’t allowed to either. What message does that send? I despair. How quick we forget. It’s just like all those moral tales say, WE WILL BE PUNISHED (though not before the innocent, the poor, the woe-begotten have had their lives turned upside down). And my heart breaks.
This is incoherent. I know so little. But I do that we need to listen, and fast.