ellen bell

They woke me at just after twelve, disorientated and still in sleep I couldn’t, at first, work out what they were. I banged and burst and hissed well beyond 12.30 am and I struggled to regain my sleep. Oh, well, I thought, I wish them a happy party.

New Year never feels joyous for me. And certainly not this year. It’s all this bleak, though necessary, paring-back of everything (typified by the pictures he sent me of me drawing in the café. I sit alone, huddled in my layers of coats, and no one comes near – all the previous, precious camaraderie and noise gone). I am wearied by it. And the fear it instils drags me down. I miss exuberance. Or perhaps I never felt it really. I don’t know. Is this an age thing?

Oh forgive me. I wish you all well. And though I don’t feel like sending my usual salvo of texts of new year wishes, I do think of you all and send you joy.

Another new year comes. And we are all a bit older. Have we learnt much? Are we kinder? Are we more loving? I don’t know. We try don’t we? Life is out of our hands, the only thing we have some control over is our actions towards others. I work, I endeavour and I love. Sometimes furiously. There are so many for whom I feel deep deep care. As I do for those I will never ever meet. We are one. We are the same. Can we try to remember that in 2022?

Give us grace to do this.

Charles Dickens referred to the meal delivered to Old Sol and his nephew in Dombey and Son by the nearby tavern as ‘the entertainment’. I dreamt of such an entertainment last night. It was something my mother was hosting and I was helping to serve the vegetables. I had a huge platter in my hand of an assortment of carrots and greens and was taking it around the table, under my mother’s guidance. However, there clearly wasn’t enough and she seemed uncertain, unusually, as how to manage the deficit. I saw M and was about to give her some when she asked if she could have some from the other plate with the ‘chilli foam.’ I looked around the room and saw that there were more and more trestle tables of people all waiting to be fed. Shall I put some more vegetables to cook? I asked my mother, suggesting sweet corn, peas and broad beans (even in my dream I knew that I had some in the freezer – but would it be sufficient ?). She acquiesced and I went to set them boiling but was faced with too much of a choice of pans to use. There were huge kettles, jam boilers – all copper and shining – some hanging some on shelves beneath. I woke before a decision was made. Was it a dream about nourishing all those parts of myself that are hungry for sustenance, perhaps?

The coffee shop opened an hour later so we walked instead and got drenched. And I threw a mini-wobbly because my drawing was so bad. He told me in the kindest way to get a grip and not indulge myself. I tried and it improved a bit. So much change, even in our little world. Must just keep steady. More rain today.

We passed one of the waiters who used to work in the Shilam, an Indian restaurant that we would frequent, virtually every Monday night until we stopped doing so and then it shut. We couldn’t remember his name, though we knew his face. They were mostly from Goa (if that is indeed the Portuguese territory in the Indian Ocean that I am thinking of) and had been given these rather surprising names (for us, perhaps not for them). I remember there was a Shubert, a Wellington and the infamous, and roguish, Ronaldo, and Mohammed was the boss, a terribly sprightly, energetic man, very go-getting for this small town. The one we passed with his eternally smiling face was called by another name, I believe. What lovely men (though more like boys) they were. They brightened up a Monday night and we liked going there, though the food was pretty crap and the building as cold as an iceberg. And many had wives and families at home. So far away.

Oh, how I miss my walking out. We did walk yesterday and the sea was rolling and alive and wonderful and it didn’t rain. But, and there is this but, I miss exploring the courage it took me to go out there in the dark alone. And being on the harbour, standing at the end of the Perygyl staring out to sea. And those thoughts. All that writing in my head as I walked. But I was giving my body pain by doing so. So this temporary cease is no bad thing. And I can sit in here, my bottles on my tummy, Radio 3 on and think about work. Gosh, how blessed I am. I never forget it, you know, never. But I do miss him asking me as he wakes from a dream, ‘What’s it like out?’

Work is finished. For now. Today we go drawing.

I have none. He thinks it is only a temporary set back and is convinced that the medics (in time) will solve it and I will be back, fighting fit. I am not so certain. It has gone on so long.

As a consequence I am not walking in the mornings. Do I miss it? Not really. It took a lot of muster to get myself out there, especially when it is cold wet and windy. And the dark has always unsettled me. But I do miss the rush of power in my legs, the striding, the fresh air against my face and feeling exercised. I am made still. And must make the best of it.

They caught us in bed and all ruffled. And she the picture of health and happiness. I am glad, truly. But she always leaves me dislodged. It is my doing not hers. Let me be accepting of all that is. And be grateful. For there is so much love in my love. I am held and safe. And so many are not. Sadly.

I don’t know why but Christmas always seems to bring forward such grief, particularly on Christmas Eve, for that was our special time when all rancour was forgotten and she reigned supreme. What a shining woman she was. And she has some of her, certainly. I miss it all and yet I wasn’t always safe or indeed happy.

We walked and he showed me his old village hall. He comes alive in his past. And I like to share it with him. He knows all the names, the houses they lived in. It was a complete time for him and he lives it still.

We lit candles for his parents though the wind was determined.

Christmas Day was better and I thrilled to share other peoples’ Christmases, all that splendour and chaos and familial joy. He and I were quiet and I like that too. Very much.

I dreamt of him downstairs. He was clean, white and I handed him a large candle. He tried to call his mobile. Has he gone?

I’m not good at adapting to new regimes, even if the adjustments are small. Which in my small life they usually are. It makes me a little sad that this is the case, I’d hoped that life would bring me more largesse. But perhaps, in the end, the self knowledge that age has brought me is more valuable. Anyway, what I am trying to say is that it is odd not going from my dark, early morning walk. He persuaded me to give it a rest ‘until my body is better’ and he is right. For I am not right. So here I am in my studio ready to work at 3.50 am in the morning. My little fire is on, my bottles are warming my tummy and back and my fairy lights are switched on. I wish you all as happy a Christmas as you can muster.

It’s not really pain. No, I can’t call it that, though some might. It’s just a huge discomfort and makes walking difficult. But he has pushed. As he does. And hopefully now I will get a scan sooner rather than later (thanks to a very nice sounding Scottish doctor) and finally find out what is causing it. Meanwhile, I didn’t walk this morning. He persuaded me to rest. I’d hoped that my body would recognise this sacrifice and instantly feel better. Not so. So be it. Work will distract, as will tea.

Are you well?

I don’t suppose he will see another Spring, I said to him last night. No, he said, probably not even Christmas. We won’t find out, of course. For his mother has gone to spend the festivities with one of her other sons. Their flat below us is all locked up. And their post box next to ours is bulging. Probably with things for him. Death is a impossible thing to make sense of. All that stuff that is left behind. As if the person had never existed. His window is so shut up, with no chance of it opening to reveal him, standing there, in a jumper or maybe even his pyjamas leaning on the sill smoking a fag. Have a good walk, he would say and raise his hand in farewell. Sometimes he would just say ‘Cheers’ or ‘Bye for Now’. Did he know that I was sometimes irritated at having to greet him, preferring to stay lost in my pre-walk reverie? I hope not. I liked him, you see. I still do. He is kind. He was kind. Is he still here? I just don’t know.

I called two women of my acquaintance yesterday, both of whom have lost their husbands recently. One described herself as lonely and the other as sad. Both are practical women with loving families who try to keep themselves upright and busy but their loss is palpable. There but for the grace of God go I. I feel, nay, yearn for them. And love them dearly. No one can fill the void they must now live with daily. It is our role on Earth to carry such pain and survive it as best we can, it seems. I didn’t know I could feel such pain, said the latter. No. Neither did I.