ellen bell

I often see him, particularly now that I am out around town drawing. I think he must be a rough sleeper. There are the usual signs, such as the wearing of a thick heavy coat no matter the weather. He was the one I saw on the beach scavenging stones and putting them in his pockets. I wonder if he is the one sleeping under the castle. He was ahead of me as I walked up the little incline by the side of Rummers. He stopped by a small bollard and taking a tiny paper bag out of his pocket proceeded to empty its entire contents of peanuts on top of it. He did it carefully and turned back a few times to check on his handiwork. Were they for the pigeons, or the gulls or was it some sort of ritual?

It was hard going drawing yesterday. It is always tougher in the mornings. But I did it. First I drew the health food shop building on Baker Street with its statue of Queen Victoria and then I went back to the boatyards. I’m fascinated by all the paraphernalia of boats. But, as I say it was hard and I grew cold and stiff. And so went home to sleep. Which made me grumpy. He has to put up with so much from me. Poor love.

Town is quiet these mornings. The tide is out and the light is soft and muted. I can almost hear the town breathing. Down by the harbour there is the usual hum of generators. It is a special time, a liminal time. Mine. And broken only by a man I can see walking towards me on the other side of the road and the inevitable clog of drunken students loitering on benches opposite Gwesty Cymru. One has no shirt on and is shouting, rather loudly, at his companion. I cross the road. I’d seen two others when I walked along Mill Street. The man was wielding a bottle and swigging from it in a rather exaggerated fashion. His female companion, whose substantial bottom had been squeezed into a very tight denim mini skirt, was huffing and puffing her way along, no doubt eager to be home. I crossed the road and only turned round to see what had become of them when I’d reached the end of the street. He was sitting on a wall and she was still breathing heavily. I think they then went into the block of flats there.

I sat out yesterday afternoon for half and hour after my Norwegian lesson. They always exhaust me. So much concentration. But good. They are good. And she is a warm woman. So alive. I sat there trying to read a book of essays and watched as a wasp landed on my thigh. They come so lightly. They are curious. Is it the smell of body cream? It is like a kiss. I feel no fear. Not anymore.

Some days I just am, a crosspatch that is. Don’t be a crosspatch, my mother would say. I don’t know why or perhaps I do but the investigation is too uncomfortable. I just am cross. Cross with myself, so much so that nothing ends up feeling right. Poor love, and he has to put up with it. Stop frowning, he says.

We had a row at breakfast. Well, it’s never a full-blown fracas, more of a falling-out. It doesn’t last. We talk about it, but the residue is there. It is me. What do I want? I don’t know. To feel better about myself?

We went into town early so that I could draw before my appointment. It is never the same. It is too safe really, with him. I prefer to be out and exposed and free.

I am scared, that is the nub of it. The work, the real work, the earn money and feel better about oneself kind of work, has dried up and I am adrift. Yes, I have lots to do there is my drawing, my sewing, my writing, my reading and all those domestic chores that pay my way, but nothing from outside of me that will put money in my dwindling bank account. And I don’t know what to do about it. Beg? He says not to worry, that we have enough. But I don’t believe him, am scared to rest too heavy on his resources. Will anything come? Will it?

The moon was huge this morning. I thank God for it. I love to walk in its light. And the way it spills across the water takes my breath. I drew The Cooper’s Arms yesterday. There were too many people in town for me to venture in there (it was The Race for Life event – all those women in pink). I drew it three times and tried to be bolder and to learn as I drew. I grow more confident about drawing in public. The mask and my dark glasses help. I still am uncertain about using colour, it seems an after thought. I’ve so much further to go. Perhaps I will never feel good enough. But I am communicating, something, at least.

I thought about my need to care for others. It is strong. Though it often manifests itself in small details. Is that enough? Or must life always be about the grand gesture?

Four lads were across the road from me just beginning to walk up Penglais Hill. I’d heard them before I turned the corner into Northgate Terrace. One of them was making a kind of high-pitched keening noise. It was possibly the same one who shouted out to me: ‘No walking sticks after 12pm.’ His friends laughed and I ignored it. (I’ve been using a stick as a ‘safety net’ against the annoying stiffness in my hips – sometimes they just seize up.) He continued. ‘It’s not acceptable, darlink.’ His mates loved this and laughed even louder. I let it go. He thought it was funny too when I told him about it on waking. Perhaps I have no sense of humour. I’d just rather they didn’t talk to me at all. It is my quiet time, my inward time, my communion with the terrible dark.

It was the same yesterday when I was drawing down by the harbour. ‘Are you writing verse or drawing?’ I heard a voice say. (I’d been concentrating so fiercely I hadn’t noticed a man and his wife approach.) He came behind me and peered at my sketchbook. ‘Ah, drawing,’ he said, and then continued to fire questions at me. Are you a professional, do you sell? I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to draw and was uncommunicative. He didn’t seem to mind and she joined in as well telling me how she’d just drawn their boat and that she dabbled, wasn’t any good but it was fun. In the end their enthusiasm, meeting no match in me, dried up. And we said our goodbyes. And then I felt bad. I hadn’t friendly or warm.

I’m trying to improve. The decisions I make are often bad ones. I want to concentrate. I need to. I asked him at breakfast if he knew anyone who would sit for me. He didn’t, and seem to think it would be too much to ask. What would they get out of it? He is right. Nothing. I wouldn’t even want to show them the work.

Keep going. Just keep going. It will become clear.

Language is better, said Will Ladislaw.

By the way, did you see the moon this morning. It was huge.

Birthdays often make me sad. And this one was no exception. It isn’t the age thing, I couldn’t care less about that, it is more the reflecting back that seems to go on inside my head. What have I achieved and what worth am I and so on. So he and I had a ‘seminar’ first over coffee in Costa and then over tea at the Harbourmaster in Aberaeron. He helps me. He restores my faith. He makes me feel worthwhile.

The battles with my drawing continue. I must just keep on keeping on.

The early mornings can feel edgy. And I am not brave. I see things that seem a little out of kilter and I am loathe to intervene or interfere. I struggle with such passivity though, never knowing what is the right thing to do. Take this morning for example. It began with the flashing lights of the ambulance. Blue and red and yellow, flickering on and off against the wall of a house on South Road. It looked like a disco. Perhaps there were police cars too. Must’ve been for the lights to be blue also. I walked on. I didn’t want to appear curious or nosy, though I was, a little. There were still going when I walked back from the harbour and I took another path so that I might avoid the commotion. I did see a policeman talking to a girl through a break in the wall. And then walking deciding to walk over the Buarth on my way home I came upon a car with its side door wide open. Everything was dark. No streetlights. It was by the big veterinary surgery on the hill. Was there someone in the car? Had it been broken into to? There was no broken glass, no sign of anything awry. I left it. At breakfast he tried to ease my conscience. Someone might have been loading things into it, he said. Though, I suspect it had just been forgotten. Ah, I never know what is the right thing to do. Ever.

I’d noticed that something wasn’t there when I was by the harbour yesterday. And it wasn’t until I walked there again this morning that I realised that the poor, neglected shabby boat on stilts was gone. I’d say it’s name whenever I walked past. Miss Me. Was it a plea or a statement or even a command, I’d wonder. It had had a for sale sign leaning on its bow for what seemed like years. Has someone bought it, finally, or has it really gone to the scrap heap? I suppose it isn’t cheap having it there on the quay. Bless it. There is always change, even in this slow old town.

I wanted too much from myself this morning, and the drawing was shite. I got down in the mouth. If I can’t rely on myself to always pull it off, what am I? He tries to encourage. It’s all in your head, he says. And he is right, but the desire to hurl my sketchbook across the cafe’s floor (I was drawing people in Caffe Nero) and then lie on the ground and kick my feet, screaming was a hard one to resist. We moved on. And it got better. A bit. Then we walked on the Prom and I made plans for tomorrow.

Work still isn’t coming. Has it dried up completely? Chase them, he said. Shall I?

Her husband died yesterday. She is sanguine. Or just too tired and depleted herself to show the grief she must feel. 31 years they have been together. Death is always so close, these days. Will we have another day, and another? Keep him safe. And may he rest in peace. I didn’t know him well. A shy man but a kind one, I think.

It’s still there, and it grows more gruesome by the day. I thought another animal might take it, but perhaps dead squirrel do not make good fare. There is little flesh left, just fur and its head, strained into a kind of silent screaming. It is a pitiful sight and I find myself walking into the road to avoid it. The pavement around it is littered with fallen blackberries that have oozed, blue and purple, into the tarmac.

An overcast, damp and mizzly morning. I did go and draw yesterday despite the weather predictions. Rain spotted my pages. I need to write more. To balance the two. Look she’s drawing something, I heard a child say behind me. She might be writing, said his mother. No, he said, determined, she’s drawing.

I’m trying to, ugh shall I say it, ‘up my game’. Such phrases have become so ubiquitous that it is hard to remember what we used to say before. I want to get better at drawing, and the wanting and the trying is hard. I know what I am aiming for but can’t get there. He speaks encouragement, hears the dejection in my voice when I get home. The frustration is with myself. I know that I sink when the lines and decisions I make are not working. I try to keep going, for what else can I do? It will come, he says. You’ve done it before, so you will do it again. Will I? Am I the same being? And now the weather forecasters say it will rain today. What to do? Shall I weather the wet or stay in an draw something inanimate? Small quandaries but to me they are potent. Well?