I’ve been able to do them for years. And, if I may say it, gracefully. I love being upside down like that. I feel strong and lithe. Now my body has either forgotten how to do them or is scared. Will my fractured shoulder be able to take the weight of me? Is that the problem, my fear of collapsing? I just don’t know. I assume the usual position and my legs won’t lift. It’s a small grief, but a grief nonetheless. He says he will help me by lifting my legs up and holding them there. Will that help? Will it boost my confidence? Can he in fact do it? Will we bicker?
Parties are going on around town. I think it is because students are getting ready to go. In Cambridge it will be May Ball season. Here it’s a more intimate affair. I hear them through open windows and see their lights one. One house along North Road had tons of flashing ones, like a mobile disco. Voices and baby seagull calls. The dark is alive with sounds.
He’d gone to the garage to take the car for its MOT and walking back he chanced upon two women who were lost. Ever the boy scout, he was delighted to assist. He told me about all this over lunch. And what else do you think happened? he asked. I don’t know, I said. They knew you? No. They told you didn’t look a day over forty? No. Anymore guesses? No, just tell me. Well, he said, one of the women said, I’m not coming on to you but you’ve got the most beautiful legs.’
I can see one of our neighbour’s balconies from my studio window. They have put out a profusion of pots and bird feeders. Birds seem to come from all over to feed. There are sparrows, tits, collared doves and black birds. I love to watch them. They eat and eat, even in this early summer when there must be plenty of ‘real’ food for them. I love the scurrying and seeing the feeders still swinging long after they have left.
The man with the beard and long hair who I can see from my studio sitting on the little wooden bench outside his flat in the sun listening to something on his headphones doesn’t wear shoes when he does so. If his feet were bare it would somehow be less unsettling. It’s the stocking-ed feet thing. It reminds me of M who lives in one of the flats along Mill Street. He is often out by the road sitting in his socks and no shoes. And he is unsettled.
The man (or couple it is hard to say for sure), who has bought Elephant’s house has been weeding. Not the garden but the front drive, in between the pebbles. The garden is a jungle (the house too isn’t looking to wonderful now that the decorators have begun and gone again). And yet, there is something rather appealing to me about that full on concentration on the detail rather than the bigger picture. I am guilty of the same thing.
As I walked home this morning a young lad approached on the other side of the road. At one point he stopped and swigged from a large bottle. He literally lifted it up and poured its contents into his throat. I’ve never actually seen anyone do that, I said to him at breakfast, though I’ve seen it in the films, when they are trying to imply that someone is an alcoholic. I’ve never seen it either, he said.
I imagined holding their hands as I walked. The two of them. My younger self (about 5 or 6) and my mother. My younger self, on my left hand side had to skip a little to keep up but she didn’t mind. And my mother, whom I cannot remember ever holding hands with, was also slow, her feet dragging, but she didn’t complain, she was just happy to be out. And I was just happy to have them both with me, my hands in theirs. She died almost 9 years ago on June 28th 2012. And yet she is still so present within me. As is my little one. And she will never grow old and frail.
I’ve been listening to Sir Ranulph Fiennes read from his book Fear. He has a rather, stiff and careful delivery but its portent is, nonetheless, interesting. He writes about his time at Eton. He was a pretty boy and from the outset branded as a ‘tart’ and suffered endless taunts and verbal abuse. You wonder why his mother didn’t remove him. But I suppose parents didn’t in those days. They didn’t in my day either. Neither my elder sister or myself was happy at LC. Though her misery was more evident than mine. My younger sisters, being more gregarious, fared better. It was an act of survival for me. And the loss of personal and private space the worst of it. Solitary by nature I did not blossom amongst large groups of girls. A torment, mostly, except for brief interludes of escape in the grounds and upstairs in Mrs P’s drama studio. I am sorry for his upset and mine. Though I think he has turned out braver than I.
It does, it stinks, especially in the warm June air. But I don’t mind. It is the smell of industry, of marine life, of corporeal reality. I think it comes mainly from the lobster and crab pots (are there pots for crabs?) stacked high along the harbour wall. And all the ropes and tackle that are hauled back and forth onto boats, into the water and out again. The smell is from their drying out, made stiff with the residue of sea salt. It isn’t a pretty harbour, it is a working one. The Ridiculously Rich café with its blue paint and fairy lights makes an attempt to make it so, but it doesn’t succeed. It is frippery. I think they work hard the fishermen. And there is order in the thrown about chaos down there. I love to walk through it. My nostrils wrinkle at the smell but my soul delights in it.
There was no one about this morning as I walked, other than a speckling of students, some at a distance and some making noise hears through open upstairs windows. But a car did arrive at the harbour. It was behind me and I was caught in its headlights. It was a jeep with a pile of white boxes in the back. It kept driving through, I thought it was going to turn at the end and return towards town. Then, as I approached the Perygyl I noticed it parked on the shale just in front of the water. Perhaps it was awaiting the arrival of a fishing boat and the white boxes were cool boxes. A man got out and walked up the incline towards me and the harbour buildings. He was young and bearded and wearing wellies. I kept walking. Hi, he said. It was more a bark than a greeting. I replied in kind and we both walked on.
The bar on Terrace Road is called Y Banera not Day and Night. I think it is Spanish for bathtub. At least, there is a picture of one. It was shut this morning.
Blackbirds seem to hop or even pop into the air when I approach.
He calls them ‘The Girls’. How are ‘The Girls’ doing? he asks. Have you been to see ‘The Girls’? The Girls (aka the sweet peas) are doing OK. The ones that have survived, that is. There is still a dead plant (I think) amongst them but I haven’t had the heart to take it away yet. Perhaps it will come back to life under the influence of the, seemingly thriving, others. It is a mess. They are a mess, sending out their twirls and hooks onto each other rather than the stakes, which may be too thick for them. But they are bursting forth, upwards and outwards. Don’t fiddle, Ellen. Leave them to it.
Town was full (well, I say full) of wandering youngsters, most a little worse for wear. The Day and Night Bar was still open, well the lights were on and four people were sitting at a table talking. Perhaps they were the bar staff. Three kids ambled down Llanbadarn Road, one girl was on her phone talking loudly. Josh threw up, she said, clearly repeating what someone had told her and not showing either concern or surprise, is he at home?
There was a single light out on the sea, a fishing boat, bobbing.
I only remembered bits of it when I woke. It had involved a man, stranger. He’d taken a book of mine and some severed locks that I’d tied up with red ribbon. The book and the hair were linked. It had been part of an art piece. He’d said he would return them soon but I knew that I was to leave soon. I woke with the uncertainty of ever having them back.
They promise sun today and the blue is beginning to break through the white cloud. Wouldn’t that be marvellous?
They smelt so sweet as I passed them on my way back from my walk this morning. I went back that way out of curiosity to see if our neighbour’s car was there. It wasn’t. He’d gone down to check on him last night and it had taken him ages to answer the door. We’d been concerned about him, well I had, not having seen him at his window with his cigarette or seen him though his kitchen window. His elderly mother (now in her 103rd year) is away. And I suspect things are left to slide a little, including not lifting the blinds. Fair enough. Anyway when he eventually answered the door to him, ‘his shirt was all hanging down’. Now I feel uncomfortable. I encouraged him to knock and perhaps it wasn’t appreciated. He told him he was going away last night. He’s clearly gone then. He is a traveller, though where he can go with all these restrictions, who knows.
We heard the puppy barking last night. Happy barks as his owner had a visitor. What nosy neighbours we are.
