ellen bell

I’d been meaning to listen to it for a while now and I tuned in briefly yesterday via YouTube. It was strange, if not a little bizarre. There he was in all his robes and regalia standing in front of his computer screen in his kitchen. I found it hard not to be distracted by the objects in there. There was a small, plug-in transistor radio on one of the surfaces to the right, and rather sweetly a paper calendar, the kind bought for a pound in a local church fete, or the local sub-post office, hanging rather askew from the glass-fronted dresser behind him. I like him, or at least I like what I know of him. His vulnerability and doubt is made open, which takes courage and he seems to be a kind, compassionate man just doing his best. It can’t be easy. What a crew to guide, eh? He lit a candle, and we could hear his wife in the background saying the responses. The candle took a while to take, but he kept calm, steady. I miss the mystery of the Abbey, so much. I miss the Sunday morning service, early, in those lovely ancient pews right up by the altar with no choir or pomp, just a small congregation, the lessons, the Eucharist and my thoughts, and then walking home up the hill with the taste of the Communion wine in my mouth, heady and sweet.

I understand it now. That’s why she lays things out on the patio area outside their flat to let the sunshine rid them of the virus. The children’s books, the vegetables, all laid out in a row against the wall. They are a sweet family. Just the two of them and one child, a little boy whom they clearly dote on, her especially. We watch them from our vantage point in the wasteland-cum-building site-cum-dump pretending to be planes and running across the playing fields their arms outstretched. They are Chinese, I think or they could be Korean. The little boy knows a little English, as do the parents. I think the father must be an academic at the University. I like the cultural hotchpotch who live here. We keep our distance, but there is respect and warmth, I hope.

I asked for guidance. Do I let it all go? How would that feel? To let go, to no longer seek. Would the world come and find me or would it let me be? And how would that be if it did? I have enough to do still, enough to learn. I want to master the sewing, Norwegian, complete my book, to become a better writer. But they are all personal goals, inward things, they are not things I can offer the world, for the world does not want and shall not have them. Does it matter? Is it important? If I died tomorrow would anybody care what I had done, what I had achieved? He is the only one who bears witness. He matters. And he is content. There is nothing you have to do, he says. Earn enough to pay your part of the rent, and then do what you like. That’s all. No fanfare, no name in lights, just a quiet continuum. Can I bear that? Can I let it all go? I don’t know. I don’t know yet. I still have those prickings of ideas. Will they be content to be worked through and go into a drawer? I don’t know. I asked for guidance for a better understanding, a greater knowing, will it come?

‘Our failures help us to know who we are,’ said a voice from the radio yesterday. I think it was from a TED talk but I’m not sure. Do they? I am running down. I am losing pip, pep, zip. In other words I am flattened, sans motivation. I think I’m ill. I can still function but something isn’t quite right. I have no appetite, my poo is green and I ache all over. An infection possibly, exacerbated or intensified by the fast I’ve been trying to do. Day three was calamitous. I couldn’t eat it, the rice that is. It made me want to retch. So I didn’t and ate three rice cakes instead. I’ve given up on it. I’ve failed, and I even took some gastrocote to try and alleviate the acidity in my stomach. And this morning I weakened further by taking two paracetamols. Why don’t I get you some oranges? he said. OK, I said, grateful to not look at rice again at least for the moment. What was that all about? Why was my taste begin affected? And why does the simplifying of diet, which is what this kind of fasting is, bring on such a healing crisis? I don’t understand. I try to. It’s my body after all and I think I know it. He thinks I don’t and I stumble over my explanations, feeling stupid. I dreamt and dreamt last night, waking in between. Dreams of work and people not keeping their distance. Dreams of her and Brian Aldridge from The Archers, for some reason. She had two sons in my dream, who were both running around. And something to do with her hair, and long strings of cotton wool, the kind they use when hair is being bleached which I then had in mine. She looked well, strong, beautiful. I am so proud of her. I hope she is OK, it can’t be easy. So it was just herb tea for breakfast. It felt nice not to do battle with food and so far I am not hungry at all. I baked yesterday, desperate to fulfill my list of things to do that day. The mix was too heavy again. I had to make it up as I went along not having the specified ingredients. They’re a bit like rock cakes, he said, tasting one gingerly. But they are meant to scones. But they taste nice, really nice, he said. Is he being kind? I feel like Ria Parkinson. Failure again. Just keep trying. Some days are like that. And that has to be OK. Doesn’t it? I wanted to be emptied out. And I am being. Totally. Be careful what you ask for. Will clarity come soon? Will it?

I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning, not in the ‘it’s too cosy here, I don’t want to get up’ sort of way but in the more desperate, ‘I don’t think I can, or I can’t bear to get up’ way. I haven’t had such a feeling before. Yes, I’ve dreaded something I’ve had to do and wanted to stay put but never this, never this pull, this impossible resistance. Though not quite impossible because I did resist it. If I was alone I don’t know that I would’ve. We are made of stern stuff. I have it from her, she was too and it made her grim in the end. I want to give in. To stay there and hide, to not surface into that dark. It is better in the morning. The sun helps. He helps. We talk of pills. It would make me happy, he says. And my fear of them makes me mishear him. No, he says later, it would make me happy to know that you’d got over it. Get over it. I wait for that. I wait for it to pass. Surely it will. Won’t it? If it’s the menopause surely it will do so, it will go. If so, I want to see it through, like this fast, grit my teeth and show my resolve, my strength, my stern stuff. But I just don’t know. All I know is that it is hard these days. Hard to put that proverbial foot in front of the other. And I feel ashamed for being this way for I am blessed, certainly. I can see the sea. I can walk to the sea. I have food to eat, a warm bed, clothes to wear and my love. Who is ever steadfast. Meaning for the moment escapes me. Perhaps I just need to look at it another way. I long to be on the move, to be going somewhere, anywhere, to just fly away for a while, to a hotel, to be somewhere else without this self, this sad self not wanting to do anything, to be anything but asleep.

I’ve always thought it, and my opinion hasn’t changed since coming to live here. It is a shabby town, seaside towns often are, forgotten ones, at least. And the seagulls exacerbate the problem. Mind you, they did the same in Bath, and that city can be, and mostly is, beautiful. Tuesday is bin day. And the seagulls have a field day. There is detritus everywhere, particularly at the time when I walk. That time, that liminal time between night and day is theirs. They screech and moan at each other, beaks open they honk like they are retching, their webbed feet surrounded by the litter they have torn from bin bags. I saw a young man scurry out of his flat, his feet bare and with just his knickers on to put his bag out. He looked so fragile with his tiny arse and white scrawny legs. The town was empty otherwise, just strewn with crap. The gulls fly over head, white sails over the sea. The wind was up, it was bracing.

This is the second day of my rice fast and I’m feeling a bit shitty. It comes and goes but I long for tea, real tea. Is that what the headache is from, a tea withdrawal? He’d say,and in fact does say, why bother? But I want to be cleaned out, I want the clarity, that promise of certainty. Do I ask too much? It is a challenge, the body craves and insists and the mind is a weak thing, mostly. Still, I still cleaned the house and carried out my duties. Just one step at the time. I think it is heightening my senses though for I got such a strong scent of earth as I walked up the hill home – a gorgeous smell of dew-dampened, dusty soil but also a loam, rich and mulchy. I felt the gift of it. As I did of the small cheque yesterday from the NSI. Nice. Thank you.

They’ve been playing repeats of The Reunion hosted by Sheila Macgregor on a Sunday Morning in place of Desert Island Discs, yesterday it was the one where she’d brought together the five ladies in waiting who’d assisted the Queen during her coronation. I’d heard it before but this time I noticed details that hadn’t sunk in previously. They were all of ‘blue blood’ naturally, though some were ‘plummier’ than others. I can’t think what age they’d be now, well into their eighties, I should think, or even nineties. But the girlishness was still there. But it was the recordings of people who either been there in the Mall our outside Westminster Abbey or Buckingham Palace or had watched it on one of the few available TV sets that amused me. Most especially the girl (now woman) who remembers that she had to wear her ‘Sunday Best’ to watch it on the box because her parents had told her: ‘you have to dress up for the Queen’. It was nice to hear it again.

It’s a beautiful morning, the sky is clear as day and the sea a stunning ultramarine. Seagulls float across the ether like white sailing boats. Lovely. I’ve begun my rice-fast and crave tea. What no tea? he said. No, just herb tea. I asked him to support me. He calls it a hair shirt but I see it more as a cleansing thing. An emptying thing. A simplifying thing.

I can hear a banging from downstairs. Is that him doing battle with the door? It was the last Butterflies last night. Sad. I shall miss it.

I want to write about my sewing. It seems an unimportant thing. And yet it is crucial to me. So crucial. It balances me. That simple act of making stitches in a pattern, calms me like nothing else. I get it. I get why it is used in therapy, it is therapeutic, it frees the mind but also holds it in check. Something is being done. Something is being moved forward. I love it’s rigour. I love its connotations, it’s history. The cuteness of some of its associations wrankle, but I do not need to buy into them. I see it very differently. I need to do it, you see. It eases my anxiety. I just wish I could work faster, there is much that I want to master. And I am mastering it. This current sampler is getting on much better that it was before. I am more dextrous, certainly. So get to it. A pot of herb tea, a nice cup and work.

Does it matter that I don’t know where I am going with it? That I just want the quiet it brings me?

It was hard to see what had killed it. It’s perfect white body was seemingly untouched. The tangle of innards jutting from its stomach was the only sign of death, as was its stillness. They are magnificent birds, so strong, so robust. And the white is pristine. And yet, they are such scavengers. Poor love. I hope it was fast and painless.

No one was about. No police cars, no woman with the plastic bag. I caught sight of a student in shorts returning to one of the halls along the Prom and a red car passed me but other than that no one. The man I see working on his computer in a house along Mill Street was up as usual, sitting there in his ground floor kitchen in his dressing gown staring at the screen, a large cereal packet open in the foreground. Is he working or gaming? Strange hours he keeps, but then so do I.

I wrote the first draft and now I must hone it. A nice woman, I liked her. I liked her before I spoke to her. It’s all in her work, the kindness, the shyness. I think. I want to do her justice, as I want to do them all. Let it be so. Let it be so.

I backtracked so that I could read the notice, though the beginning of it was obscured behind the CLOSED sign. ‘Often Free Bread available, ask staff’. A nice touch. A nice touch from Slater’s Bakery. There is something of the WWII spirit to it. Small gestures. Would people ask? Would they feel abased by doing so? I hope not.

Yesterday’s and this morning’s rain made the earth smell musty then ripe – the odours of the undergrowth coming back to life. He’s taking the car this morning so as to avoid the drizzle. There was a constant dripping from a downpipe outside that I was certain would keep me awake last night. It didn’t.

During the scam call, our scammer (our very own personal one) going by the name of Eric arranged to call him back the next day, yesterday at 11.00am to sort out any outstanding issues. It would be either him or another colleague, he said, and gave him a very long, official seeming code that he was to quote when he received the call. And he did, he called back. I heard his phone go. I was upstairs in the kitchen. I rushed to the stairs. Don’t speak to him, I said. I hadn’t protected him, you see. I hadn’t. I’d reneged on my duty. Don’t let him draw you in, I shouted. I didn’t, he said, coming to the bottom of the stairs. I hung up on him, he said. That was before I told him to f*** off.

There is no pleasure in these small victories. And the money, the £1,000 he stole is still not in his account. The bank promises it will be returned but we still hold our breath. At least I do.

Do you know we are breaking the law? he said, getting out of bed this morning. I read it online. According to the Welsh Government it is against the law to sit in a park. Fair enough. We won’t then.

I distinctly smelt hot cross buns walking back along Llanbadarn Road from my walk. It was 4.30 am, was someone baking at that hour?

I think of the dead doctor and his family. And the dead architect who house on the hill still has a light on at night.

Three more weeks. Do you mind? Are you suffering?

It didn’t feel right. It didn’t sound right but I didn’t want to interfere. He hates it when I do. But when I heard him giving them his password I shouted. And then I spoke to the man purporting to be bank security and he sounded flustered. Of course, Madam he kept saying, we want people to be careful, to be aware. And then he said, that we don’t want to give people extra stress during the Covid-19 outbreak. No, we don’t. But he was so plausible, too plausible. And my love is so trusting, so wanting to oblige. Wanting to be deemed a good boy, as I need to be a good girl. I feel for him. It is sorted out. He is good at that. But there is this residue of abuse. I forgive him, that young man, I am sorry he has to make his way hurting others. Perhaps he doesn’t care? Perhaps he is being coerced into doing so. I hope not for his sake. Perhaps he has so little that he feels justified in taking from others. My love opened himself wide to him and his scam. Poor love. I wanted to protect him but I didn’t. We will learn from this. Learn not to be so open and yet openness is so lovely.

I think it is the discipline of it. I want to do it well. As I do all things. All things. She said she thought it was wonderful. My piece. I’m glad. I’m so glad. That means a lot. Now I will sew. Return to its rigour. And later there is the sun. And there is the promise of three new pieces of work. Not much but something and I do love the conversations. Thank you.

He doesn’t look well. He is thinner, and his face is ashen. We both agreed this when we saw him yesterday. He’s a smoker and we hear him coughing through his open window. Does he know? Does he suspect he might have cancer? Should we say anything? He is such a self-contained man, even though he shares his flat with his aged mother. He travels alone, he stays up late alone. I just don’t know. Perhaps he has no other symptoms apart from the cough and he’s been coughing for all the time we’ve lived here above him. I wish him well. I like him. He can be sardonic, but he is kind too. I’ll never forget the time he came to my rescue when he fell and I couldn’t get him up. A kind man, a good man, and bright, sharp-witted.

The wild strawberries are on their way, little buds of green promising red, tightly clustered.

A wood pigeon trills outside. The sky is a perfect emptiness, blue.