ellen bell

We refer to him as the ‘smoking hippie’. He wakes early and can be seen having his first cigarette on one of the benches in one of the far corners of the Quad. In the afternoon he moves to one of the new wooden tables and benches that have placed in the middle of the Quad. He always has a large set of headphones clamped to his ears as he smokes, while, as his usual wont, he reads his phone. Yesterday afternoon he was sitting on the new bench as per but this time he was sanding and smoothing down a newly formed shell of an acoustic guitar. Is he a make of guitars then? How lovely. I love seeing evidence of the continuing existence of hand-made crafts. It fits with him too. Though surely he doesn’t have a workshop here in his flat. Does he? I did hear a mechanical saw grinding a few days ago and did wonder if it was him. Conundrum solved, though, as they say, questions remain.

He called an old friend and he told him. He could only have been in his fifties. Still teaching, we’d see him in The White Horse with a glass of wine on the table next time at all times of the day. He always wore black, a black t-shirt and rarely a coat. He used to have a flat here but moved somewhere nearer town, I think, last year. He was a Scot. It must’ve been the drink, he said.

He told me he’d read notice of her of death in the local paper. He looks for names he knows in the obituaries every week. No deaths, he usually says. Yesterday she was there. I listened to him tell his sister when he called her last night. She remembered her too. She and her husband used to own a cafe in town, way back. Women used to go there in their best hats, apparently. It was on an upper floor with a bay window looking down onto the street. Going there was an occasion.

What’s the name of that Irish singer you like? he asked in the early hours. I told him. She’s died, he said. I think she killed herself, though their not saying. Poor love. Poor beautiful girl. It breaks a little bit of my heart.

D plays Shubert’s Death and the Maiden on the radio and I think of Munch’s drawings of the life-filled girl, naked and clinging to Death’s bony frame.

I forgot to write about the dream I had the night before last. I can only remember a small snatch of it. It involved this woman’s hand-writing. I was tracing its trajectory with my finger just before I woke. It felt like it was etched into the paper, so much so that I could feel its grooves. Was this prompted by my interview and then writing up of the interview was S? Possibly, my subconscious does appear to play out what I either watch, think about or encounter through my day. He says that that’s never the case with him. Does that make me more of a sponge? Sometimes I do find it tricky to establish a boundary between what I am and those I come to know, with their concerns (or what I imagine to be their concerns) become mine. You care too much, he said last night. Do I? I said. Can one ever care too much?

I enjoyed my walk this morning. My hips moved well. And the Perygl was dry. I like to feel my feet bounce along the wooden slats and that stretch of horizon when I get to the end is magnificent. Tuesday morning is bin day across the town and the seagulls seem to know it too. The bin bags that the homing-students put out before they catch the train are ripped to shreds and all sorts of detritus is strewn across pavements and roads. It is a sorry sight. Such is this town. It is my home and, more importantly, his. He rages about it. I think I accept it more, or at least better. I find my beauty and my escape. I won’t stay when he’s gone.

I think of her and of him when I wake and when I go to sleep. I wish her grace and for I him I wish the succour of family. Let it be enough.

I woke to the sound of heavy rain. He’d warned me of it. I lay in bed planning what to wear and whether to take an umbrella, which is always a pain to manage with a stick. It had eased when I eventually got out, though as always I’d gone prepared with two layers of waterproofs. The air smelt good though more like autumn than summer. Those poor loves in Southern Europe with extreme heatwaves and wildfires. It feels like we’re in a different universe. I walked the length of North Road surrounded by the cacophany of seagulls. That interminable din of young gulls with their keening, heart-renching cries for food and companionship and the adult birds screeching and cawing over nests, territory and scraps of food they’ve scavenged from bins and plastic bags left by students returning home. The noise is deafening at times and yet at times I stop hearing it so lost am to the narratives and chatter in my head. Be here now, Ellen. In this moment, always.

Sometimes it just grips me. It is mostly nameless and formless. I feel it in my back first. It tightens in the muscles and holds my shoulderblades rigid. And then, its only then that I realise that I’ve been holding my breath and I have to consciously encourage my lungs to taken in air and let it out again. I am safe, I have everything I need and yet, I still yield to fear. I am ashamed. I know of others’ pain. I hear of it and know it. When I do know the fear, recognise it, it is mostly that of not feeling good enough. This too is a nonsense but it is deep-felt and deep-carried. So be it. I will accept myself and this being that I have formed. I do my best. I know this. Breathe now. In and out. Slow.

He read out a text he’d had from them. She’s falling. As is he. They’ve told her that there might be bleeds and that they could come at any time, without warning. Her skin has become so thin. There is no protection, no safety. She cannot be saved. My heart bleeds for her, for him and for their children. As she will bleed, does bleed. What can be done but wish them grace, light, and as he wrote – ‘more time to make memories’.

The child in the flat across the way began crying again last night. It wasn’t late by most peoples’ standards but for me it was. It wasn’t crying but screaming. He, or she, I’m not totally sure was screeching. Was it in pain, was it in anger, frustration or fear – I couldn’t tell and waited to hear a soothing adult voice. I couldn’t. I got out of bed in the end and went to him. Shut your window, he said. But I cannot. I need the air and to hear the rain. So I have to let the child be. I slept eventually as did it. I think, though I heard the distant crying long into the night.

I notice that the light mornings are dwindling. It is a sad realisation, how I love that opening up of blue.

There were several night-time wanderers about this morning and we all seemed to have sticks. We’re a singular group, most walk fast with heads and eyes trained forward, onward, going somewhere but not ever getting there, or so it seems. Some I recognised, some I didn’t. Do they notice me as I notice them?

It was just that, happy. And it began with a phone call. He’d emailed me the day before asking for my number. And I’d fretted, naturally. Was he just trying to let me down gently because I was a friend of a friend? He called early to tell me it was mine. I have it. I’ve been chosen. It’s mine. IT IS. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I’d been looking forward to it, I’d even pictured some of the drawings I would make in there. The rain had grown steadily heavier by the time we arrived there. We were the first customers and wandered around trying to find a table we wanted to sit at. Sit anyway, one of the numerous waitresses and possibly owners, said in the blithe manner they were all to adopt in the end. He asked if they could possibly shut the doors, Oh, no, said another girl, we’ve got all sorts of deliveries today. It was cold. The tea was weak. And there was a new trainee on who didn’t know what Lapsang Souchong or Soya was, bless her. She traipsed around like a whipped pup, head down, shoulders hunched. I felt for her but a part of me (the nasty part found her really irritating). And then the drawing wouldn’t come – I couldn’t focus. The drawing I did in the car while he was in the loo in Tesco was better. A bedraggled day.

And now there’s an email asking for my phone number and my stomach drops to the floor. Is he riinging to put me down gently or is it good news? Oh, the misery of waiting…..