Lost

'She's off again, and with the child'. Aggie tutted as she peered out the pane of square glass, letting the net curtain fall back into place.
'When will it end?' she sighed, wiping the crumbs on the table carefully into her palm and then flinging them carelessly in the direction of the fire.
'Are you listening to me, Pat? I'm asking you when will we have our daughter back?' She stands to face him, hands on hips.
'Ah for God's sake, why do I bother?' She gathers the cups and plates in a lazy pile and shuffles out to the kitchen.
Pat puts down his paper, sighs wearily and resumes his position before his wife re-enters.
'Pat, will you please listen to me?' Her voice is shrill now, shrill in the same way she laughs: high-pitched, all on the same note, punctuating the silence like gunshots. It hurts his ears.
He gets up, noisily crumples the paper under his arm, and walks out.
'Will you leave it alone, woman?' He says it under his breath, not wanting to hurt her further.
'What's that, Pat?' she calls after him, but he is out the door now, closing it gently behind him.

Half an hour later, he's sitting in Herlihy's contemplating the last of his pint.
'Same again?' the barman sweeps across from the other side, wiping down the counter in an effort to stay busy.
'Ah no, this'll do me now'.
He is alone in the bar, and not at home with drinking in the middle of the day. He's found himelf down here or else Brady's nearly everyday since Gracie's back in the house.His paper's in front of him, but his focus is elsewhere.
Two ladies enter the bar, sitting discreetly in the far corner. He recognises one of them as Cliodhna, Grace's school friend. Though sitting at a distance, he is sure they must see him too, and he can only imagine what they must be saying.
Without finishing his pint, he flips his cap on, and sends a general salute out with his left hand, to include whoever chooses to see it as he pushes open the door, relieved to be out in the open.

Back in the sitting room, he finds Aggie looking forlornly into the fire. If he had given it another half an hour, he thought, she'd be off doing something else.
'Fine and fresh out there', he says.
Nothing but the flames crackling.
'Cup of tea?'he says, leaning against the side of the door.
'Pat, will you please sit down?'
She continues to stare into the fire, her voice low and controlled.
'What is it, Ag?' He sits on the edge of the chair, leaning forward to her.
He sees the liver spots that have started on the side of her face, the faint wobble of skin on her jowel as she shakes her head, the tape that is holding her new glasses together. Seeing his wife like this unsettles him. A tear rolls down her nose, and she turns, quickly flicking it off.
'Come on, Ag. She just needs time. Things will work themselves out.' He wished he could believe the words he spoke so assuredly.
'It's been fourteen months now!' she turned accusingly.
'And five days', he thought, but didn't say it.
Instead, he touched her arm and said,
'These things take time.' He paused for a moment, squeezing her arm. 'Now, you could do with a cup of tea'
As he went into the kitchen, he spotted Billie's pink elephant on its side on the counter, and as he stood it up, it brushed against the boxes of pills. The valium, he could understand, to get through the funeral. But there must have been seven different boxes of tablets here. The elephant's smiling eyes suddenly caught him off-guard. He swallowed hard, and closed his eyes to let the moment pass.
Picking up the kettle, he resolved to sort this out. He could no longer turn a blind eye. Enough is enough.
'Aggie, the kettle's on. I'm going out. I've something to do'.

Wild Horses

Apricot sky, riding across the shore,
Not a soul but me and my wild horses.
All is calm at this hour, the sea at rest.
Spirit earth is quietly singing,
Quenching the demons of yesterday.
Fill me, oh fill me, that I will remember.

Bridging Memories

Someone once said 'You've got to rumble around in the ground for the walk beneath it'.

The public notice had been up for well over a month now announcing the proposed building of a hotel and holiday homes along the fringe of Coal Strand. A vast beach ecompassing miles of sand, it lay just under a mile from Cludell, a thriving fishing town. While the little beach at Cludell was very popular, it was often overcrowded. It was hoped to bring some of its market to Coal Strand, and to develop this area as a holiday destination.

Kate continues on from Harty's Wood, arranging the wild flowers she has picked according to colour and size into a pleasing bouquet. She had a 'good eye', she had often been told, and wondered at the expression. Why A good eye? Was one bad? She clutched her bouquet tightly as she made her weekly tramp to Scott's place.
There's a footbridge there now, where the body was found. It traverses that forbidden patch of ground, that forsaken spot forever tarnished with the memory of Scott.
Kate wades through the long thick grass, relishing the sensation on her bare legs. She hitches up her skirt allowing her to take longer steps, closes her eyes, stung by the wind, and walks on, arms outstretched, embracing the vastness, the wildness, relinquishing herself to the force.
She sits on the wooden planks of the bridge, bends her knees up under the warm tent of her skirt and wraps her arms tightly around them. This is the place where she feels most at home with herself, where she feels like she knows who she is. Her mind is muddled these days: sometimes she finds herself in the supermarket wondering why she had set out in the first place, the people swimming past her like fish in a tank. Only the other day she was on the bus home and she went right past her stop, and when she walked her way back, she found herself lost and disorientated, gazing in wonder at the identical pebble-dashed houses, which seemed at the same time familiar and alien.
A loud noise approaching reminds her that today is the day the building is due to start. How could she have forgotten when it's been the talk of the town? 'Isn't it great for the area?' people say. Or 'The hotel'll be up in time for Mike to get a job!' She is vaguely aware of what's happening, but remains peripheral to any talk about it. She's peripheral to everything and everyone in any case, so why should this be different?
Far off to her right, she sees the area marked out. She suddenly feels opposed to the idea of a hotel here. This is her spot, her and Scottie's! Who gave the right to some rich businessman to have his way with the place? She ploughs resolutely in the direction of the JCB, punching the air with her swinging arms.
'Hello, excuse me Mister...' she shouts up to the driver of the stalled JCB. She waves her arms, doubting she can be heard against the noise.
The machine comes to an abrupt silence and a strong middle aged man wearing a hard hat alights.
'Jesus, lady...I might not have seen you there. Don't come up so close!'
He looks vaguely familiar, she thinks. She wonders about this for a moment, but seeing him shift awkwardly, remembers it is up to her to speak. Suddenly she does not know what to say.
'When is the work due to start?' is all she can think of.
'Why, now!' he replies, stating the obvious. 'Just getting started on the foundations'.
A lorry approaches noisily, and the driver salutes them.
'Have a good day', he bids her cheerfully, indicating an end to a conversation that hadn't even properly begun.
As she trudges back towards the bridge, she feels diminished. This is where she comes to recover, to remember, to feels alive, not to be rendered invisible!
Returning to her position on the bridge, she looks on at the proceedings. She watches their movements: their pointing arms, their bending knees, their beckoning waves as the JCB trundles onto the demarcated area.
The arm of the JCB noisily rises skyward and coarsely scrapes into the earth, like the claws of an eagle closing in on its prey.
She sees Scott digging up sand with his beloved blue shovel, clumsily filling it into his bucket, his chubby wrists still lacking co-ordination. She guides his movements, talking him through the process, 'nearly there...that's it...now tap it gently...' Their laughter as the castle collapses seems so immediate, and her lips curl into a weak smile as she stares into the past.
The 'beep-beep-beep' sound of the truck as it moves back brings her on to Scott's sixth birthday, the 'AWee-Awee-Awee' of the feathered Indians running around the tepee from the cowboys, with plastic bows and arrows. How he loved his Indian suit-the crown of spiked plumes around his head, streaks of sand on each cheek.
'Excuse me' a voice loudly interrupts her daydream. 'Is this yours?'
She turns around, surprised she hadn't heard anybody approach.
'Scott!' she gasps, alarmed by the presence before her. Quickly the realises her mistake. Why, he doesn't really look anything like Scott, she notes.
'No. It's Tommy' corrects the little boy. 'Is this yours?' he repeats, holding out a worn leather wallet, with the iconic 'Spiderman' web on one corner. Scott's wallet, his only personal effect that was recovered with his naked body, must have fallen from her bag along the bridge. She carried this with her everywhere, like a rosary in her pocket, the soft feel of the leather providing something of a comfort, a reminder of the good times.
'Yes. Thank you. It is.'
'Here you go', says the boy cheerfully and turns to run back along the bridge. He is soon out of sight.
Kate struggles to her feet, holding on to the railings to balance herself. She shuffles along the bridge, and makes for home.

A place can mean so many things for so many different people, she thinks. And time plays its usual game of hide and seek, of which, it is always a winner.
'You've got to rumble in the ground for the walk beneath it' someone once said.

Let Lie, Let Fly

An angry woman, she says.
I grimace.
I know she sees the truth.
But me? So meek, I am not angry.
She feels it in the silence.

But silence is my shield
Against the anger of the world.
Alone and mute, I am delivered
From fearful confrontation.

And red-faced, screaming, raging passion
An insane spew of violence.
Uncontrolled fist-biting, fighting,
A monstrous transformation.

Exploding, crazy words unleashed.
Blind chase to unknown target.
Tears and drama, hateful emotion
Out of all proprtion.

An unknown child, I'm scared, afraid-
I had not seen this coming.
And just as quick and unexpected
I wet my pants, I hate myself!

And now an adult, armed, defended,
I keep it all within.
The hurtful, guilt-inducing consequences,
Too exposing to endure.

Instead the screaming claustophobia
Trapped inside the forced smiles,
Clenched fists and grinding teeth,
Blood-bubbling, quickening heartbeat.

The seething, burning, buried rage,
The building bitterness.
Why me, this lonely, silent hate?
Breathe in and out. It will abate.

It does, but does not go away,
Inside me still it lingers.
And manifests itself in sadness,
Or confused, angry silence.

Silence

She used to be so happy. Her life was full of dreams, of promise. She came alive on stage. It was the only place where she felt truly herself, the only place where she felt free. She loved the rigour of her daily practice sessions. Never did she mind sacrificing a social life for her practice. Ballet was her social life.
When did she stop being happy? Her life was still the same. So what changed?
She couldn't answer that herself. She didn't even accept it herself until now, standing at the edge of the world alone, separated from it all. If she jumped off this wall, she thought, would she float back to safety. Or would it all just end with a crash? She could not float back to safety; that much she knew. She was beginning to see, to understand, to question.
Auditions for 'Sleeping Beauty' were coming up in a few weeks. All she felt like doing now was sleeping. She knew she could get the part. But she didn't care.
They say silence is golden. But silence isn't golden. It's just silence. It doesn't have a colour. And if silence did have a colour, it wouldn't be golden, like the warm sun, like melting butterscotch. like the plush, cotton wool clouds as night begins to fall. No. Silence would be red, like fire, like a matador's cloak luring the innocent bull to fatality, like blood.
Silence, to her, had become dangerous. She began to feel her aloneness in the world. And that felt scary. Silence is what happened in her sessions with Claire. She didn't want to be there, so she would sit sullenly, arms folded, as Claire awaited some response to a question:
'You've not been showing up for ballet practice after school for the last few weeks. Would you like to tell me about that?'
Silence.
'Are you nervous about the rehearsals coming up? Or is there something else?'
Silence. Awkward shuffle to try to squirm further into the leather armchair.
Silence.
'What made you stop loving ballet, Sarah?' leaning forward in her seat, urging her to answer.
Silence.
Tears. Unexpected. Rubs her cheeks with the back of her hand.
More tears.
'What are the tears about, Sarah?'. Gentle voice, barely audible.
'I don't know'. A whisper.
Claire just sat there, let her cry. But would then follow the silence with another difficult question. And more silence would ensue, during which Sarah's dark heart would speak, either making her feel empty and sad. Or making her burn with rage. But these feelings were vague and elusive. Not precise and defined like the steps she used to practice so committedly at the barre. And so Sarah would continue to sit,in silence, alone with herself and this other, who in turn was alone with herself. And who eventually would ask another question or make another observation. And so on.
Standing here, above the city, she could see things more clearly. She could see that none of it really mattered. She felt like an angel, an observer from on high. She knew that Shane would have moved onto the next girl by now. And that Lisa would have moved away to the other part of the world. And that she was a little lost right now. And that a hundred years from now they would all be dead. And a hundred years ago, three kids had problems, no less important. But time ravaged them, as time tends to do.
Up here, in the silence of her heart, she feels her nothingness. She wonders at the point of life. She doesn't feel happy, safe or free. She doubts she will ever feel for ballet what she so strongly felt in the past. She feels anger towards Shane, who can now tick her off his list of exploits. She feels tired.
But she feels. She is real.

"The Empty Shell-Everyone's Hell"...ref. Camus

Lives are incomplete, a process.
Yet others seem to live their lives
To me
Who drifts and dreams
Of living.

People-watching,
Wanting,
Envious of their cheerful chatter
Pacing past with purpose.
While I'm content to
Fritter and potter
To pass the day in any way.

Well not content, I guess.
I want what others haven't got.

Becoming

It had been the worst day ever! It had gone well beyond the category of 'bad day' to a new, unknown-to-me-before level of terrible. Uncle George was there when I woke up. I knew he was there before I was even properly awake cos I could smell the kippers frying. We only ever have kippers when Uncle George comes. The strong, smoky whiff pervaded the room and I wrinkled my nose in distaste. I could tell football practice wasn't going to get priority, but nevertheless I pulled on my shorts and jersey, and packed my gearbag.
'Hello Uncle George', I acted surprised to see him.
'Well, if it isn't Rasher!' he predictably replied, ruffling my hair in that annoying way grown-ups do.
He always called me Rasher cos I was a bit chubby, like. Mum called it 'big-boned'. Mum could dress anything up.
'Uncle George ain't the worst', Mum would insist, when I would protest at his proposed visits. 'It'll be nice to have 'im for Christmas dinner, eh?' She would nudge me into reluctant acquiescence.
''spose', I would mutter in grim reply.
I sat down by the range, as Uncle George took up all of my side of the table. He wasn't even that big, just sprawling in that way that made him seem really big. Just after nine, I noted. Training was at ten. I sat limply kicking my gearbag in front of me, hoping Mum would remember.
'You'll not be going to training today, lad', Dad said, gently. 'We've 'ad a bit of news'.
Mum turned from the table to face me. Her hand clenched the handle of the frying pan, and she had a pained expression. This isn't Mum, I thought. Mum's the cheerful, bouncy one. What's going on?
'Wh..whats going on?' I ventured. It came out as a half laugh, nervous, like how I answer Mr. Peters, the maths teacher in school, when he pounces on me with a problem. Maths isn't my subject.
Dad heaved himself up from the table, and drew a stool beside me, two big wellies stopping the swinging of my gearbag. He slapped a hand heavily on my shoulder, and I could see the intention behind this gruff and awkward gesture. Mum was sitting at the table now, cheek resting on her hand, her back to me.
'Son, you're going on an 'oliday. With Georgie 'ere. Just for a while like'.
He withdrew his hand, and clapped his hands together, as if to say 'job done'. I didn't get it. Why was Dad sitting here, talking to me? Dad should be out on the farm, in his shed, doing stuff. Dad's always doing something.
'Tell 'im Bill', came Mum's voice. 'Tell 'im the reason 'e's going'. Mum's voice seemed angry, urgent. My mind raced to remember some wrong I may have done, for which I was being punished. There was Grandad's watch I thought, in a moment of panic. They've finally discovered it!
'Your ol' Mum is sick', Uncle George said, looking at her all the while. 'She's going to have to rest up for a few months, and can't be looking after you'. Uncle George's voice was hard, and his narrow eyes were judging.
'Mum, what's wrong?' I asked, pleadingly. I wanted to rush to her, throw my arms around her, but I thought better of it.
Mum looked at me, helplessly. I was afraid she would cry. Mum...the cheerful one.
'It's true, love. I'm going to have to take some time to recover. But I'll be fine, and you'll be back again before you know it.'
'You'll be living with me, up in Yorkshire. Plenty of work on the farm, keep you out of trouble. make a man out of you, eh?' Uncle George shovelled a forkful of kipper into his mouth, tore hungrily into a crust of bread and noisily slugged down the remaining tea in his cup, promptly holding up his cup for more.
Mum duly responded, drawing the teapot back and forth as she poured, to allow the tea to pass through the clogged spout.
'For how long? When will I be home again?' I wheedled. 'I don't want to go. I'm staying', I said hotly, my voice sounding like Danny's little sister when she's throwing one of her tantrums.
I raced out of the room, stamped loudly up the stairs and jumped face down onto my bed, the rough wool of the blanket scraping my flushed skin. I was vaguely aware of the raised voices downstairs. Dad was shouting something, though I couldn't make out the words. A door banged. I reckon that was Dad leaving. I never heard Dad shout before. In fact, I've never even seen him really angry before. He's just...well...Dad. Goes about his jobs on the farm every day, and has the same, placid manner as all them cows he milks.
I strained to hear what would follow, but could hear nothing, except for the geese outside.
I knew Mum didn't like Uncle George any more than I did and only put up with him cos he's Dad's brother. All he did was eat up the nice food without so much as a 'thank you' and make cruel comments about me that he thought were funny. 'Cept no one laughed.
I heard approaching steps on the stairs and sat up in bed quickly, wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my jersey.
'John?' Mum's voice was gentle as she closed the door behind her and came to sit on the edge of the bed. I refused to look at her, focusing instead on a fraying hole on the blanket by my crossed leg.
'John, love. I'm sorry.' Her voice wavered and I knew if I met her eyes I'd start crying.
'Why can't I stay here, Mum? I'll mind you. Or I can help Dad. I won't be in the way. I don't like Uncle George...'
'I know, love. If there was any other way. It'll be only a few months.'
'Months?' I was horrified. Days would have been too much in Yorkshire. I vaguely recalled the time we went up for Grandad's funeral. We had to stay in George's empty, dark old house. I remember the steps on the stairs were so tiny, even I had to put my feet sideways to fit on each step. There were two slop buckets on the concrete floor in the kitchen where all the waste was thrown for the pigs. They looked and smelled like vomit. I couldn't go. I wouldn't!
'I'll explain to you when you're a little older why we have to do this, but it's my only chance'. Her hands were pressing on mine, urging me to understand, to say it's alright.
I was visibly sobbing by then and Mum drew me into her warm embrace. I didn't usually let her hug me so easily, but now I didn't want her to let me go.
'Will you be ok Mum? Promise you'll be ok'. I realised I had only been upset cos of having to go with Uncle George, and didn't even think of Mum.
'I have a very good chance now. But it is costing a lot of money and will take a lot of time. We didn't have the money so Uncle George is helping us out'.
'And I've to work for him!' The words were out before I knew it.
'No, John. It's not like that. It's just...' Her voice went all squeaky at the end and the silence hung in the room like a delicate, wavering cobweb whose spun threads were soon to be snapped.
I knew at that moment things would never be the same.

The next day, despite the heavy fall of snow, Uncle George and me set off. Dad was silently watchful all morning and Mum was acting like nothing was happening. The kippers were on the go again. I was growing to hate the smell. I acted like I wasn't about to burst with fear and misery, and like I was perfectly ok. It occurred to me we were all just playing a game, like 'school', or 'shop' or something. And soon we'd stop all pretending and be normal again.
I was good at pretending. Still am, in fact. I became so good, that soon I forgot what 'normal' was.
Uncle George was the best at the game and came up with some right good stories. I knew they weren't true, but I understood the rules of the game and knew I had to play along. Else, I'd lose.
As we drove past Danny's red house, I imagined him out the back, building a snowman, chasing his little brother and sister around. I longed to be there, playing around with them, part of the fun.
'So. Your old mum is sick'. Uncle George said evenly. ''Appen she's always been sick. Never knew a good thing, your mum. And now look where it's ended. I'll bet she wishes she never made off with that pitiful excuse of a brother of mine. Your mum's a whore, she is. And now look where it's got 'em', he finished with a self-satisfied grunt.
I didn't know what a whore was, but I guessed it was something bad. I wasn't going to ask Uncle George, so I just said 'hmm'.
The car jilted along, the soft scraping of the snow the soundtrack to my transition from home to Uncle George's, from Cotswold to Yorkshire, from boyhood to manhood. Things would never be the same.