The Last Asylum: Barbara Taylor

This was a remarkable memoir of historian Barbara Taylor. Part memoir, part historical treatise on psychiatric care and services in Britain, it was an extremely interesting insight into one person's very difficult and prolonged experience of psychiatric illness and the various services and treatment approaches she came into contact with, either by choice or otherwise.
While her personal history and illness was tough reading at times, it is an extremely honest and open account, even allowing us into her psychoanalytic sessions with V,, excerpts of whose dialogue is interspersed through the memoir. This was a very clever way of providing us with her background and exposing us to her unrelenting and frightening unconscious, but also showing us how the psychotherapeutic process works, building a relationship of trust so that the unconscious can be explored in a safe space. The challenge of this work is huge, and for the author, extra support was required, and so she was committed to Friern, an ancient asylum, which closed down some years later. Here we learn about life in such an asylum (she had three stints of varying lengths in total in Friern), and the various hardships but also friendships from such an institution.
I found these accounts most interesting and compelling reading. The humanity at the heart of this memoir was remarkable, as well as the honesty and courage in allowing us in to such dark and secret places, though which pertain to us all.
What I found harder to read were the historical descriptions of the various asylums and their closures, and the scholarly accounts of the community care model that took their place. Though I understood why this was important, I was more interested in the author herself, her particular experience which I could relate to more easily than the wider objective lens used to comment on current practice.
However, in all it was a fascinating account of this authors journey through the darkness, and the various supports that helped her through to be able to manage the darkness and support herself to live a fulfilled and meaningful life. Her conclusion was simple but strong: relationship is central to recovery. While more modern systems emphasize independent decision-making and self-management, this is often not what people in crisis need. Her own experience is testament to this, and this book questions the consequences of the closures of asylums, which is a very pertinent consideration for our times.

Burial Rites - Hannah Kent

I read this book on the strength of a recommendation by Marie, my sister-in-law, who praised it highly and lent it me, with an eager "Read it!" I'm always compelled by a recommendation, and though historical fiction is not usually my thing, I decided to go for it.
I can't say I was sold straight away on the story. But I did persevere over the first chapter or two and found myself really enjoying it and engaging with the plot and narrative about a third of the way in.
The story is based on a true story of Agnes Magnusdottir, a servant woman accused of killing two men, her employer and lover Natan Ketilsson and his guest, Petur Jonsson. Agnes was the last woman in Iceland to be executed (1830), and was often defiled as a witch or a cursed figure in popular lore. This story, told through records, letters and narratives from different perspectives, occurs in the months preceding her execution, when Agnes is put up in the farmstead of Jon Jonsson, as a servant and maid to his family: steely wife Margret and daughters Lauga and Steina, and where she would meet often with a priest for counsel. This custom was common for convicts facing execution. During these months, in which the changing seasons of Iceland is so beautifully observed, we come to learn of Agnes'very difficult past, through her sessions with Toti, her priest and confidante, but also with her position in the family, which at times really tests the strength of her character. We learn through her various chores and wise observations just how capable she is. The family, though unwelcoming and hostile grow to depend on her. Margret, determined from the outset to keep her in her place, softens her attitude towards the end, and even allows a few moments of compassion or shared understanding with Agnes, moments hinging on intimacy. These moments, for me, were the most touching in the book. This, and Kent's wonderful use of imagery to describe the harsh and bleak beauty of the Icelandic landscape, were the high points of the book.
At times, I feel, the switching voices of the narratives, unsettled the movement and the sense of direction of the story. The facts of the case were complex enough, and I think the use of too many narrative voices to tell the story took from the natural flow of the story.
That said, I did really enjoy the book and I feel I learned a lot about Icelandic customs, and the language. I had to 'google' one word that was so often used: 'badstofa', which I learned is the traditional sleeping quarters in a farmstead, often heated like a sauna...Nice...!

Le Pigeon

This little book was a real gem. The story takes place over one day in the life of Jonathan, a man in his fifties, who, we are told in the opening lines, expects nothing further to happen in his life but death, one day. He liked predictability, he liked his safe existence, he liked to know where he stood in life. Standing, in fact, is what he spent his life doing. As a security guard in a bank, his function was to stand on the entrance steps, open the gate for the manager at the same time each day, and close it on his departure. This he did, day in, day out. Then one day, a pigeon arrives.

From this encounter, a series of misfortunes ensue. Jonathan has to deal with these, and moreover the internal chaos they create. We see his incapacity to deal with any uncertainty. His life is governed by fear, which has caused him to cocoon himself so. During the events of the day, we see how his mind works, we feel his terror and his fatalistic thinking, which grows more and more during the day. By the end of the story, he has had an epiphany. We are led to believe that a change has occurred. But very cleverly, the ending is ambiguous.

I loved this book. I could relate to Jonathan on many levels. From the outset, I sensed his impending breakdown. Cutting himself off from the world through such exacting routine diminishes his life. Rather than protecting him from danger, it makes him ever more anxious. Trusting people is not always easy; yet we need people. There is an expectation that life should expand as one grows. But often, we get stuck, or struck by fear. I often marvel at people who seem so naturally spontaneous, who say 'yes' to life. However the more I reflect on this, the more I wonder if the spontaneous instinct paradoxically grows in a person, by practising ever-increasing acts of courage, by challenging oneself out of ones comfort-zone. I read this book in French, a New-Year's resolution to persist with learning French. Ironically, though easy to read and understand, it presented me with another and a greater challenge: to say 'yes' to life; to trust people and the process of the Universe, that I might slowly allow the colours through and play like a child.

Missing

'Don't talk about him in the past tense!' I pipe up from the couch where I pretended to watch TV. Even now, the
sound of my own voice startles me and I have to work hard to fight back the tears. I'd save that for later.
'Aw hun, I didn't mean...I, uh...', Dad fumbles to say the right thing, and starts walking from where he stood at the worktop towards me. I curl up tighter. 'Don't come near me', I think, but manage to stop myself. I know they have my best interest at heart. So everyone says.
'Whatever', I roll my eyes. I reach for the remote and turn up the volume. Dad takes the hint and retreats to where he was.
From the corner of my eye, I see Linda pat his shoulder. Such understanding, such empathy! She continues chopping peppers, and hands the salad bowl to Dad, just to give him something to do. Colourful images are flashing noisily before me on the screen but I can't tune in. I want to go to my room, where I can lie in darkness in peace, but I can't get up to go.
Dad and Linda continue to discuss something but I can't hear with the noise of the TV. I want to know what they're
saying but I don't want to appear interested. I wriggle out of the couch and skulk past them to the bathroom.
'Hey, Jules, dinner's nearly ready. Don't go too far!' Linda says, brightly.
'...the bathroom', I mumble, closing the door behind me louder than I actually meant, leaving an angry echo in my wake.

The house feels too small these last few weeks and time seems to have expanded. I look at myself in the mirror and see death staring back at me. I slump back toward the kitchen where Linda is plating up the spaghetti and pull out the table to get in to my spot against the wall. I refuse to sit in his place.
'Thanks', I manage when Linda passes me my plate.
'Hungry?' asks Dad, tentatively.
I sort of nod, and focus on eating, though know they are watching me. We eat in silence, the scraping of forks on
plates depressingly loud. Dad picks up the bottle on the table, drawing it in to examine the label, as if he knew about wine. He only started drinking wine a few years ago, when he met Linda, and now wine at the weekend has become their little ritual. I feel my teeth clench at their indifference. They're carrying on as if everything is fine.
'A good vintage, is it?' I say scathingly. 'Meet your approval, does it?'
'Ah, come on now, Jules', Linda says, 'we have to get on with our lives. We all do'.
She holds her fork down, and looks me square in the face, eyes all big and imploring. I look down. More scraping and cutting.
'Well, actually...', dad says after a while, 'it's not as nice as the South African version. Must remember that for again'.
Suddenly I'm crying. Tears streaming down my face. I brush them away with my sleeve, but cannot stop them.
'Sorry Jules, that was my stupid attempt at humour! I'm sorry'. Dad's big hand is on my arm and now I'm sobbing. Big loud sobs, shaking my whole body.
Dad awkwardly scrapes his chair back, and stands up. He leans over me, drawing me against him in a hug. I can feel him quietly sobbing too.
'I'm sorry, I'm sorry', I manage between sobs.
'Sh, sh', says Dad.
Linda sits across from us, hands in a prayer over her mouth, head down. It's not her place to intervene just now. She knows that and respects it. And this is the first time I've felt as though I want her to.
'Why did he have to go, Dad?'
Dad just rocks me in his big arms. I feel his body heaving with sobs, but he holds me tight, not wanting me to see. But I know. It's the first time I've ever known him to cry.

Later in my room, I hold the origami bird he made for me. He was always good with his hands. 'Not good at much else', he'd joke, 'but books and learning isn't for everyone'.
He had a reputation, my brother, as the toughie, always in trouble. But holding the feather light paper bird, letting it sit gently on my palm, it's top-heavy head bobbing down, I knew he was soft inside.
I remember him, only days before he left, sitting with me, patiently showing me how to fold the bits of paper. It took me several attempts to get it, and even then it looked more like a rocket than a bird.
'It's stupid', I said.
'It's beautiful, eh?' he said. 'Good job, kid'.
I gave it shyly to him, saying nothing, just placing it into his hand. I expected him to reject it.
'Thanks, Babyface! And in that case...' he trailied off as he handed his one to me. '...for you'
Gazing at the bird now, I imagine him swimming in blue beaches in the Far East, I picture him wandering about in a thick forest in South America, I see him sitting around a campfire in Africa. He's smiling broadly, his body is relaxed. He's abandoned all the stuff he hated, all the stuff that kept him down, and he's free now, free as a bird.

Out of joint.

The flickering sunlight danced shadows around the old barn. Like a spotlight, it threw little details of the shed into clear focus, and quickly moved to cast light on another pocket. This was now his workshop. The greasy, single-glazed windows let in just enough light to work with, but were rendered opaque by the spotty green mildew that refused to wash off. This suited him.
Today he had come as usual just after midday. Five days in a row without a break. He examined the contents of the bottles that lined the shelves. Opening one, he tested the texture gently with a long skewer. Good. It was coagulating nicely, holding itself together against the gentle force of the skewer, springing back in a way that satisfied him. He replaced it on the shelf along with the others.
He pulled back a long length of curtain beneath the counter that hid his shelved trolleys of plants. Rows of them, all in different stages of growth. Each tray had its own heated mat, and the tiny seedlings were insulated by a layer of thin fleece. His babies! He cut off some leaves from a mature plant, and carefully crumpling them, he rolled two joints. He would allow himself two today.
He noisily shook open the makeshift metal table and chair that lay folded against the far wall. He opened his tablet to his webcam screen. He had set up this system so he could keep tabs on trespassers. Multiple screens showed the activity of different points of access to his barn, with the central one focusing on this very room, two alternating angles. Yes, here it comes now! He waved to the camera. Almost like the Stasi, he thought! Knowledge really is power.
He tested the moisture level on each of the trays before settling himself down to real work. He lit up one of his smokes, and inhaled deeply. He pulled out his ledger, and scanned the figures for the last month. He had to work hard to make them balance. His next trip overseas was the end of the month. He would need to gather hard cash by next week. He knew his greatest debtors, and running a pencil down the takings for the last three months confirmed this. 'Fucking Rooney!' he thought, shaking his head. The guy was an imbecile! Nearly got him shopped just by talking. Worse than any bloody woman! He was already on his last warning.
Feeling an angry adrenaline rush like the hit of a double espresso, he drummed his fingers urgently on the page, and then knocked his knuckles decisively. He had enough! Time for action! He knewjust the guy to sort him out.
Withdrawing his phone, he found the name he was looking for. He paced around impatiently waiting for him to pick up, his heavy footsteps echoing around the barn. He stretched it out to arms length, squinting for reception.
'Pick up, for fuck's sake,' he muttered to himself. What good was an idle hit man?
He texted a message instead. Brief. Always brief: PHONE BACK. NEED TO TALK. JS.
He worked in silence, but found it hard to focus. 'This stuff hits hard' he thought, and decided not to fight it. Plodding heavily towards the door, he fell out into the sunlight, and nestling down against the trunk of a tree, cowboy style, he lit up his second joint.
Facing the old door of the barn, hearing the rotting fragments of wood on the bottom scrape along the concrete ground as it swung open and shut he got a sudden moment of deja-vu. Suddenly his mother was there, pudgy, flour-covered hands on hips:
'Johnny, get over there and help your father!'
There was her voice, raspy from smoking. The voice that gave a rousing rendition of many a ballad. The voice that scolded and comforted. The voice that told filthy jokes and limericks but that had a prayer or bible story for every occasion. The voice that laughed like no other he knew since. The voice that he struggled to remember as a kid, that trickled further and further from memory, like water going down a black drain, unnoticeable at first until it gurgled urgently to its end. The voice that no amount of women since could equal. The voice.
Rubbing his eyes, all he saw now was the old wooden door, and all he heard were the alternate scrapes and bangs as it swayed or swung with the breeze.
'Jesus, where did that come from?' he thought.
His phone started to ring...

Something blue...

The hotel lobby is empty, save for the doorman chatting with the receptionist. She is vaguely amused by the presence of a uniformed porter in an airport hotel, an obviously perfunctory setting. She had skipped breakfast and the coffee she ordered on rising was soapy and weak. She walks towards the door, spiky heels clicking sharply on the shiny floor. The porter hastens towards it, in obsequious effort to fulfill his duty.
His cheerful "Have a good day now!" greets her like a saucepan crashing suddenly on tiles.
" Yes, thank you", she manages mutely.
A line of taxis awaits her outside. 'Thank God I'm out of this bloody country' she thinks.

Traffic isn't heavy, as she anticipated on a Saturday. The radio creaks and stutters in the front, conveniently diverting the driver's attention. She sees the church in the distance. Discreetly, she withdraws a little bottle from her clutch, takes a quick swig of brandy, and replaces it.
Cars are parked along both sides of the road, so the driver pulls up abruptly, a bit away from the gate.
"Here do you, love? That'll be fifteen so"
She hands him a twenty, doesn't wait for her change and makes for the church to claim her seat near the back, though not so near either as to stand out from the crowd.

The church is unfamiliar, a decided advantage. She knows she will be seeing plenty of familiar faces throughout the day, something she is no longer used to.
The church is awash with excited whispers, greetings, last-minute checks, photos, with the usual strains of a quartet defiantly playing the wedding standards in the background. The noise, people, sense of anticipation, from which she feels removed, is not unlike that of the airport yesterday. There is already quite a crowd, and she scans the seats on the right hand side to choose her spot, her vantage point, when she feels a hand on her elbow.
"Del?! I thought it was you! I said it to Benj. 'I'm sure that's Del', but we weren't sure. We were behind you coming into the church, late as usual! But, it is you! How are you? God, it's been years!"
"It is me! Surprise!", she manages to respond, unable to come near the level of gushing enthusiasm that greeted her.
"Are you here on your own? Never mind! You must sit with us. Leah and Gus are keeping us a seat. Come on..." She links her arm and leads her towards the side aisle, ushering her up towards the centre, where Leah is sitting, guarding space on the pew with her bag. As they approach, the noise of the crowd quietens to a whisper, as news of the bride's arrival spreads.
"Look who I found, loitering at the back of the church!" proclaims Amy, just a little too loudly.
Leah, poised as always, greets her quietly, gently squeezing her hand, while Gus winks at her.

All eyes are on the bride. 'Nessun Dorma' heralds her majestic entrance, as the crowd behold her, gracefully approaching the altar. Amy is gasping beside her, her elbow sharply angled close to her face, straining to take a photo. She draws back from her, not bothered about being deprived of the view.
The ceremony unfolds like a film: she, watching the action from afar.The figures at the altar are hazy in the distance. Everything back here seems so, since she moved away. Like a film, that she can tune in and out of, with the safety of distance, disociation, even. And just like in a film, when she does become involved with the characters, she must work hard to contain her emotions.
"I, Ian Collins...do take this ring..."
A tear falls down her cheek. She cannot help it.
His voice, crystal clear through the microphone, makes him immediately present to her. His voice, with its distinctive West Cork deflections pronounces without any hesitation that this is his, Ian's wedding. This is no film, no make-believe. This is real, this is happening, now.
Leah, discreetly offers her a tissue. She focuses intently on her smokey blue dress, her Jaegar that once made her feel like someone. Now, as she gazes at it, all she can think about is all she threw away in the name of 'feeling like someone'.
'Why did she come here?' she wonders. She painfully endures the rest of the ceremony. After the bride and groom make their exit through the back of the church, she mumbles something to Leah about needing some air, and slips out the side entrance.

Moonlight

She lingers in that middle space, that hazy limbo between sleeping and waking. Maybe sleep will once again evelope her. That is the favourable outcome. She doesn't dare to 'hope', or attach any active voice to this sentiment. She merely waits, passively. When she becomes aware of her waiting, realising she can no longer quench her waking consciousness, she turns over and checks her bedside clock: 3:05am. Great! A half hour earlier than last night.
The rising and falling motion of her husband's body beside her, the nasal ripplings of breath, in and out, in and out, rather than having a calming, hypnotic effect, serve only to make her resentful and even more awake. She lies on, trying to employ the usual strategies of falling asleep she has read up on: empty your mind, focus on your breath and lie still. She begins counting her breaths, in for five, out for five...
The more she breathes, the more awake and annoyed she becomes. 'If this doesn't work', say all of the sleep experts, 'get up and do something else'. So once again, she is up, tiptoing downstairs, wondering how to fill these nocturnal hours.
The cats, asleep on the sofa, sleepily raise their heads, clearly put out by this interruption. Cato sleeps on, wrapping a paw around his head in determined refusal to be so rudely awakened. Tess however, sidles up to her, affectionately nuzzling her head into her arms, purring loudly and playfully coaxing her towards the pantry, where she knows the food is stored. Both cats are drawn to the food, and once they have eaten their fill, settle back to sleep, leaving her once again awake, and at a loss.
The back garden and patio, usually so dark and dull, shaded by high brick walls are tonight bathed in luminous moonlight. She opens the sliding door and floats noiselessly out. Though she spends a lot of time in her garden, none of this is familiar to her. She feels blanketed by the velvety sky, the grass is so soft, almost smooth, like lava, and the plants and shrubs exude an exoticism afforded by the silvery glint of the moon. She lies down on the flat of her back, as she used to always do as a child, making pictures of the clouds. Now, she just gazes up at the sky and waits. She's not 'taking it all in', as in that clicheed expression of moments such as these. Rather, she just gazes, waiting for something to move her. She feels oddly safe out here, safe but detached, like in a dream, a sort of fleeting sense of harmony that she experiences as a listener rather than musician. More and more, her life seems to be like a dream and she's finding it harder and harder to cling onto any sense of reality.
A sudden chill makes her sit up and wrap her gown more tightly around her. She sneezes, gets up, and decides to move. She takes a tin of woodstain and a brush from the garden shed, and begins to treat the shed, a job she had meant to do weeks before now. The soft motion of the brush as it easily glides up and down, changing the faded wood to a deeper, richer red, somehow gives her a sense of purpose. She, yes she, was actively doing this task and the results were immediately visible. She keeps going, the tedious, repetitive nature of the job calming her mind, and the potent smell of the woodstain keeping her focused on this moment.
As she painted, deepening the colour on the shed, she doesn't notice the sky lightening, the moon and the stars receding, the distant sound of birds singing. Only when she finished, and replaced the lid on the tin, did she realise it was morning. Today would be another busy day, and once she rolled into the hospital it would be straight into her rounds. She would go about her day in her usual way, counting down the hours until the end of her shift, when she could come home, and do as she always did, which was to count the hours until her next shift would begin. Whoever says that we don't become institutionalised in this society is a fool, she thinks. Where is the room for magic?
As she makes her morning coffee, she looks out at the newly painted shed, the vague impression of experiencing the beautiful transition from night to day still with her. It is fleeting, but it is enough to support her through the tedium, the senseless, deadening routine, until hopefully the next such moment.

The writing's on the wall

She cannot tell me how it was
When first she met my father.
I'm looking for some answers
But she can hardly now remember.

Idly sitting, staring vacant
Gnarly fingers clutching beads.
Today she calls me by my name:
A short-lived lucid moment.

Dementia has slowly effaced her
Eroding all her hard layers.
Completely stripped bare, a nobody,
And only now can I stand her company.

I imagine she saw him in me:
My dark moods, my fire and rebellion
So contrary to her hostile temerity
That shushed me and dampened me for fear of fear.

Greedily, hungrily, my mind stored up
Any fragment of him carelessly uttered.
Mapping out his life in colonial fashion,
A cartographer, meeting my own ends.

Thus, he emerged, as I wanted him:
My bold, brave, heroic father.
Traces of him in my literary heros:
But more exotic, god-like...distant?

Never blamed him for his absence.
Only longed to know who I came from.
I'm my father's son, as I'm nothing like her,
Whom I've only ever blamed for her presence.

Ten Umbrellas.

I plod along. All the other kids around laughing, what's funny? I'm concentrating on the lines. The lines and the cars. Cannot step on the lines, and need to count the cars. Not parked cars, but cars in motion. So far no yellow, no green, no white, only one red, three blue, six black and fourteen grey. Grey always comes out on top, I don't know why. Red is the best colour. Clever people should know that. The Red Planet, Mars looks red because of the iron oxide there, plus there's the great red spot in Jupiter. It's the colour of blood, warns of danger and people say the colour of love, which apparently is a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person. There's two more silver cars zipped by. The first is definately going over the 30km limit, but I didn't manage to catch the reg of that one.
'Careful now, Conall. Keep walking'. Anne's hand shunts me along. Some of the other kids have passed us out. One yellow and another black.
'We're nearly there now. You're doing great!' I could have got the reg of the first car, if only that second one didn't follow so soon behind. I step on the road to avoid a network of lines on the path.
There's the gallery, in front. I was there once before to see an exhibition called 'Wheels of Motion'. There was an installation that used water to move a wheel, that moved pebbles that went back to start the water flowing. It was obvious that the pebbles were too small, and were stilting the movement. I was just fixing it, but Dad dragged me off, apologizing.
'Why are you sorry?' I asked.
He shook his head and didn't tell me why. I still don't know what the problem was.

The building is good. Corinthian columns, but not original. The first documented was the Choragic Monument of Lysicrates in Athens, erected in 334 BC, but this is a pretty good copy.
Thirty four steps to the door, that means fifty one for me. Left, right-left, right, left-right...
'Come on now, Conall. Try to walk properly'. Anne's hand firmly takes my wrist, and tries to make me go to her pace.
'No!', I think, but don't say it.
I plant both feet on step 13, pull my arm away and fold my arms. I look up and notice all the kids are already gone in.
'Nnnnnneeeeeaaaaa'. I block my ears with the heels of my hands, but the noise is just as loud! I look up and see it overhead. I jump down, wrap myself up small, ears still covered. I pull my hood tightly over my head.
I see Anne's foot just beside me.
'Ah, Conall, come on now, it's only a plane. We talked about this.'
She crouches down close to me. I pull away, start rocking.
'Don't worry, Conall, I'm not going to touch you.'
A pair of footsteps pass by, black pointy business shoes and clip clop high-heeled boots.
'Count to ten slowly, take deep breaths, just like we practiced'.
Don't like the number ten. Instead I breathe in and out for seven seconds each. Big blowey breaths, like Mummy practicing her yoga.

We are late for the guided tour but that's fine by me. I prefer to just look at the pictures anyway.
'Oh, we've missed the tour, what a pity'.
'Is it a pity?'
I walk off away from the noise. I look in the door of one big room.
'Oh, lovely! The Impressionists', comes Annes voice right beside me.
I scan the pictures quickly. All fuzzy and mute, like a photo not in focus. I keep walking.
'Oh Conall, wait. Look at them properly. Here, can you see the church?' Anne is clutching my wrist, so I shake her off.
'Ya'.
I look for about thirty seconds to keep Anne happy. I edge away, Anne following closely, and I go through a glass door. It's quieter here, darker too.
This exhibition is called Fifty Shades. They are mistaken though, there's way more than fifty shades. And technically a tint is the mixture of a color with white, which increases lightness, and a shade is the mixture of a color with black, which reduces lightness. So looking at most of the pictures in this room, it's more about tints than shades.
'It shouldn't be called Fifty Shades you know'. I start to explain this to Anne, but she just gives a half smile, half grimace.
'Ah don't worry about it Conall'.
'I'm not worried about it. I was just saying...'

Later, back at school, we have to prepare a report about what we saw at the gallery. Ms. Newman is asking us all about the pictures we saw.
'I want you to really look at what the artist is trying to say, what message are they giving in their painting'.
I'm working out some tricky maths problems. But I am listening a bit too. 'Keeping my ears open', as Anne says, though I really can't imagine shutting them, locking them up with a key.
'So what drew your attention, Conall?'
'The name of it was Rainy Day at my university by Maja Wronska'.
'Lovely! And what was it in this picture you liked?'
'I didn't say I liked it'. I shake my head.
'Well...what was it that drew your attention, then?'
'There were ten umbrellas. Ten is bad but the tessalating tiles were good. So that cancels itself out. But umbrellas give shade too. The exhibition was 'Fifty Shades', So Anne thinks the artist might be having a bit of a joke. Ha ha!'
'Ah...well, thank you Conall. That is indeed...interesting. I will look forward to reading more in your report'.
Anne is beside me, cutting out stuff. She winks at me. I get back to my tricky problems.

Autumn Leaves

"...the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference"
The voices wash over me, surround me and wrap me up in their cosy warmth. I want to hold onto this moment, this togetherness. Nightlights burn gently all around and on the sacred space, a child rests peacefully on the palm of a big, open hand. Autumn leaves are scattered randomly here, their warm colours lulling us into the cold sparseness of winter.
At tonight's meeting, we each choose a leaf. From the pile strewn on the carpet, this might take some time; but in fact everyone seems to know, with deciciveness and resolve 'their' leaf. Holding this leaf as we recount the past week to ourselves and each other, we come to know it intimately. I hold a sycamore leaf, yellow and soft, a piece missing from one of its palmate tips. It has brown spots, like liver marks and thin delicate veins, only just perceptible to the touch. It is light, and later, with my eyes closed, I struggle to even feel it as it lays flat upon my open palm.
As I recall my moments of hurt, anger, humiliation, rage, self-pity, loathing and cowardice over the past week, I bring myself back to the moment. Around me, in the circle, all these other people, whom I admire, respect and have come to deeply trust, are doing just the same. As I recall my fractured past, the suffering I caused, my numerous falls from grace...'oh God, will it ever leave me?!', I bring myself back to the moment. Around me, in the circle, my friends are doing just the same.
I look at my leaf: broken, delicate, laid bare. Suddenly I feel like crying at its heart-breaking beauty. A sense of hope engulfs me...acceptance.
In a symbolic gesture, we are encouraged to drop our leaves to the floor, like the tree preparing for new life. Somehow, I cannot let go.
The tree with unwavering faith, is constantly renewed. I know, the moment I leave, I will live out another week, in the same predictable manner like last week, and before and on...
As the meeting draws to a close, I feel soft and free; safe although I'm exposed. I see that like the tree, with leaves of different colours, shapes and sizes, I have all these components...bad and good. It's what makes me who I am. But unlike the tree, I can't seem to let go.
I walk out into the dusky autumn evening, wrap my scarf about me protectively, and crunch along the leafy path towards the gate. Leaves trickle down like autumn tears. Before I go back out into the world, I pick up an old, crumpled leaf. Holding it softly by its stem, I whisper the prayer to myself: "Grant me the courage to change the things I can", and I leave it fall softly to the ground.

Grace

Music awakens
My sleeping soul. Falling tears:
Pulse of the spirit.

Two Fallen Stars

She downed the brandy in one neat gulp, and immediately felt its effects course through her body, making her warm, tingly and a little more alive. She continued to stare ahead of her like a zombie, aware of all the concerned expressions gazing upon her, hands awkward on laps, wanting to reach out, but helpless.
'Another?', came the low voice of Mark beside her, already pouring another measure with grave concentration.
She left him awkwardly holding the glass beside her, too lost in her own world to acknowledge him.
'Go on, Ellie, a little drop won't hurt' came her mother's voice, for once condoning drink.
She took the drink proffered by Mark, and glaring hatefully at her mother, took the glass and placed it firmly on the table beside her.
'I need a walk', she mumbled to no-one in particular.
She moved to leave, to get out of this hot, badly air-conditioned room, to escape into the open, to be alone, and as she stood up, struggling with the folded layers of taffeta skirt, she was met with the opposing, authoritative voice of her father.
'Ellie, where are you going? Sit down, you're in no fit state to be walking around by yourself'.
Feeling winded, more by her automatic childish submission than by the scolding tone of the demand, she found herself as she was for the past hour or more, slunk unmoving in her chair. Music floated up from the bar downstairs and bizarrely from the back of the room, she could hear the tap-tap-tap of deft fingers sending a text message. 'No doubt filling them all in at home of the scandal', she thought scornfully.
She snatched up the heavy glass, and with an angry 'For you, mother', swallowed the shot back. Carelessly putting the glass back on the table, it teetered on the edge and dropped over, landing heavily on the wooden dance floor. Mark quickly picked it up, unbroken, but now bearing a thick, dark crack down its middle.
He turned to her father with a let-me-handle-this expression, and taking Ellie gently by the elbow said,
'Come with me, we'll get some air'.
A sea of eyes followed them as they left, and as soon as they were out the door, Ellie could hear the urgent whispers, the sibilant gushing forth. like waves, building, building, then breaking on rocks.

Once outside the door of the hotel, she took one of the lanterns from the outdoor seating area, where a few bemused guests lounged. She really didn't care how she must look. Of course they would assume that Mark was her new husband and already on their wedding day, subject to a 'lovers tiff'.
She strided across the road towards the sea, two paces at least ahead of Mark. Her heels sunk into the sand, and not wanting to be slowed up, she slipped out of her shoes, their diamonte bows winking up at her like fallen stars.
Once she reached the water's edge, she stopped short, the rough waves breaking at her ankles, making the dress heavy and plundersome. The shock of the cold water hit her like a slap, and the tears gushed forth. Bawling loudly, she backed away from the edge of the water. The heavy clouds seemed to bear down on her and she fell to the ground, burying her head in her knees, layers of skirt forming a circle around her.
Mark stood a little distance behind her. He let her cry, her shoulders jerking up and down. Whatever he might say could not fix things.

After what seemed like an age, Ellie pulled herself to her feet, and red, wet and shivering, she stumbled back to where he stood. Gently he put his jacket over her shoulders, and she pulled it tightly around her. Her expression was hard to read, probably a mixture of anger and hurt. She just looked dazed and exhausted, as if awoken from a strange dream.
Slowly they trudged back towards the hotel, step-for-step in silence. Their wide, blurry shadows spread along the sand as they moved. In the distance, the sparkle of two fallen stars grew dimmer until they could no longer be seen.

What isn't said

'A few pints. A few friggin' pints...and on my birthday weekend. Jesus Christ!' He shook his head, affronted, as a child who is the target of a teacher's constant reprimands. His hands. which were aggressively held out as if to show what was perfectly obvious, dropped lifelessly between his legs, set widely apart on the small park bench. He sighed heavily and slumped further into the bench. She looked away, breathing deeply through her nostrils. She was angry. The anger was just under the surface, and there it would remain.

An old couple passed slowly by huddled tightly together, she linking his left arm. Apart from that the park was isolated.

She noticed his knee start to bounce up and down, an involuntary spasmic-like motion that usually suggests his anxiety over something. She recognises things like this. She ignored it, continuing to look away.

'I think you're being unfair, Clau. I mean...am I not allowed to have friends?'

She edged further away, leaning slightly over the arm of the bench.

'I know you're stressed out lately...what can I do to help?' He turned to face her.
She blinked slowly, wondering how she was back here again. Was it her? Was she being too harsh?
How could he help? Did she need to be helped? Could her feelings be solved? Did he see her as one of his engines that could be fixed quickly and easily?

She didn't answer. She sensed his impatience, and knew she had to respond soon.
He shook his head again, and got up, as if to leave, but after a short pause, he sat back down again. He took her hand in his. Quickly, she pulled away.

'Come on Clau. I don't get what I did wrong! Please tell me what I'm supposed to have done wrong.' He was facing her again.

'I...I...nothing. You did nothing wrong.' She continued to look away as she said it, not trusting herself to face him. Tears were smarting her eyes. She would not let them fall this time.

She could feel his gaze, waiting for her to go on. She felt paralyzed: she couldn't move and she couldn't talk. She could do what she always does and flow along the river, letting herself be gently pushed by the current, even if the course is wrong for her.

This was one of those crossroad moments. She could feel it but she did not trust her strength. Could she stand her ground?

He reached out again and took her hand. Warm, familiar. This time she did not pull away. Her heart felt heavy.
'I guess I have been stressed lately'.

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.