This Is All

by Aidan Chambers

  At last it occurs to me – how slow-witted I am! – that as the bark of the branch cut me, it would also cut my T-shirt. And with only a couple of rubs of the cloth over the branch between my legs, the cotton does tear, and then no problem ripping off a strip to fold into a wad to place over the wound to soak up the blood, and another to bandage the wad to my thigh. I use what remains of the T-shirt to mop up the blood from the rest of my leg.

  Job done.

  Now to dress again. (This jaunt is turning me into a stripper. But no ogling punters, thank the lord, except for a few uninterested birds and a squirrel that flashes past on its way up, as surprised by finding me as I am by it.) On go sweater, hoodie and backpack. But before I can put my jeans on, I have to take my trainers off, tie them together with the laces so that I can hang them round my neck in order to leave my hands free to pull on my jeans, which are already so grubby they look like they’ve been marinated in a rubbish tip, after which I have to untie my trainers and put them on again. Getting my jeans on is the trickiest part, as it’s hard to keep my balance while wiggling them onto my legs and over my bum.

  If the rest of the climb goes as it has so far I’ll be here till Christmas.

  But it doesn’t. Instead, it’s hardly more difficult than climbing the stairs at home, so well arranged and close together are the branches for an easy spiral ascent.

  Do not look down, I instruct myself as I go from branch to branch. Don’t even look to the sides or up. Keep your eyes on the next branch, and make sure you’ve a good hand-hold before taking each step. Remember, Will went up like this, probably by the same route, stepping exactly on each branch where I’m stepping on it. He’s with you, you’re with him. O lovely, gorgeous Will, how I miss you!

  And I’m there, I’m here, where I sat the first time, and just above my head are our miniature memorial plaques.

  I take stock. I’m covered in green slime (crushed moss) and gluey dust and shards of bark. My hands are filthy – I forgot to put the climbing gloves on. The cuts on my thigh are stinging, but at least there’s no sign of blood seeping through my jeans. But none of this matters. I’ve done it, and can nail the second plaque below the first.

  This requires another awkward manoeuvre, taking off my pack, opening it, getting out my plaque and the hammer, holding the plaque between my teeth and tucking the hammer under my leg while I close the pack and put it on again so that my hands are free, then reaching up, holding the plaque with its already inserted nail in place, hammering the nail into the tree, tucking the hammer under my leg again, taking my pack off again, opening it again, returning the hammer to it and—

  I hear my name shouted from below.

  For the first time I look down. And see Cal looking up.

  I’m so startled by the sight of him and so shocked by the dizzying sight of the ground far below that vertigo freezes my body. My backpack slips from my hands, tumbles down, banging against branches and bouncing off them till it reaches Cal, who steps back to avoid being hit. It lands on the ground with a slack thump, like the corpse of a bird shot out of the sky.

  ‘Trying to do away with me?’ Cal shouts, laughing.

  I can’t reply. Voice frozen like the rest of me. Don’t want to reply. Don’t want him here.

  My arms have clasped the tree in a clinging embrace, my cheek crushed against the trunk.

  ‘You okay?’ Cal shouts, his words like bullets in the crisp air.

  And when I don’t answer, ‘You stuck?’

  And when I don’t answer, ‘Hang on. I’m coming.’

  Hang on! I would that I couldn’t.

  I want to shout, No don’t, but can’t open my mouth, never mind speak. Nor can I look down any more. And the odd thing is, though I’m paralysed, unable to move even a finger, I’m trembling. Frozen stiff yet at the same time shaking all over. Unable to see Cal climbing up to me but able to feel through the tree his tread on the branches and the tree wobbling more and more as he approaches nearer and nearer and hear him breathing louder and louder the closer he comes. Fee fi fo fum.

  Do I merely dislike him for being here or do I fear him?

  He arrives, his head level with my knees, grinning, his eyes eager, like he’s been given a present. I’m shaking so much I don’t know why I’m not breaking into pieces.

  ‘You’re okay,’ he says. ‘Safe with me.’ He puts his hands, big strong warm hands, on my thighs. ‘Breathe. Slow. Deep. Three deep breaths … Okay? … Go. One … two … three.’

  Why do I obey?

  He waits a moment, grinning the smile of a jailer.

  ‘Good. Again. Ready? Okay. One … two … three.’

  And again I obey. And yes, I’m calming down. The shakes fade away.

  ‘Easy, see! Another. Okay. One … two … three.’

  My clinging embrace of the tree loosens. I can move my head away. I face him.

  ‘Better?’

  I manage to say, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Bird watching. I’ll help you get down.’ He squeezes my thighs.

  ‘No!’ I say, alarmed, the panic returning. But not from vertigo.

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘Stop saying okay.’

  ‘I’ll go down with you.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I’ll look after you.’

  ‘I don’t mean that. I mean I want to do it on my own.’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I have to do it alone.’

  ‘What if you slip?’

  ‘I got up, so I can get down.’

  ‘What if you get stuck again?’

  ‘I won’t. You startled me. I’m all right now. Look, Cal, if you really want to help me, you’ll go away and leave me alone.’

  His smile fades. He glowers. A small boy moping.

  I put my hands over his and wheedle. ‘That’s what I want. That’s what I’m asking you to do. For me. Please, Cal.’

  He snuffles like a prodded horse. ‘Okay. But I’ll wait in the van. It’s in the lane.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  And he climbs down.

  I watch him all the way, till he’s out of sight.

  But why was he here? Why has he unnerved me? I’m unsettled. It’s instinctive. A sense of danger. But why?

  And I resent him for intruding.

  I think: Well, I’m not going to let him spoil my day. He’s been, he’s gone. I climbed up on my own and I’ll climb down on my own. That’s what I came to do and I will. He’s just another obstacle to be got over. Like reaching the first branch.

  To restore myself, I sit quietly, deliberately listening to the sounds around me, smelling, fingering the bark, taking in the view and thinking again about Will and me. If I were to write to him, and explain, and ask his forgiveness, would he accept me? Did I hurt him too much for reconciliation? If he truly loves me, won’t he take me back? Is it stupid pride that has stopped me from writing to him already? No. It’s disgust with myself for behaving the way I did. Do your mistakes condemn you for the rest of your life? Is there no way of deleting them? Can’t love cancel them? Surely it can. Isn’t that the only hope we humans have of saving each other?

  The sky is darkening. Not because it’s dusk but because a heavy cloud is drawing like a curtain. I can see rain falling from it and it’s heading this way. Ms Ballethands has proved an incompetent prophet. I’d better climb down before the rain makes the tree slippy.

  The descent is easier than the ascent. I’m making love to the tree as I do it. Thanking it. Remembering it.

  On the ground, I retrieve my pack. I’m hungry. I can tell from shaking it that the flask is broken. And my sandwiches are squashed. But the plastic bottle of water has survived. I sit under the tree, prop my back against the trunk, take a long drink and eat a squishy sandwich. It’s one of the best meals I’ve ever had. I shall always remember this moment and relish it.

  I’m packing up when the rain arrives. The w
hole sky is covered now with the looming cloud. Won’t be just a shower. Might as well get going. I set off, pushing my bike back to the lane, where I can mount and ride.

  Cal’s in his van parked under a tree. No wonder I couldn’t see him from the top of my tree. He gets out when he sees me coming and as I reach him stops me and says, ‘Give you a lift.’

  ‘I’d rather bike it.’

  ‘You’ll get soaked.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Nar! Get in. I’ll strap your bike on the roof.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  Now I find out why he unsettles me.

  He grabs my arm and pulls me off my bike and throws me to the ground, face down, his knee on my bum. He pulls my backpack off, grabs one arm and then the other and binds them together behind my back with string.

  I shout and scream and kick but he pays no attention, doesn’t even tell me to shut up. He knows he doesn’t need to; there’s no one to hear.

  He finishes tying my wrists, pulls my head back by my hair. My glasses fall onto the road. He stuffs a wad of cloth into my screaming mouth and ties it behind my head. His knee in my back is so strong and painful I can’t do more than thrash about with my legs. But now he turns and catches my ankles and ties them together.

  I’m trussed up and immobile and more frightened than I ever thought possible. I can’t help myself: I urinate and feel the warm wet spread over my middle.

  Cal stands, lifts me as easily as a sack of potatoes, carries me to the back of his van, opens the door, bundles me inside, throws my backpack in after me and slams the door.

  Next the noise of my bike on the roof.

  Then Cal climbing into the driver’s seat.

  ‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘Don’t fret. I’ve got your specs. And I’ll take really good care of you.’

  He starts the engine and drives away.

  >> Mothering >>

  Know / Knowledge

  Know:

  To be, or to feel certain, of the truth or accuracy of a fact, an idea yourself, another human being, etc.

  To have a familiar understanding of someone or something.

  To experience deeply.

  To distinguish and discriminate.

  To have sex with.

  *

  Knowledge:

  The facts, feelings or experiences known by a person or group of people.

  The state of knowing.

  Awareness.

  Consciousness.

  Erudition or informed learning.

  Specific information about a subject.

  Sexual intercourse (‘carnal knowledge’).

  I long to know everything about Life, everything about myself.

  I long to know everything about at least one other person, the one I completely and exclusively Love, and to be known completely by at least one other person, the one who completely and exclusively Loves me.

  I know these are high ideals. But I promise myself that I shall always try to live up to them.

  Language

  What could we say without it? Nothing.

  What could we do without it? A lot less than we can do with it.

  In my opinion, the definition of a human being is: a language-using animal.

  In other words, without language we are nothing but beasts.

  I only know what I know and what I think and feel when I put it into words.

  Which is to say, we are what our language allows us to be and to become.

  I love language. And there is no love without language.

  The end.

  PS: Julie set us a puzzle the other day:

  ‘Does thinking always require words, or can you think without words? Discuss.’

  Much argument, but we never reached a decision.

  All I can say is this: Even if I do ‘think’ without words, it isn’t until I’ve put what I think into words that I know what I think.

  It’s too tiring. I’m going for a cup of tea.

  Laughter

  Essential, but see Humour.

  Love

  As my pillow book is in one way or another about love, because I think it the most important thing in life, it would be tautologous and therefore tedious to write anything about it here.

  Me

  Statements that seem to me to be facts of Life:

  1. The letter M is the very centre of our alphabet, number 13 of 26. I am the centre of my life. I am essential to myself. How can it be otherwise?

  2. But Love is the main subject of my pillow book, so I am not the central character in my story. Because:

  3. Love means directing yourself towards someone else. It means attending to someone else totally. Therefore:

  4. Though I am the centre of my personal alphabet and Love is the central subject of my story of myself, it follows that someone else is the centre of my attention.

  5. I try to be totally conscious of myself and of my life. But to be conscious of myself I must completely know someone else.

  6. You cannot know yourself if you are not known by someone else.

  7. I read somewhere the following:

  I think, therefore I am.

  I am, therefore I am observed.

  Every I is a You, every You is an I.

  I believe this to be true.

  8. I am me because you are you.

  9. I am nothing without the Love of Another.

  10. I am nothing without the Love I give Another.

  This is my story, the story of Me.

  And I think it is the story of Everyone.

  Such I Am. Such, I believe, are You. Such is Life.

  11. How pompous I’ve become.

  12. Shut up, Cordelia.

  Meditation

  Scene One

  Julie says, ‘You’ve done well in a short time.’

  ‘Done well!’ I say. ‘I still don’t feel I’m doing it, only trying to.’

  ‘Trying to is all we can do, so you’re doing well.’

  We’re sitting in her front room, drinking tea after meditating.

  ‘But sometimes,’ I continue, ‘in fact most of the time, I feel like I’m doing nothing.’

  ‘Doing nothing is doing something.’

  ‘But I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel like I’m groping in the dark.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Good? Why is that good?’

  ‘Because at least you’re going somewhere, even if you don’t know where. And that’s better than giving up and going nowhere, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it? I don’t know. Oughtn’t I to know where I’m trying to go to?’

  ‘It can take years to find that out.’

  ‘O lordy! I wish you’d explain a bit more about it.’

  She smiles to herself. How annoying! What is she smiling about?

  ‘All right,’ she says. ‘Go and make a cup of tea.’

  I give her a wary look. ‘I’ve just made one.’

  ‘No, you haven’t.’

  ‘I have. We’re drinking it.’

  Without another word, Julie gets up and, leaving me and her tea behind, goes up to her attic work room, where I know I’m not allowed unless invited.

  I feel miffed. But I know her well by now. I know she’s not being rude or dismissive and she’s not in a huff. She’s done it before, when we’ve been studying a poem or a novel and she wants me to think out a problem for myself. She’ll come back in a minute, expecting an answer.

  So let’s see: I’ve made a cup of tea, but I haven’t made it, so go and make it.

  Made, but not made?

  I can’t work it out. I’m in a cul de sac and up against a brick wall.

  With a difficult poem, she always tells me to look for the key words.

  Key words: meditation, make, tea.

  Then it hits me.

  I take up my meditation posture and ‘make a cup of tea’.

  Fifteen minutes later, Julie returns and sits in her chair.

  ‘?’
her look says.

  I unfold myself and sit on the sofa facing her.

  ‘Did you enjoy your tea?’ I ask.

  ‘What tea was that?’

  ‘The one I brought up to you.’

  She smiles and says, ‘If you say anything more, I’ll hit you over the head with this cushion. Twice. And if you don’t say anything, I’ll hit you over the head with this cushion. Twice.’

  And off she goes again, up to her work room.

  She can be infuriating at times.

  I puzzle over this and am in another cul de sac, till I get so fed up I decide there’s no possible answer, so there!

  Fifteen minutes later, Julie returns, and as before sits in her chair and looks at me, ‘?’ smiling.

  Nothing annoys me more than people being enigmatic.

  I go to her, snatch up her cushion, and hit her with it twice on the head. She makes no attempt to stop me or to protect herself. Which is just as infuriating as being enigmatic. Then I hit her twice again.

  ‘There!’ I say. ‘That’s the answer.’

  I put the cushion down and return to the sofa.

  Julie picks the cushion up, comes to me and hits me with it four times on the head. Not really hits, only taps.

  I can’t help laughing, which sets her off. We end up having a cushion fight, accompanied with giggles and squeals, before we settle again, breathless, side by side on the floor, our backs against the sofa.

  When we’ve calmed down, I say, ‘Was that a test?’

  Julie ignores the question and says, ‘I haven’t explained for all sorts of reasons.’

  ‘Name nine hundred and ninety-nine.’

  ‘One,’ Julie says. ‘I wanted to be sure you’d persevere, that it wasn’t just a fad. I wanted to be sure you’re truly keen and curious.’

  ‘I am. Two?’

  ‘You can’t force a spiritual life on anyone. They have to long for it.’

  ‘I do. Three?’

  ‘I’m not good enough at it myself to be your guide.’

  ‘You’ve years and years of experience. Anything you tell me will help, don’t you think? Four?’

  ‘In the end, nothing anyone can tell you is actually much use. You have to find your own way.’

  ‘But surely someone has to show you the way at the beginning?’

  ‘I’ve taught you how to sit properly when meditating, and how to focus your mind. And I’ve tried to encourage you and help you by keeping you company.’