Some do, she concedes. But you, now. I can see you carry yours for a purpose.
So, you say to yourself: While I was watching her, she was watching me, OK…OK… Yes, you concede. And you hold a hand up in surrender. You got me. It’s true, you confess, sadly. I’m a writer. But…a writer who’s not writing much…
She slaps one hand against her thigh, delighted. I knew it she says. I always know these things…
A bit disconcerted, you ask, And what about you?
Ach! She says. We’ll get to that. She smooths down her hair again and holds up her left hand, as if pushing away the question, her right hand still around the glass. It’s a long story…
But I love a long story…
She throws back her head and laughs. I know…I can see that…and we’ll get to it, sure we will. Anxiously, one hand moves to her hair. But here’s the short version: a man came for me and I had to leave. As she says this, she scans the room quickly – the doors, the windows, as if looking for an exit. And I may have to be leaving again. She looks down at her drink and then up at you. Her eyes widen. Your turn, she presses. Everyone has a reason, why they come here…
Well. Let’s just say I needed a break.
Her eyes narrow. From the writing?
You sigh, From everything. And you put down the glass as you say this. But you don’t clarify why exactly you needed a break from the world at this particular moment. You don’t mention the flayed feeling; the anxiety, how the pulse beats crazy in your neck, in your wrists. How you’re finding it hard to sleep and to get through the days, as if you’ve been flung back to the past, back to a dark street in the long ago. And how the novel you’re writing has changed as a result. How you can’t go forward in the same way. Watching the world as it is and feeling like this: who has the power, who doesn’t. All those men on the news, night after night, the litany of disturbance. Men spilling everywhere: into pot plants, onto women’s clothes, staining everything. Men in bathrobes; men in boardrooms and lecture theatres; men behind cameras; men behind the supermarket till; men holding the briefcase with the nuclear code. The world of such men. Drivers and accomplices. How it’s flipped a switch inside you, messed with the electrical circuits. Plunged you back to a place you thought you’d left. How you need a rest from all that, and to recover.
Oh, yes, she says, leaning in, searching your face, as if reading your thoughts. There’s something, at this minute… we all know it. All of us having experienced, at some point or other…she shakes her head. And still, the way we’re forced to live. She looks down at her hands and lowers her voice, To be a woman on a dark street, for example…
That’s it, you say, flinching at the image of the woman, the street. Wondering if B saw you flinch. These days, you realise that anything is enough to set you off, even words themselves. I needed a break from all that.
She leans back. Closes her eyes for a second. Well, here’s the thing: sometimes I also tell people I’m a writer, she says. Strange, perhaps. But it means I can slip through. These days it’s easier…
Oh? This comes as a surprise. Easier? As much as you like this woman, already your critical mind is on alert. You don’t know any writer who’d say such a thing. But before you’ve time to puzzle this through, she continues. To be clear, I’m on the run – and I have stories to tell. And I’ll be gone soon and, come to think on it, you might be just the person to tell…in fact, she leans forward again and looks at you intently, puts one hand up to check that her hair – or the wig – is in place, In fact, I know you are. And you know that too…
But, you protest, can’t you tell your own stories? As a writer yourself…
She gives a brief smile. No. No. I’m not a writer. I tell people I’m a writer. There’s a difference. But, she pauses, I do keep a journal. Always have done…she trails off.
You pour yourself another glass of red, even though you know you’ll regret it in the morning. But you can never resist a story.
To a complicated woman, you smile and raise your glass in her direction. Where shall we start?
She sits forward a little: The writer is a person who can pick up a stone. She watches for your reaction. Not afraid of what’s beneath. Or perhaps… She puts her head to one side, considering. Perhaps…the writer is a person who can throw the stone – she frowns – and shatter the whole fuckin thing.
Then she leans back in her chair. So, let’s just start with where we are, she says quietly, closing her eyes, her hand around the glass. Let’s just start there.
The next morning, you’re hungover and red-eyed. You chill two tea bags in the bar fridge and place them over your eyes. You take two paracetamol and lie down with your legs up the wall. When you’re ready to face the world, the nun at Reception says, Your sister has gone out for a walk. She said to tell you.
But she’s not…
So sweet, says the nun. Almost identical…the eyes, the hair…
The hair? You think the nun must be mistaken.
She said she’d be back soon, the nun continues. From the Bay at the Back of the Ocean. Said she’d be back after lunch and that you should wait.
After this, the morning passes slowly. Too slowly. You try to read, you try to write. You pick up pages only to discard them. You cannot settle. You wait for B to return. You wait to see what will happen.
When B comes back from her walk, you’re sitting on an old leather sofa in the dining room, by the log fire, because even though it’s summer, it’s freezing. You skim a magazine with the Royals on the cover and you look at her over your glasses when the front door opens. You’ve been waiting impatiently for her to come back from her walk. Waiting to examine her with forensic interest. The hair, the eyes. But you try not to look too eager and glance back down at the magazine, hoping she hasn’t noticed. But your mind runs on: Sisters ? It’s been raining. You see immediately that she’s no longer wearing the wig. Her real hair is dark and curly and damp – of medium length – and starting to frizz a little. Her mascara is smeared under the eyes. For sure, you have to admit, there’s a similarity. She’s about your height and size. The nun thought you looked alike. And, yes, if you’re honest, this woman looks like an older, thinner, more wrung-out version of yourself. This comes as a shock.
As if you’ve spoken all this out loud, B turns around in the doorway, sees the expression on your face and laughs:
Believe me – I’ve had a hard life, she says, smoothing the lines around her eyes, tapping her face. A wee bit harder than yours. But in all other respects, we’re the same. Once you realise this, and once ye accept it…
Pardon?
Pardon? she repeats, not waiting for a response. She takes a seat next to you on the sofa and orders a pot of tea. She doesn’t mention her hair or the fact that she’s no longer wearing a wig and neither do you. Then you find yourself telling her you’ve been under a mountain of stress, lately. What’s real and what’s not? You look back, you tell her, and what you thought was one thing was actually another. You question everything now. The whole kit-and-caboodle. The whole system of power, of male power to be precise. In fact, this new lens on your reality seems too much to bear. And this thing you’re now writing: is she telling your story or are you telling hers?
So you decide to ask her outright: Are you a figment of my imagination?
She smiles and leans forward: And would there be a problem with that?
✳
10
You realise this whole story now needs a different approach.
We need to talk more about it, you say to B. How, exactly, is this going to work?
It’s like this, she says, matter-of-fact: We’re here in this guesthouse, on this island, two women. Both fugitives…
Both of us? You protest. But I don’t see myself…
Of course you don’t, she retorts. Not yet. But you will. So. Let’s be starting like this, with the conversation and move out from there. You tell your bits of the story, I tell mine. You can comment on the action, if you
like. So can I. And I’ll write some pages, leave them for you. Some pages from my journal, even. You can do whatever you want with them. I give you permission, as your character, to just get on with it.
A conversation?
She deadpans. That’s what they do, characters. They talk. Then she suddenly changes tack. It’s like Madonna says.
You’ve always loved Madonna. Uh-huh…you nod, and wonder where she’s going with this.
B clears her throat: You take yer sadness, despair, your sense of injustice and put it in the work.
She said that?
Suffering is a catalyst for creation.
Madonna again?
Yes, says B, putting down her cup of tea. The very same, but, she smiles, perhaps the Buddha said it first.
You’re a Buddhist? This woman keeps confounding you.
A Taoist, as it happens, she says. But we’ll get to that.
So, you ask B: How long are we together on the island?
She puts her head to one side, looking thoughtful. A few days, she says. A week at most.
You can’t be more precise?
No.
You raise an eyebrow at this. You sure you can’t?
No. I’m on the run. We don’t know when, or even if, a man will come here, or who that man will be. That’s all what we know for sure. And I can’t be givin you a time frame. But here’s a question for you: Do I escape this man? Please tell me I’ll shake free. Please tell me my end will be happy.
You sit back at this. You would like to offer comfort, but who knows how a thing will end? I can’t say in advance, you tell her. And it’s not all up to me. I can’t be more precise. At this, you slip her a smile, Who knows how things will end? Living, as we do, in the middle.
Ursula Le Guin, she nods.
That’s right, you say, surprised, although by now you shouldn’t be.
But, really? She looks disappointed. You must have some idea. About how it will end, I mean…
Really, no. We’re in this together.
So. B closes her eyes. Let’s get this straight now. During the day we go out and about, do our own thing, perhaps jot down a note or two, then come nightfall we have a chat. Is that it?
Wasn’t that your idea?
Just getting it straight, like. That we’re in agreement. On the same page, as they say. Technically, we’re on a retreat, she muses, we’re out of our everyday. We don’t have to do anything…
Too much doing, not enough being, you quote.
That’s the Tao, says B approvingly.
You sprang that on me. I didn’t know you were a Taoist. Not until you said.
But now you do know. And I always travel with the I Ching, and the Tao Te Ching and a battered map of Europe. When I need to move, I throw some coins, consult the book, look at the map. When we completely lose our way, we become one with loss. That’s the Tao Te Ching.
And what have you lost?
You’ll find out, she says. Be patient. You’ll find out soon enough.
This book you were working on, B says, casually. Up until you came here. Did it have a title? It did, you hesitate. But then you think – what the hell – you might as well tell her. It started as a short story, you say, ‘To Pick up a Stone’.
And then it changed? B wants to know. I mean to say, from the original story…
Yep. Not that I planned anything…
Because you never plan…
That’s true, you say, surprised. I never plan…
But ye had a vague notion…
Yes.
And?
The woman was on the run from her past – her political past. But then, in this Time of the Felled Men the past catches up with her, but in a very different way…
OK, says B. So it’s still political…
You could say that. But in a different way. More personal, perhaps…more gendered, even…
Please tell me there was no omniscient narrator, says B, or people with names that tell you what they’re about. Mrs Blackheart, Mr Toogood and so on. That Victorian novel malarkey. Ugh. Here she becomes very animated; she seems to have very firm views on the subject. The know-all narrator, he’s had his day. His time is done.
There was no omniscient narrator, you assure her. And none of that name business.
Good, she says.
So. We’re in this together? You check with her. We’ll make it up as we go along?
That’s always been your way.
You pause for a moment. She knows me better than I know myself.
That I do, she agrees, as if you’ve spoken this out loud.
Pardon?
Huh? B looks away.
So. Tell me. You’re a mind-reader now?
B turns back, ignores the question, and says calmly, If we get stuck, there’s always the coins. We could throw the coins. The I Ching, she says, off-handedly. I have it with me. Wait here. She goes up to her room. You watch as she climbs the stairs two at a time, she moves swiftly, lightly, like a much younger person, you notice, but when she returns she’s not carrying The I Ching Book of Changes, but rather the Tao Te Ching by Lao Tse. It’s an old paper-back, dog-eared, with a torn back cover. Chapter 22 is my favourite, she says, opening the book and reading from it: Fragmentation prepares the path to wholeness. Old Lao Tse! What a boy. He was a migrant, a refugee, a traveller, an exile. Or maybe that’s just my view of him, she shrugs. But it’s something I take heart from. The coins led me here. They have a role to play. So – make sure to include that.
I’ll make sure, you say. And I’m sure you won’t let me forget.
We sit watching television in the dining room, the 24-hour news on low. We’re the only two guests. Faces of various men come up on the screen. Faces of some very famous men.
It’s depressing, says B. Why don’t they use a sock?
Absolutely, you agree with her. A sock. In private.
The log-roll goes on, B sighs. All these fuckin men…
Night after night, you say. And I’ve had it. I’m done. I came here for a rest. Let’s turn it off.
B reaches for the remote as a wintry beach fills the screen: diggers and police tape across the sand; a black-and-white photo of a young woman with long hair. You turn to B and think that the woman on the screen looks a little like her, could be her daughter or a relative perhaps and you’re just about to say something when you see that B has gone pale, her hand is at her throat and she glances at you, gets up quickly, points the remote at the screen. There, she says, turning the television off. It gets to a person, all of this, so it does…
You OK? B is still pale, you notice.
I’m grand, she says, standing there with the remote control in her hand, a lost look on her face. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, looks around the room. D’ye mind if I shut the curtains?
Go ahead, you say.
B seems very nervous now. She puts down the remote.
Are you OK? you ask again. I was going to say…that photo of the woman then, the girl, on the news – she looked a little like you. I mean that as a compliment.
Did she? B says, uncertainly. Did she now? She has her back to you as she draws the curtains, her voice soft. Then she turns to face you.
A man may come here, she says, her voice low. We both know this much.
✳
TO PICK UP A STONE
A lone gull eyeballs me from the ferry handrail. It stares as if it knows me intimately, knows everything. I put my sunglasses on and stare straight back. I adjust my hair, self-conscious, nothin feels right, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the window. The short fair hair, the wig. Who is that woman? I see the island hove into view. I’ll stay here for a while – days, weeks, who knows? – until this storm of my life passes. I’ll wait it out. I’m a storm-tossed person, this I know. Here in this thin place, as we say, perhaps I’ll get some direction. Here, where the things flow free between worlds, I can rest up. I see a woman watching me with interest. And I watch her too, because ye can’t be too
careful. She has a pen and a notebook. She looks familiar. She too adjusts her sunglasses and smooths her hair, as if mirroring me, and then she looks away.
I’m disappointed when we get to the island. Expectations. Abandon expectations, the Taoists say. I thought we’d come ashore at the spot where the Saint landed. Thought I’d walk up the pebbled beach, climb the hill, turn my back on the Old Country and so on, just like the Saint. My own private steps in his steps. Instead we land at the main port in cold rain and hard wind and funnel into a grey café. I take off my sunglasses, wipe the wet off them. By now, it’s too cold to stay outside, to explore, to go anywhere. It’s late June, summer here, and it’s Baltic. I queue up at the self-serve counter along with everyone else. Some great holy place, I roll my eyes. All them holy places the same – right in with the food and the merchandise, pots of tea and scones – then across the road to find a hat in the gift shop, perhaps a fleece, some gloves. I’ve left most of my clothes behind; I left in a hurry. In the change room, I try on the hat and hardly recognise myself. My dark hair, mid-length, wavy, grey at the roots – now it’s bobbed and fair and straight. The colour of the wig makes me look gaunt and pale. It makes me look older. I buy a fridge magnet for that time in the far off when I might again have a place with a fridge. I buy a Saint’s key ring on a whim. Despite myself, I can still be whimsical. And wasn’t that what I’d always been told, by my ma and my da and the nuns at school? Told that I was too dreamy and vague. Not a skerrick of common sense. You could’ve been a poet, my ma once said, a writer. You have a way with words. It was all there, so it was, in my name. And, unbidden, the many meanings of my name return. Brighid: patron saint of poets and blacksmiths, of dairymaids and newborns, of healers and midwives, to name a few. I take pause and another word comes. Another meaning of my name, learned in the long ago, and then forgot, before my life took the turns it took. St Brighid – patron saint of fugitives, for god’s sake. My own name playin tricks on me like that. I never became a poet, not at all. But a life on the run, well, I could write the handbook on the subject. But. To get back to the common sense. And wasn’t that what the men said way back? When it was all about the firearms and gelignite and precision long-range timers? That I didn’t know my erse from my elbow, done it all the hard way. Where was my common sense?
The Nightside of the Country Page 4