by Stuart Ayris
It was in the silence that followed that I heard a rhythmic pulsing sound coming from round the back of the barn where we had eaten our potatoes. It was like gock, pause, thwack, gock, pause, thwack, over and over again. Either it became louder or I was just listening to it more intently the more it went on. I could tell that The Walrus heard it too, for he looked over his shoulder in the general direction of the gock, pause, thwack and I saw him appear to smile.
The children shuffled a little in uniform manacled discomfort as they too became aware of the gock, pause, thwack. But The Walrus definitely had a twinkle about him.
And I thought of the boy who had served us our meal and of the rage that seethed from him. His absence from the proceedings gaped before me like the mouth of a great whale whose form I could not see but whose teeth created the very shadows around me.
10. And Swiftly On
I know, I know. This is all sounding a little too mad, but this is how it happened, and this is how it was. The children, the bales of hay with their ragged red lettering, and the gock, pause, thwack. And through it all, Zachariah Leonard lay drained of everything, clinging to such life as was his in some dank cove by the great Blackwater estuary.
All I ask of whoever reads these words I write upon the walls of my little home is that you believe me. That is all I ask.
How do you know if what you have just seen doesn’t vanish the moment your eyes are averted, that what you have just heard does not disappear into nothingness the moment you are out of range? If you could not smell, would those wonderful fragrances of this fragile land still emanate from every plant and living creature? And if you had no sense of taste, would sweet, sweet love be quite the same?
It was with such questions that I wrestled on this, the most endless of endless days.
The sun was now high in Albion’s sky, pouring forth its warmth in invisible droplets of pure heat, transforming the gargantuan oceans from translucent to azure blue and breaking through the ice at the very top of the world, turning it to life blood water to flow mercurial through the veins of my earth. I have learned since all these experiences that I recount that every moment is a moment of wonder, from the clicking nick nock knees of the grasshopper to the millennium breaking of the cracked old stones that hold us all together. And if it is all in the mind, then so be it. It matters not to me.
I wanted so much to investigate the gock, pause, thwack, but, as they say, the show must go on. The Walrus, now seemingly fully recovered from his exertions, wonderful though they were, addressed me thus:
“I hope you are still with us my boy. We have all waited a long time to perform for you.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “Please go on.”
The Walrus bowed. I should have asked questions but I knew I would have received no answers, not at least until all the children had finished their respective turns.
“You will see at the end of the performance what we are revealing to you - by that time you will know the truths of this life; and may you carry these truths into your own life.”
He then called out to the children:
“Isn’t that the cold hard truth, my darling young ones?”
The five children who were yet to perform uttered various yeps, yups and yesses and fell silent once more. Those who stood on top of the bales moved not a muscle. I settled into my spot upon the grass and waited for my enlightenment to continue.
A young boy, maybe no more than four or five years old, was the next to speak. I leaned forward to listen but soon realised I needn’t have done so. He had the voice of one who has spent years drinking and smoking and screaming and crying. He didn’t so much say each word as spit it out.
“A hunk a chunk
O’ burning bread;
Come on desire -
Douse my bed.
YOU’RE A
DOWN
RIGHT
LIAR
These words go through my head;
And so
I whisper
Low…
(and he did - in a sing song murmuring lilt)
‘how are we today sir?’
‘won’t you take a seat sir?’
‘how’d you like your hair sir?
FUCKERS…”
The boy, red raging through his cheeks and eyes, turned over his bale of hay and stood upon it, the letter ‘A’ at his tiny feet.
There was a silence in this Tollesbury day.
A hiatus.
I wasn’t sure if I was to speak or not. The Walrus eventually intervened, clearing his throat as he did so.
“A,” he pronounced. “Anger Devours The Soul.”
The children applauded though in a somewhat muted fashion. It seemed this boy had affected even them.
And swiftly on.
The next child, a girl, voice loud and confident, stood behind her bale just bursting with a child-like energy. She clasped her hands behind her back and bellowed like a good old Romford Market lass:
“Come gather round people,
come look at my wares!
You’ve seen nothing like it
at your fetes and your fares!
Come here my lovely,
you know that you can;
get right up close
my number one fan!
Whatever you want,
you can have it from me;
you can have it for dinner,
you can have it for tea!
But what’s that I hear?
I’m selling fresh air?
Ah, cynical lady -
just you beware!
But on one thing
I must surely agree -
what I have to give
is not easy to see!
Keep your eyes closed
and my heart will call;
you’ve got to look deep
or not look at all.
You’ve got to look deep
or not look at all.
Pfff”
And at that, the girl turned over her bale of hay and leapt sprightly upon it.
“L,” proclaimed The Walrus. “Look deep or do not look at all.”
The children clapped this energetic performance and the little girl bowed in a thank you, thank you type of way. It seemed the pall cast by the ‘A’ boy had been well and truly dispersed.
It was all buzzing now, buzzing and a-whirring just like my mind when it gets into the fundamental deep down doingness of it all, away from the temperate life of drudgery and non-existence which we are led to believe is real - not just real, but normal. Ah, the greatest, most dastardly deception of them all.
F-R-U-G-A-L
Well now at least that was a word I understood – or so I thought. But no time to pause now, they just kept piling it on me, with their stories and their songs and their poems.
Madness, madness, madness!
Up stood the next boy, chest out and proud, blood pumping and heart thumping - thump, thump, thumpety thump.
“I am your imagination. Simple as that mate. I whirl and swirl and break through every boundary you try so hard to put in front of me. You can’t keep me down, no way. And do you want to know why? Well I will tell you anyway. Your eyes lie. Your ears lie. Your nose lies. You have no sense of touch. In fact you have no senses at all. The only reality is me. Without me, you are just a shell, a box of bones and skin. Yes, yes, yes! I am your imagination and you don’t know how lucky you are. You see a colour and I make your eyes glow in wonder. You hear a song and I am the one that drops your jaw and brings forth the tears from your heart. And I am the one that tells you that you are in love.”
I nodded. Well what else could I do?
“Love, big man, you think that has nothing to do with imagination? Let me tell you that is all it is. The life that you are led to believe is real is nothing but sticks and straw. It has no depth and can go up in a blaze with the slightest spark, whether that be a spark of hatred or a spark of joy. A spark is a spark and no more. I AM LIFE. I give form to
your thoughts and your dreams and your desires. I am the next step from what you are thinking right now. Without me there is no future so don’t you ever deny me. The dreamer is king for it is only he who truly appreciates my majesty. The cynic and the pragmatist are but rats upon this dire earth, scrabbling for one plus one in the hope that it will equal two and they can go to bed with a sigh of relief and a restful disposition. But you and I both know that numbers are mere fiction, just a tool to bind together all the other superficial inventions of man. The days of the week, the months of the year? All artifice and no more! “
I shook. My mouth was dry as stone. Each word may as well have been an iron bar crashing down upon my flaccid body, so powerful were they. And I didn’t want him to stop.
“Imagination is me and I am life and I am you! When you are awake I give you hope and when you sleep I give you dreams. I am the fuel that services the furnace of your soul. Without light the sky is not blue, nor is the sea green. Nonsense - it is all my doing! I burn, burn, burn so that your very essence may strike out into the firmament and be consumed by the stars that are surely just the bright smiles of all our heavens.”
I began to cry for I knew this boy was right. I had always been castigated for being a dreamer, for believing in things other people derided. I had in my life spoken honestly of what I felt and what I heard and what I saw and, in return, I had been shunned by society. And scrawled upon the ragged wooden cross of my despair had been the word ‘schizophrenic’. Not only had I been told I was wrong in all that I perceived - I had been diagnosed with a severe and enduring mental illness.
So bring on imagination, boy, bring it on home to me-e-e.
Whoosh! The boy upturned his bale of hay! Boom! He leapt upon it! The letter ‘I’ was struck through the face of the bale as if it were dividing the whole world in half, between those who believe and those who dare not.
“I,” said The Walrus in a sombre tone. “Imagination is life.”
Wow!
Wow indeed!
I sensed this show was coming to an end in the same way that I had always been able to predict two doctors and a social worker coming to my house. There is an inevitability to the end of wonder just as the turning of the sun from yellow to orange doth foretell the coming of the black night.
“As you can see, we have two children left. We are nearing the conclusion of our performance. It has been momentous. You will stay with us for a while after we have finished?”
“How do you mean?” I replied.
“Stay with us. Stay here. For as long as you need.”
I remembered the gock, pause, thwack and knew I could not leave until I had seen that serving boy again. Not only seen him, but confirmed to myself that he was the very reason I was here at all. For that was my suspicion. I nodded to The Walrus that I would indeed be staying.
“Good, good,” he said. “Continue my lovelies!”
And continue the next little girl did. She was sweetly spoken and her voice had a certain husky quality that soothed me with every syllable.
“There were once three men who lived in the same small village. One fine night each was called by an angel to gather at the edge of a cliff. They were, at heart, good men and they spoke freely amongst one another whilst they awaited the arrival of the angel. The moon was hidden by the clouds thus there was a darkness upon the earth. Yet the men were more curious than afraid, for when an angel calls you, surely good things do portend.
Now waiting for an angel is a little bit like waiting for dinner. You look forward to it because you know it is going to be great but then once it is in front of you, you want it to last forever. Just as some have a hunger for food, so others have a hunger for angels and the like. I, myself, being a little girl who is often hungry, would humbly suggest that food is better; you can’t eat an angel, and to be honest, you shouldn’t really try.
Anyway, it was as the night was at its darkest and the air at its most still that the angel arrived and stood before the three men, his heels almost overhanging the cliff edge. He must have been a brave angel, but then I suppose he had wings, so perhaps it was a little less scary for him than it would be for anyone else.
‘Welcome,' said the angel in a voice indescribable. ‘I thank you for meeting me here this night. It is good of you to come.’
The men did not speak, but listened with the wonder of us all.
‘I have a simple request for each of you.’
There was a pause as the earth itself stopped to listen.
‘I want you to step forward and jump over the edge of this cliff.’
The men were aghast. They made as if to protest but their astonishment at what had been asked of them stifled the words in their gaping mouths.
‘If you are not to jump, I request only that you tell me why; and then may you be on your way.’
One of the men spoke almost immediately.
‘I can tell you forthwith that I shall not be jumping, angel or no angel.’
‘And your reason?’
‘I trust nobody. We are born alone and we die alone. In between we strive to be the best and overcome our fellow man. It is in this way that we achieve earthly reward. What may come after, I care not. So that is it. I trust nobody, not even an angel. So I shall not be jumping.’
‘Very well,’ replied the angel. ‘You may go back to your home. Just remember that I love you.’
And the man did leave.
So that left two men and an angel in the quiet of the dark night. Nobody spoke, not the angel, nor the men for each was thinking his own deep thoughts.
Finally, the second man sighed and spoke.
‘I trust some people and I mistrust others. We are born with choices, be that to lead the life of a good man or to lead the life of a bad man. It is by having faith in the good and dismissing the bad that we can lead a life of harmony and peace. And that knowledge comes only with time and with experience. I know you not angel. You do not make sense to me. There is no logic to your being or to what you ask - therefore I am sorry but I cannot trust you. So I shall not be jumping.’
‘Very well,’ replied the angel. ‘You may go back to your home. Just remember that I love you.’
So that left the last man. And had you held a candle to his face, you would have seen bright eyes and a smile as he stepped forward to stand at the edge of the cliff, staring into the blackness of it all. As he spoke, he did not direct his words to the angel but to you and to me.
‘I trust everybody, ‘ he said. ‘We are all born good and we all die good. In between, we will make mistakes for which we should be forgiven. If I am wrong, then so be it. But I don’t believe I am.’
And then he jumped into the night.
As the man leapt so the stars exploded and the moon shone great upon this earth. The angel returned to the firmament and the man who had jumped lives now forever. He is the smile upon your lips, he is that missed beat of your heart when you fall in love and he is the hope that will ever endure.”
The boy upturned his bale of hay to display the letter ‘T’.
“T,” said The Walrus, sounding weary now. “Trust everybody for, at heart, people are good.”
Then the smallest child of all, grinning so wide, clambered onto the last bale of hay. He then got a nudge from the boy beside him and he realised he hadn’t turned it over to reveal a letter. He giggled, stepped off and tipped the bale to show the letter ‘Y’. He then counted in a gorgeously delicious voice.
“One, two, three!”
And all the children pointed at me before yelling with joyous abandon the words,
“YOU ARE WONDERFUL!!!!”
As their voices danced across the fields, the smallest boy winked at me before closing the whole bizarre production by shouting:
“And don’t you ever forget it!”
“Y”, said The Walrus, reverently, “You are wonderful.”
And I don’t mind admitting that I wept for a long old time.
11. The Gock-Pause-Thw
ack
FRUGALITY.
FRUGALITY.
I closed my eyes and thought of corner-shop sweets, steaming hot chocolate and Airfix models. I thought of cowboy wallpaper and digging holes in the garden, of books about bees and a misshapen teddy bear. And when I opened my eyes, the children were gone. The Walrus was gone too. The barn was before me looking as deserted and ragged as my own poor soul. It was neither day nor night. The sun was red, the sky was blue. And the earth could have been made of marshmallow, so unreal did all this feel. For what had I just sat through if not the unravelling of my very mind?
The show was over and the bales of hay with their red lettering were the only sign that anything had occurred at all. If they were real, I reasoned, then I was not completely mad. I sat on the last bale in the line, the ‘Y’ bale, I guess you could call it. I did not fall straight through it and that was good enough for me at that point. It was all moment, by moment by moment.
And there it was again - gock-pause-thwack - echoing from around the back of the barn, calling me on, drawing me in. I stood up and with a sigh, ventured up the hill and leaned against the right hand side of the barn, leaning against it like Cool Hand Luke himself. A bird crossed the sun, turning from white to black and then white again, bringing life to this desperate watercolour vista. It was all so scripted, so planned and so inevitable.
Row, row, row the boat gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream…
So on bended knees like an old plastic toy soldier, I peered around the corner.
And there was the source of my curiosity, the aural author of the gock-pause-thwack. It was the serving boy, standing some ten yards from the rear of the barn, a flat piece of wood gripped in his hands, his eyes upon an object that hurtled towards him. Then he swung the piece of wood at the small blur before him - gock - silence as it travelled fast through the air - pause - and then - thwack - as it crashed against the wooden structure only to return, bounce and then be hit again by this startling boy. And on and on without relent. Gock-pause-thwack…