by Jim Powell
The engine of my car is quiet. In this vast silence it sounds like the roar of a hippopotamus. Tyres tiptoe over rutted mud to her door as if they are sugar-plum fairies. There are no lights on in the house. No lights. No moon. No stars. This night has the blackest of hearts. Very strange. I could swear the sun was shining only a few minutes ago. What time is it? Nearly something or other. I must have driven slowly, crawled like a slug through the darkness. I’ve been thinking about something. I can’t remember what it was now.
Anna appears to have gone to bed. You’d think she would have waited up. I would have done. You don’t go to bed when someone’s coming to visit you. I am momentarily confused. Now I come to think of it, bed’s a reasonable place to be at three in the morning.
I’m not going to turn around and go back again, back to, well back to somewhere. I’m not going back to anywhere. That is non-negotiable. That is not an agenda item. I’m sure I have an agenda here somewhere. I can’t remember where I put it now. It’s probably in the glove compartment with my pills.
If I were a burglar, what would I do? I would try the windows. That’s what I’d do. So I try them all, and all of them are locked. How else do people get into houses? Ah yes, doors. And Anna leaves her front door unlocked. I’ll walk in through the front door as if it were my house, which maybe it is now, so that would be appropriate. Except that tonight the door is locked. Am I sure? Yes, I’m sure. The front door is definitely locked. So is the back door.
I will have to wake Anna. I’d hoped to avoid that. But if you think about it, I’d have had to wake her anyway, had I come in by the door, or a window, or the chimney. No, not the chimney, because only Santa Claus comes down the chimney and he doesn’t exist. I had to go to Tokyo one December. One of the department stores was running a European week and they had images of Santa Claus hanging on a cross in the window. So the Japanese think Santa Claus exists, which is why he has capital letters. What does that prove? Where was I?
Yes. If I’d come in by the door, I would have had to wake her anyway. I couldn’t lie on the sofa and wait for her to find me in the morning. That would be rude.
There is no doorbell, but there is a large cast-iron knocker. I knock on it and nothing happens. I knock again, loudly. And again. Anna is a sound sleeper, obviously. I find that encouraging. Not now, of course, not at this precise minute, but generally speaking. I can’t stand women who sleep lightly and who wake up in the middle of the night and say, ‘Are you awake?’, when you’re not awake, but you are now because they’ve woken you, and they insist on telling you the dream they’ve just had, which is completely meaningless, so you just grunt, hoping they’ll shut up and let you get back to your own dream, and they turn over and go to sleep immediately, and snore deliberately to annoy you, and you now feel wide awake and spend the rest of the night tossing and turning, and doze off at about five, and feel crap when the alarm rings, while they feel great and say what a good night’s sleep they’ve had, and can’t remember that they woke you in the middle of it to tell you their dream, or even that they had a dream that demanded an instant retelling, not that it did. You know the sort of woman I mean. I can’t stand them. Thank god Anna isn’t one of them.
At least I know which is Anna’s bedroom and which is its window. It’s that one. Not the one with frosted glass, because that would be the bathroom window. Nor is it the small window with a crack covered in passepartout, because that is the spare-room window. No. It’s this one. This is the window through which I saw two crows flap across a blue sky all those years ago. Or was it this afternoon?
All I need now is something to throw at the window. A stone. A nice big stone. This one will do. No it won’t. That would be imbecilic. Let me find something else to throw. There’s this sack here, propped against the side of the cottage. I can’t think what’s in it. Small pellety things. Rather like All-Bran. I don’t think it can be All-Bran. Far too much of it, and there’s no milk or sugar. Chicken feed. That’s what it is. Chicken feed. Perfect. Couldn’t be better. Might have been made for the job. Perhaps Anna left it here deliberately. Women do that sort of thing. I expect Anna realized I’d be coming back in the middle of the night. She probably debated whether to sit up and wait for me or whether to go to bed, and, being a practical woman, decided to go to bed but to leave a sack of chicken feed by her bedroom window so that I could wake her up when I arrived.
Here I am, hurling chicken feed at Anna’s window. Nothing’s happening. Doesn’t matter. It will eventually. It’s a big sack. Plenty of chicken feed. And if I do use all of it, which I won’t, but if I do, which I won’t, I can pick it up and start all over again. I’m in no hurry. The whole of the rest of my life stretches ahead of me, like, like something or other.
I become aware of a hum. And of a light. Actually, I think it’s the other way around. A light first and then a hum. It’s not important. It doesn’t matter which came first, the chicken or the chicken feed. I ask myself if I’m humming and I’m not. You’d think the light would be coming from Anna’s bedroom, but it isn’t. Perhaps she has changed bedrooms and is sleeping out in the fields tonight. It’s a car, that’s what it is. That’s really peculiar. Who’d be coming to visit Anna in the middle of the night? Apart from me, that is. Perhaps it’s Judy. She knows about Anna, doesn’t she? I’ve no idea. I mentioned her on the phone, didn’t I? Did I? Perhaps I did. Not that she knows where Anna lives. Unless I mentioned that too. I can’t remember now. I could do without this. It will mean a scene. I had been hoping to avoid a scene. Can’t have Anna and Judy throwing things at each other. Whatever it is they throw. Probably chocolates, I’d think.
The car reaches the cottage. I’m standing at the end wall, the wall that faces down the track, so the car will have seen me. Well, obviously the car won’t have seen me, but Judy will, so she’ll know I’m here. The car stops, its lights pointing directly at me so I am transfixed in the beam. This is Stalag Luft III. It can’t be. The chickens are in Stalag Luft III. It must be Stalag Luft II. Someone steps out of the car and calls my name in rather a strange way, as if it had a question mark on the end. It’s not Judy’s voice, but it sounds familiar. Perhaps it’s an Australian. It’s Anna. That’s who it is. How bizarre. Why would Anna be coming to visit herself in the middle of the night?
It’s perfectly straightforward. Anna has been out somewhere. Wherever people go in the middle of the night. The Noah’s Ark at Lurgashall, perhaps. And because she’s been out, she hasn’t been in her bedroom, so I haven’t been able to wake her by throwing chicken feed at her window. That makes sense.
‘Hi, Anna. How are you?’
‘Matthew, what the hell are you doing?’
‘Trying to wake you up. Didn’t realize you were already awake.’
Anna walks up to me and looks around at the chicken feed. There’s rather a lot of it. There would be. I’ve needed to use a lot because she wasn’t there. Surely she can work that out. She looks at me in this strange way and I wonder if she’s quite all right.
‘Come inside and I’ll make some coffee,’ she says. Why would I want coffee? I’m perfectly awake and so is she.
She takes me by the arm, leads me to the front door and opens it. The door appears to be unlocked. I expect she has a remote-control thingy, or laser eyes, or something. Anna guides me to an armchair and sits me down. She goes to the kitchen and puts on the kettle. She doesn’t say anything. I’m feeling better already. Anna’s here and everything’s all right. All I need to do is to remember why I came and explain it to her. I rehearse my speech and it sounds excellent. I couldn’t have put it better myself.
Anna returns with two mugs of coffee and gives me one. She perches on the edge of the sofa, still with that peculiar look on her face. I smile at her reassuringly.
‘Matthew, can you please explain? Can you do that?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’ve come back.’
Anna doesn’t say anything for a moment. She doesn’t seem to realize that I’ve finished. What
more does she expect me to say?
‘You’ve come back.’
‘Yes,’ I say; and then, to make sure that she gets the point, ‘I’ve come back.’
‘Why have you come back?’
‘Because you said I could after I’d sorted everything out.’
‘That was only a few hours ago.’
‘No, it was years ago,’ I say. ‘After we got back from France. Anyway, it’s sorted now.’
‘What have you sorted?’
‘I’ve left Judy,’ I say. ‘She’s my wife. My ex-wife, rather.’
‘You’ve driven back to Barnet, had a conversation with your wife, and driven back here?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘What, then?’
‘There are telephones, Anna. Surely you’ve heard of them?’
‘You telephoned your wife and told her you were leaving her?’ Anna seems incredulous, as if she’s having trouble grasping what I should have thought was a fairly simple point.
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve telephoned your wife. You’ve told her your marriage is over. And now you’ve driven back here.’
‘Spot on.’ It has taken a while, but Anna’s got it now.
‘Why?’
‘Because this is where I live. Where else would I go at this time of night?’
‘I see,’ says Anna. I can see that she can’t see. She’s not blind, but she can’t see. Funny things, words. They contradict themselves. ‘But I live here.’
‘We both live here,’ I say. Anna doesn’t look convinced. Ah yes. I know there’s something else I’ve been meaning to say.
‘I love you.’ I smile at her, with great fondness.
‘Well, thank you, Matthew, but you barely know me.’
‘Yes I do. I lay in a field with you once, and had a lovely afternoon in bed. You can’t have forgotten already. Your bedroom’s there,’ I say, pointing at the ceiling. ‘And the field is out there.’ I point out of the window, because Anna’s being a bit slow tonight.
‘Matthew, how much have you had to drink?’
‘Just a minute.’ I get up and go to the car. I bring back the whisky bottle. ‘This much,’ I say. Actually, it isn’t very much. A quarter of the bottle at the most, I would say. That’s only about four doubles. Hardly anything. I unscrew the top and take another slug. Remembering my manners, I wipe the bottle and offer it to Anna. She doesn’t take it. Nor does she say anything.
‘I don’t know about you, Anna,’ I say, ‘but I could do with a bit of shuteye now. Perhaps I should go to the spare room. I hope you’re not offended, but I’ve already heard your dream about Uncle Tom Cobnut.’
‘I don’t know,’ says Anna.
‘I insist on it.’
‘Is that really all you’ve had to drink?’
‘Of course. I can prove it. This is what’s left, so that’s what I’ve drunk. Unless you think the bottle was more than full when I started.’ I laugh. Anna doesn’t laugh. She’s frowning, I’m not sure at what.
‘Matthew, I don’t think you’re very well. I’d be drunk on a quarter-bottle of Scotch. I don’t think you would be. So, if you’re telling me the truth, there must be something else the matter with you. Do you think you might be ill?’
‘No. I don’t think so. I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at. Are you suggesting I’m having a breakdown?’
‘Well, perhaps some sort of episode.’
That would explain it, wouldn’t it? An episode. Yes, that must be the scientific word for it, I imagine. Not very threatening, I would say. One episode where this happens, then lots of episodes where other stuff happens. Like a soap opera. Or a sitcom. No, more like a soap opera, I think. Whichever. Nothing serious anyway, because serious things don’t happen in soap operas. Or in sitcoms. Serious things happen in documentaries, or on the news. Quite different. They don’t have episodes.
‘Possibly,’ I said. ‘Possibly I had one earlier this evening, in the car somewhere, after I’d called Judy. I’m not sure I’m having one now.’
‘Have there been other episodes recently?’
‘I don’t think so. Well, a few maybe. I lay down under the barrier in Wellington car park a few weeks ago. I wanted to shelter from the rain. Only the barrier got narrower for some reason, so it didn’t work. That might loosely be called an episode, I suppose, if you want to split hairs. Possibly a few other things that I’ve now forgotten.’
‘Have you been to see anyone about them?’
‘Some years ago I did. Tuesday, I think. Some quack I found on the internet. I didn’t care for him. His eyes were too close together.’
‘What did he say?’
‘I don’t know. Lots of medical mumbo jumbo dressed up in monosyllables. I can’t remember now. He gave me some pills.’
‘Did you take them?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Are you still taking them?’
‘In principle, yes.’
‘When did you last take one?’
‘They ran out. I thought I had enough for the weekend. That’s what I thought. I was feeling a bit edgy on Friday for some reason, so I may have taken more than I should have. Doesn’t matter. The banks will be open tomorrow.’
‘So you’re not on any medication at the moment.’
‘Only this.’ I tap the whisky bottle and smile. Anna doesn’t smile. Anna gets up, takes the whisky bottle and pours it down the kitchen sink. Not the bottle, of course. You can’t pour a bottle down a sink. Unless it’s a miniature, and even then it’d be difficult. The whisky, I mean. I am now definitely concerned about her. Only a mad woman would do something like that.
‘Matthew, I think it’s time to get some sleep, don’t you? And I think your idea of sleeping in the spare room is a very good one. So why don’t we go upstairs, and I can give you a couple of sleeping pills. And tomorrow we can go and see someone who can help you. How does that sound?’
‘Most excellent,’ I say. ‘I wish I’d thought of it.’ In fact, I had thought of it. Some of it. I don’t want to point that out. I think Anna is in rather a fragile state.
12
I am lying in a striped deckchair on Anna’s lawn. The sky is the blue of swallows’ wings and the sun has nearly gone down. It is not especially warm, as warm as one can expect in late October. Anna has asked if I would rather be indoors. I would not. This feels like the last day of summer, and the proper obsequies should be observed. Of course, it might be the first day of winter. No one can tell these days.
In my hand is a glass of white wine, all Anna will allow me, and I had quite a fight to get that. It is nicely chilled, as am I. I’ve tried to draw a veil over yesterday. The veil is opaque and parts of the day shine through. The simplest thing would be to admit that I am ill. I rebel against the notion because I am not ill, and because I don’t have a high opinion of men who say they are. But several people have suggested that I’m ill and, if I fight their opinion, they’ll only think I’m more ill. It’s no use my saying that they are the ones who are ill, that I am now taking the first steps towards sanity. When more or less everyone believes the same thing, however mad it is, it becomes the benchmark for sanity. I’ve known that for a long time. It’s at the root of my quarrel with life.
I slept until lunchtime. When I awoke, I couldn’t work out where I was. I looked out of the window and saw Anna bending over a row of carrots. Carrots that had not had their tops chopped off. Carrots as they were intended to be. I realized I was at home. Of course, I wasn’t at home, or not yet, but I was still unwell, not ill but unwell, and I thought that I was. After lunch, Anna drove me into Bridgwater. I had assumed we were going to visit her doctor. She took me to a psychiatric hospital, which gave yet more people the opportunity to tell me I was ill. They considered keeping me in under observation. Anna told them that I lived in London and was only visiting. I suppose that it didn’t seem the right moment to insist that I now lived in the area.
I had bits of paper in my pocket t
hat related to the pills I’d been on, possibly a prescription, I really don’t know, so I was given some more of them. Then the doctor had a private word with Anna about some matter. And now we have come home, to Anna’s home, possibly mine, who can say, and I’m sitting on the lawn with a glass of wine. Anna is in another deckchair, looking at me. She is smiling now.
How do I feel? Well, not normal, for a start. I certainly can’t say I feel normal. I felt a lot more normal yesterday, funnily enough. Perhaps that means I now am normal, or more normal, whatever that is. Normal is the way we behave. When other people behave in the same way, we think them normal. When they don’t, we think them abnormal. It doesn’t really prove anything either way. So I may or may not be normal. I do feel calm, though, a lot calmer than yesterday. Someone has installed double glazing between me and the world. I feel detached, as if I’m looking down on myself and my life from an extraordinary height. So high, in fact, that Anna and I are two little specks on a green lawn, set amongst patchwork fields of grass and plough. I can hardly make us out.
I think Anna is waiting to have a conversation, trying to judge whether I am up to it. I don’t really want to have that conversation, or any conversation, only to be here. I suppose she’s right. There are matters we need to discuss. Many things happened yesterday that I’m not clear about. I do know that I telephoned Judy and told her I was leaving. I’m quite clear about that. I am also clear that it was a good decision. I don’t know how I was in a position to make good decisions yesterday. It seems that I was. One way and another, there is a lot that needs to be sorted out.
Sometime soon, I shall remind Anna about 1967. It seems the right time. Then we were sprawled together in the long grass, with only a transistor radio for company. Now we sit in deckchairs on a mown lawn, glasses of wine in hand, an old folk album playing through the open window. This is what life is, I tell myself: this is what it amounts to. Two deckchairs, two Ikea glasses, a bottle of cheap white wine, a hi-fi system and a lawn-mower. I had hoped to achieve more, but I’ll take it. I’ll take what’s on offer. It could have been one deckchair, one Ikea glass.