365

by James Robertson

  He could go to bed after the soup, but he’d only just got up. His spine was sore from lying too long.

  ‘How did this come back to us, eh? For a while we had it on the run. The population had thinned out so there was enough to go round. Now it’s back.’

  Four heats, if you counted imagining it before you felt it.

  Five, if you counted imagining it again later, after the soup.

  By that time he’d be in his bed.

  21 December

  The Woman Who Fell to Earth

  for Jim and Jane Swire

  We felt she belonged to us, although she was only here for a while. She came, she stayed, she left again.

  A man walking his dog found her lying in a field, her pale body covered in bruises. He thought she was dead, the victim of a murderous attack, but when he touched her face she opened her eyes. Covering her with his coat, and leaving the dog to guard her, he ran for help.

  We carried her to the inn, where her wounds were tended and she was clothed and fed. For weeks she was ill. We all contributed to the cost of her care. It was a miracle that she had come to us.

  She signalled her gratitude, but never spoke a word. Nobody knew who she was or how she had arrived. We tried her in many languages, without success. Given paper and pencil, she folded birds and shaded in their grey plumage.

  In time her bruises faded and her health returned. She now repaid us with kindnesses of her own, helping and caring wherever she could. We grew to love her silence, her beautiful smile. Sometimes, however, someone would find her standing under a winter sky watching the skeins of geese and listening to them call. In spring, when they left for the north, tears would run down her cheeks.

  She used to stand among the geese where they had settled in the fields, and they were not afraid of her. The farmers wanted to shoot them, but out of respect for her they put away their guns. She gathered goose feathers and kept them in a sack. We thought she wanted them to make a pillow.

  While she was among us peacefulness was in the village, and a generosity of spirit.

  One spring day, when the geese were especially loud overhead, she was not to be found. The sack was: it was empty, and folded away in a cupboard at the inn.

  We have not seen her since.

  This is still a good place to live, but we feel her absence every day. We think she went to be with her own folk, and this gives us a little comfort.

  22 December

  Sorrow and Love

  Sometimes I wonder where I’ve been all my life. There is an absence, a disconnect. I have been in the dark for years, watching a film about myself. Why do I feel like this? Why do I hardly feel at all? I am struggling here, trying to make sense of something senseless. I am sorry.

  That’s the last thing I should say. Actually, it’s the last thing anybody should say: I am sorry. That, and: I love you. If you could reach the end and say them both – I am sorry; I love you – that would be something. To feel those two things, and say them, and know what they meant. To mean them, truly mean them.

  To weigh up all you regret, all the hurt you caused, and offer that recognition. You wouldn’t be looking for absolution. You wouldn’t be apologising just so you could walk away. You would be acknowledging: There is nothing I can do about it now, it is done, but I am sorry.

  And then, to weigh up the kindness, the passion, the selflessness, the sacrifice, and offer this: that you loved. To say to someone, You were not the first, you were not the only, but because you are here now you are the gifted, you are the final recipient of the accumulated love I carry from life. Here, take them, my sorrow and my love, distribute them.

  It is of these that human lives are made.

  Then how is it that I am asking, Where have I been all my life? There is an absence, a gap, a dream. Either my life is the dream or I am. Decades and decades of dreaming. I reach out to touch my life and it is not here, or I am not here. One of us is not real. I have drifted down the river and when I look back I cannot believe the distance I have come. Perhaps I have not moved at all. Perhaps I am still dreaming. Yet the river flows on. If I know it so well, why does it look strange to me? Why is it so full of sorrow and love, and I so empty?

  23 December

  Jack and Death

  One day in town Jack becomes aware of a sinister figure lurking nearby, a tall, gaunt fellow in a grey hood and cloak. He gets it into his head that this is Death trying to sneak up on him.

  So Jack slips into a close, and when the hooded figure comes by he grabs him and puts a pocketknife to his throat.

  ‘Whit for are ye followin me?’ he says. ‘I’ve a mind tae slit yer thrapple here and noo.’

  ‘I’m not following you,’ says Death. ‘We just happen to be going in the same direction.’

  ‘Well, I’ve caught ye noo,’ says Jack, ‘so tell me why I shouldna finish ye aff. The world wid be a better place withoot ye.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Jack,’ Death says. ‘Even if you could kill me, you’d cause more problems than you’d solve. Let me show you something.’

  Further down the close is a window. They look in. An old man is lying in bed twisted in pain, with a tearful old woman nursing him as best she can.

  ‘That’s where I’m due next,’ Death says. ‘If you stop me, his pain will go on and so will her distress. That’s not right, is it?’

  So Jack lets Death go in, and soon the old man is lying at peace and the woman is drying her eyes and sending up prayers of gratitude to God.

  Death returns to Jack’s side. ‘She’s thanking the wrong person,’ he says, ‘but she’s glad I came.’

  ‘All right,’ Jack says, ‘I’ll let ye go if ye promise tae leave me alane till I’m as auld as that auld man.’

  ‘I can’t promise that,’ Death says. ‘You might step in front of a horse or be struck down with an incurable disease this very night. You must take your chances like everybody else.’

  ‘But noo I ken whit ye look like, when I see ye comin I’ll fecht ye,’ Jack says.

  ‘Jack,’ says Death, ‘if you see me coming you’ll know it’s time to go. And if you don’t, which is more likely, you’ll just think I’m the other fellow.’

  ‘God, ye mean?’ says Jack.

  ‘No, son, not God,’ says Death. ‘Life.’

  24 December

  One of Those Traditions

  Didn’t think I’d make it, did you? Not that you’ve ever said so to my face, but you’ve had plenty of conversations behind my back. I’m deaf but I’m not daft. I know what’s going on when those low murmurs start in the kitchen. And do you think I don’t imagine the telephone conferences you conduct from the safety of your own homes? How much longer do you think he’ll last? He’s definitely losing it. Going downhill. Worse every time you see him. Well, of course I am, I’m old and getting older. I’m hardly going to get better, am I?

  Yes, I’ve been guilty of expressing just that ridiculous optimism. I’ve used the phrase ‘when I get better’, and I’ve watched your faces clouding over as you hear me say it. Got to do something to amuse myself. May as well generate a change in your weather systems once in a while. Wipe the bonhomie off your silly mugs.

  The truth is, you didn’t think I’d make it to last Christmas. Well, here I am, so stick that in your stove and light it. Who’s losing it now, eh?

  I don’t blame you, actually, for not discussing my future prospects with me. Too depressing. And if I get depressed, are you surprised? Can’t do much for myself and when I try I make an arse of it and that brings another reading of the riot act: Don’t stand up without one of us there to assist; don’t carry things while using your Zimmer; don’t stretch for your cup; don’t breathe without permission. With her it’s like living with the police, then you lot arrive and it’s as if MI5 and a vigilante committee have piled in too.

  It’s not your fault. And I do like it when you come. You’re busy people and I appreciate you taking the time to see me. You just didn’t expect
to see me this Christmas, but there you are. Full of surprises, life.

  I blame life. One bloody day after another, that’s what life is.

  Let’s have the carol service from King’s College, Cambridge. One of those traditions I hate. I’ve always hated it. And I still can.

  25 December

  Another Child is Born

  You sometimes hear it said about a baby, new-born or perhaps a few weeks old. Usually by women of a certain age. Women of a certain age say it of babies of a certain age. They look into the baby’s eyes and say, ‘This one’s been here before.’ That’s their judgement. The baby looks at them and they look at it – no, they look into its eyes, at its look – and they consider, and then they come out with this declaration. ‘This one’s been here before.’

  What a burden to place on a baby! She has not long arrived, she has only just started processing tastes, textures, colours, is still struggling to focus on objects and people. Her primary concern is latching on to a breast and feeding. The deeper matters of existence – if that is what they are – have not occurred to her. They are irrelevant. The possibility that she is on a return visit is not on her agenda. It is on the women’s agenda. Likewise the unstated assumption: that if indeed she has been here before, she will be here again. Another life in another form in another future – and more to follow – before she has even begun this time round!

  And there was that other baby. And you think how – when wise men came from the east saying, ‘We have seen his star,’ and when priests and scribes spoke of prophecies fulfilled and Herod was troubled, and when those wise men found that baby and gave gifts, including myrrh, the anointing oil of death, and when angels appeared to shepherds who also went to see the child and then told everybody about him – all these were really other ways of saying, ‘This one’s been here before,’ and ‘This one will be here again.’ But that time these things were said by men, and so were taken seriously. And Herod slew all the children under two, in Bethlehem and all around, and the voice of lamentation was heard, and a religion was born.

  And Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart. But how she must have trembled when she heard those men say what they came to say.

  26 December

  The Madwoman

  Everything was too much, yet it was not enough.

  They needed to escape from the cold leftovers, the empty bottles and the full bottles, the packaging, the piles of presents, the tree, the decorations. The whole family felt this need. Taking the first opportunity, they drove to the mall for the sales.

  At the end of the street the madwoman was in her garden, shouting at the crows. The crows were shouting back at her, or perhaps they had started it. They wheeled above her as she scolded them. She did not appear to notice the car going past.

  The madwoman was the family’s little joke. ‘She’s crazy!’ one of the children had said once, seeing her dancing along the gravel path. To them she was an entertainment. They did not know her name or indeed anything about her except that she lived in that house and was not like them.

  The mall was packed with people like them. Everybody moved at the same bumping, clumsy pace. Families were laughing and bickering. Sometimes a mother yelled at a child. Some people smiled, others looked cross.

  There were no seats free in any of the food-court outlets. They bought burgers and ate them standing.

  It was so good to get out of the house.

  They returned to the car hours later carrying bags full of many things. They worked out how much money they had saved by not buying those things the week before, and were pleased with the bargains they had got. The week before they had bought other things without making such savings, but that was different. It was a different time, a different experience.

  When they turned into their street they saw the madwoman again. She was still in her garden, standing on the grass in the half-light. For all they knew she had been out there the entire time they had been away shopping, shouting at birds or dancing along her path or just standing as she was doing now. She was looking up at something in the sky, but it wasn’t crows. The crows had gone.

  The madwoman was the family’s little joke, but nobody mentioned her as they drove past.

  27 December

  Jack and the Giant

  Jack was no longer a young man. One day he was walking through a forest when he met Death. It was years since they’d last met. She’d changed. She linked arms with Jack and they ambled together along the path for a while, then embraced and parted.

  There was a blue door in a red stone wall. Jack went through it.

  A gentle, broad, grassy slope led towards a magnificent palace gleaming in the sunshine. The gate was open so in he went. It was the palace of a giant, who came down the marble steps to greet him.

  ‘Jack! Good to see you! In you come. I’ll show you to your room. Anything you want, Jack, it’s yours.’

  Everything about the palace is beautiful, from its ornate galleries to its cool fountains, from the sweet background music to the tables laden with fine food. Jack is impressed, but it bothers him that the place is almost empty: all this wealth and luxury shared by just a handful of folk, each looking down his nose at the others, and at Jack too.

  Jack seeks out his genial host.

  ‘Where is everybody?’ he asks.

  ‘Why, everybody’s here, Jack,’ the giant says.

  ‘Naw, naw,’ says Jack. ‘Where’s aw the ither folk?’

  ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘Folk like masel,’ Jack says. ‘Is onybody allowed in here?’

  ‘Not just anybody,’ the giant says. ‘You have to sit a kind of exam.’

  ‘Weel, I never sat an exam in ma life,’ says Jack, ‘so how am I here?’

  ‘You don’t really know you’re sitting it at the time,’ the giant says. ‘Only I know.’

  ‘And whit dae ye hae tae dae tae pass this exam?’

  ‘Would you like one of these lovely peaches?’ the giant asks.

  ‘Thanks,’ says Jack, ‘but if ye dinna mind, I’ll just step oot for some fresh air.’

  ‘I don’t mind, Jack, but if you go out you won’t be let back in. It’s very nice here. Where will you go?’

  ‘I’ll keep walking, and see whit happens.’

  ‘But nothing might happen, Jack.’

  ‘That’s true,’ says Jack, ‘but I’d rather find oot for masel.’

  And he passes through the gleaming gate, and continues up the hill.

  28 December

  Fifteen Minutes

  So, he was in the room. He had fifteen minutes.

  His torturer was strapped to a horizontal frame, just as he had been. Naked, just as he had been. Various implements were laid out on a table. He had been told what to expect. Nevertheless he was surprised at how completely the intervening years vanished.

  The man’s eyes watched him as he walked over to the table, picked up a baton, felt its weight, put it back down.

  He bent over the man. Yes, this was certainly his torturer. There was no forgetting or mistaking that face.

  Those bound hands had inflicted on him unspeakable brutalities and humiliations. He still did not quite believe that he had survived.

  The choice was his. In fifteen minutes they would return and it would be over, whatever he had done or not done.

  ‘We know what you went through,’ they said. ‘You have immunity, for fifteen minutes only. Do what you wish.’

  What he would do depended on what he saw in his torturer’s eyes.

  If he saw fear or remorse, he might go in one direction. He would not forgive, but he might walk away.

  If he saw arrogance and scorn, he might go in another direction. The impotence, pain and terror he had felt might boil up, and he would use the things on the table with quick, blind fury.

  But how could he know what he was seeing?

  The man was not gagged. He said nothing.

  If he walked away, the torturer might belie
ve himself still victorious. He might despise his victim all over again.

  If he did to the man even a tenth of what had been done to him, what would he have become? Into what new hell would he have descended?

  The weakest thing was being unable to decide.

  The minutes ticked away.

  He had two questions.

  ‘Why did you do those things to me?’

  ‘How could you do such things to anyone?’

  He looked into the eyes. Still the man did not speak.

  ‘Do you understand me?’

  The man nodded.

  He thought: He does not know the answers either.

  When he realised this, he knew what he was going to do.

  29 December

  My Encounter with the President

  Not for the first time there were no cards marking the seats for which passengers had made reservations. I had reserved a seat, from Perth, but when I reached it I found it already occupied by a tall, elegant man with short black hair beginning to go grey in places. He was working on a laptop but looked up at my approach and gave me a broad and beautiful smile. To my astonishment I recognised him as Barack Obama, forty-fourth President of the United States of America.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘I’m in your seat?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but please don’t disturb yourself. Luckily the train isn’t that busy. Would you mind if I sat here?’ I indicated the seat on the other side of the table.

  ‘Go ahead, please,’ he said. ‘I greatly appreciate your not making a fuss.’

  He waited until I had settled myself before returning to his laptop. He tapped away at the keyboard, occasionally pausing to think or reread. I wondered if he was writing one of those speeches for which he is justly famous.