The iron beds in the children’s rooms date back to the 1700s; they were forged by the local blacksmith and one of the ministers. The beds are made up with quilts and crocheted pillows donated by the Knit and Natter group. Several times we’ve found young children curled up and asleep in the folds of a blanket.
As soon as our doors open, Mrs Finlay bustles in. You could set the town clock to her movements.
‘Morning, you two.’
‘Hi, Mrs Finlay,’ Colleen calls out from the kitchen.
‘How are you this morning?’ I ask, taking her carrier bag of books from her.
‘Good, thank you.’ She leans in close as I start returning her books. ‘I’ve just heard that someone’s coming to make a documentary about our little village. Isn’t that exciting? I heard they chose us over those other people up the road.’ She nods her head towards Bellingford, as if saying the name would break some sort of allegiance. She looks at me and smiles, but then frowns a second later. ‘God, you look dreadful, Emily.’
‘I don’t know what to say to that, Mrs Finlay.’
‘Sorry, but you do. Even your lovely brown curls are drooping. What have you been doing?’
‘I think the honeymoon phase is over,’ Colleen says as she places a cup of tea on the desk beside me.
‘Surely not. It’s only been a year—or is it two? Anyway, you probably just need more sex,’ Mrs Finlay says, making Colleen snort and me blush.
Even the word makes me recoil.
It—sex—is nothing like I imagined it would be from the novels I’d read. It’s closer to stories about a wild animal attacking its prey than any romance novel. The only difference is, in my case, when the beast has finished, he doesn’t run off into the woods but flakes out beside me. Other than the fact that my body parts are involved, the whole thing could take place without me. I’ve opened my mouth a few times to say what I’m feeling, but Rob’s not a guy you explain things to, and my words dry up somewhere before I can get them out anyway.
I make an attempt to smile back at the two of them. A huge part of me wants to ask them what I should do, but I know I should be able to figure it out on my own.
WILLIAM
I cradle the image of today’s patient in my mind. Cup her gently in my thoughts as I meander up the path from my garden shed. I call them ‘patients’, but that’s just habit; drop-ins or book borrowers describe them better. I don’t encourage people to come, but they somehow find me. They arrive nursing wounds that have often been festering below the surface for years. I will them to look up and see the quote from Rumi that I painted above the door: ‘The wound is where the light enters you.’
Often, their colours are jagged like someone has hacked at them with pinking shears. I’ve always seen people, and letters, in colours. My earliest memories are of my mother, who was sea-foam green, and my father, the deep reds of dried blood. I inherited the trait from my mother, as well as a few more. She explained it away as a mere blending of some senses. To her it was as mundane as the fact that my hooked nose came from Grandma Lake. But it’s always made me feel flawed, as if there was something inherently wrong with me.
Juno, my chocolate Lab, appears from the side of my house and bounds towards me. Her tail whips at the wild flowers growing beside the path. She slobbers on my sleeve, and her tongue licks my hand. She’s got no sense of time; her welcome is the same whether I’ve been gone five minutes or five hours. I scratch between her ears and see the gratitude in her tail.
‘Hey, Juno.’
She trails me up the path, making sure I don’t deviate from finding her food. I stoop down and gather an armload of wood from the side of the house. I push the front door open with my foot, and Juno sneaks in before the wind slams it shut behind us. Balthazar meows and smooches past me on the way to his front-row seat by the fire. I lean forward and let the pile of logs fall from my arms into the copper tub.
The smell of chicken wafts from the kitchen. I’m not hungry, but I ladle a cup of soup from the Crock-Pot into a bowl. I slump down in my armchair and rest the bowl in my lap. I blow lightly on the soup, more out of habit than a need to cool it. The light from the table lamp casts an amber glow around the room. On the first day that I moved into the cottage, I climbed up a ladder and took all the overhead light bulbs out. I couldn’t stand the harshness of the light and couldn’t think of any reason to have everything illuminated at once.
I watch the flames of the fire leap around, imitating my thoughts. I return to the image of today’s patient in my mind and move to the bookshelf. My fingertips shuffle across the spines of the books. One of them holds a message, but I’m not sure which one. Usually, I can prescribe a book for someone on a first meeting; a thought of what I could give them is forming as they’re talking. Today I had a block, and tonight a sharp pain in the middle of my temple means that I’m having trouble following a thought through to the end.
I doze in my armchair until the cold wakes me in the early hours. I brew a pot of tea and take it to my writing desk. I roll up the mahogany top and finger some sheets of coloured paper before settling on the yellow. I slide a sheet into an old typewriter that belonged to my mother. I love the feeling of the cold curved typewriter keys beneath my fingertips. The tap, tap sound as my thoughts are transferred to paper. A purging: freeing up space for the new thoughts. My mother taught me to jot down my thoughts as soon as I could write. It was her way of channelling my tendency to blurt out whatever came to me into something more acceptable. My thoughts—there was something ugly inside Uncle Bill, or Mavis next door was going to die soon—were rerouted onto pages and never spoken out loud. My father too encouraged me to ‘keep my mouth shut’. I sometimes thought I’d suffocate on all the words I never got to say.
I type until I see the upper edge of the sun appear on the horizon.
I take my coat from the stand by the front door and tuck the book I’ve chosen into a pocket. I’m ambushed on the porch by Juno, a muddy boot clenched in her mouth. She drops it at my feet and runs off to find her lead. The light is still dim, and streamers of mist are strung between the rooftops. There’s a certain kind of quiet that rests in the village at this hour of the morning. Like a set on a stage before the actors walk on and take over.
I notice a ball of colour in the distance, and as I get closer, I recognise the forest green of my neighbour Arlo. We share an apple tree at the bottom of our gardens. It’s old and doesn’t bear much fruit, but it provides the perfect amount of shade. Beneath its gnarly branches, afternoons have disappeared as we’ve traded stories and tried to make some sense of the world. Having Arlo to talk to, knowing that he doesn’t judge me, has been one of the best gifts I’ve ever been given.
I call out to him now, and he pauses at the crossroads for me to catch up. I nod towards the box of veggies that he’s carrying. ‘Where are you off to so early?’
‘It’s Wicked Wednesday.’ He winks before heading off up the street.
I head down towards Water Street. In the guildhall, there’s a photo of the street when one of the tributary rivers used to flow straight down it. Mrs Finlay said it was her great-grandfather who came up with the idea of diverting the water under the road, through a pipe and into the wool factory that made the town famous. I stop at one of the houses built on top of the culvert and slide the book through the mail slot. Along the street, Agnes is struggling to drag her husband inside the house. A broken bottle and an impression of a body shape are obvious in her flower bed. Across the hedgerow that separates their backyards, Rowena yells out to her neighbour.
‘Just leave him where the good Lord flung him, Agnes.’
I quicken my step. Two veteran oaks act as sentries at the entrance to the woodlands. I bow my head in a greeting to both. At the kissing gates, I unleash Juno, and she licks at my hand before racing off into the woods. Branches of alders arch over the path and reach like lovers to entangle with the branches on the other side. Rays of morning light filter down through the canopy, and the sc
ent of sweet honeysuckle fills the air. As I wander through the cathedral of trees, I let out a long sigh.
My shoulders release down and my face relaxes. I take my shoes off and feel the leaves and the earth beneath my soles. I scrunch up my toes a few times and then stand still and soak up the woodlands. They seep in through all my senses, and a calmness settles over me. I’m aware of the in and out of my breath. With my eyes closed, I inhale the smell of pine and feel the coolness on the inside of my nostrils. I can hear a melancholy cry from a bullfinch in the distance. There’s a rustle near my feet, and I open my eyes in time to see a dormouse scurrying away beneath some leaves. I wander along the path, pausing at the end of each step. I’m in no rush.
The fluffy spikes of goldenrod wave out to me from the edge of the woodlands. Most people consider it a weed, but I love the flash of sunlight colour and the plant’s determination to strive in the poorest of conditions. I pick some flowers before getting distracted by the scarlet of nearby rosehips. I snip a few of those stems and admire the way they lace themselves so tightly into the hedgerows.
I stop at the library on my way back and place the flowers in a shaded part of the porch. I leave a scribbled note for Emily and Colleen before tucking it under the flowers so it can’t blow away.
The main street is now swarming with cars and people. A group of tourists is taking selfies with cameras perched on long metal sticks outside the leaning Tudor-style shops. A car takes up two parks on the narrow cobblestone street. I recognise the man at the wheel as Arlo’s son, Marco. His colours of burnt orange with slashes of midnight blue couldn’t belong to anyone else. I wave out to him, but he’s yelling into his mobile phone and doesn’t notice me. I’m still looking at the car window as I step onto the road. It’s in that moment that the delivery van pulls into the same space.
Then there is no colour.
MARCO
‘Fuck, I’ve gotta go. Some fuckin’ moron just stepped out in front of a van.’ I put the phone on the seat and look around, hoping that someone else will go to his aid.
The van driver’s out of his vehicle and yelling at the guy on the road but making no sense at all. As I go to the front of my car, I see that the moron has pushed himself up to sitting.
‘Marco?’
‘William?’
Shit. Blood is pouring from a gash on his head. First I get stuck in traffic, and now this. I’m careful not to get any blood on my suit as I lean down.
‘Jesus, William. Are you alright?’
‘Yes. I just lost my vision for a second.’
I place my hands under his arms to pull him up, but he’s so light I nearly throw him skywards. He’s lost heaps of weight since last time I was home.
The guy from the van jumps back in his vehicle and roars off.
‘Fuckin’ idiot,’ I say to his tail lights. ‘Come on, William, I’ll drop you at the doctor’s.’
‘I’m okay. I can walk.’
‘Yeah, Dad would like to hear that I let his best friend walk to the doctor’s after a van hit him. Come on.’
I open the door to my car and push him in from behind. This little accident may well work in my favour. I drive for two minutes before stopping alongside the thatched cottage that houses the doctor.
A nurse rushes William into one of the cubicles when she sees the blood dripping from his head.
A girl behind the desk slaps some papers on the counter. ‘Fill out this form,’ she says before looking up at me.
‘Marco?’
‘Kay.’
Fuck. Kay Baxter. A girl I didn’t date but slept with several times in high school. She reminds me why I don’t come home much.
‘I haven’t seen you around for a while. Are you still selling real estate in London?’ Her big smile is desperate, and I note that she’s not wearing a wedding band. I could still be in if I wanted.
‘Yeah. It’s really busy. I’m just here for a day.’
‘That’s a shame. Maybe we could catch up next time.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘I’m here Mondays and Tuesdays. Oh, and at the Swan on Friday and Saturday nights.’
I nod and take a seat as far away from the desk as possible. I don’t plan on being around long enough to need her.
JAMES
Red ivy creeps along the parchment-coloured walls of the university building. The grotesques carved from stone glare at me from their posts along the top of the wall. A sense of unease weaves its way through my body and out into my clammy hands. My heart starts racing as I try to keep pace and concentrate on the information my appointed buddy is firing at me.
‘Mix ’n’ mingle at seven in the common room after dinner, which is served in the dining room at five,’ he tells me, pointing to some buildings in the distance. ‘Library that way, arts building that way,’ and then he switches to quadrants and handbooks … blah, blah, blah. My thoughts are all over the place, and I don’t trust myself to speak. I keep nodding like some car ornament, and I see him look at me strangely. I’m relieved when he unlocks the door to my room and instructs me to ‘unpack and get ready for the evening’.
My suitcase topples onto the dark wooden floorboards, and I sink down onto the bed. My room’s not much bigger than my wardrobe at home, and a feeling of claustrophobia descends on me. I open the small leadlight window to let some light in, but it only opens a fraction, caught by the trunk of a giant maple.
I check the time on my new mobile.
‘We’ll be able to keep in touch daily,’ Mum assured me as she handed me their gift.
‘I think that James will probably have better things to do than phone his mum each day.’ Dad winked at me, which made Mum blush.
I hang up my clothes and unpack my things into the drawers. I move the lamp around the desk before settling it on the left-hand side and lay my pens alongside it. I’d thought of bringing a memento from home, but I couldn’t think what it should be. I check my phone and see that only five minutes have passed since last time I looked. I flop onto the bed and stare at a black smudge on the ceiling. I think about the other people who must have stared at this same spot and wonder what they were thinking. Did they too question what the hell they were doing here?
A bell rings in the distance; I have no idea what it’s for. God, I hope it’s not a fire bell. I hear the sound of voices and people walking past my door. I poke my head out as two girls walk past. There is a huge noise coming from a room at the end of the hallway.
‘Come on,’ one of the girls calls over her shoulder to me. I force myself to follow them. People are everywhere. A spindly girl with cropped red hair stands on a chair and shouts at people to be quiet. The guy next to me makes a face and yells out to his mate across the room. I untuck my collared shirt when I see everyone else is in jeans and casual shirts. I have a special knack for never blending in. A gap opens up in the throng of students, and, without thinking, I move into it. It closes around me, and I’m trapped in a wall of people. I stand on my tiptoes and look for an exit but can’t find a way out. There’s a tightening in my chest, and I try to suck in more air. Tingling starts in my fingers, and I freeze as it travels up my arms. Something is really off. Numbness crawls up my neck and takes over my head. I feel like I’m thickening, and the room starts to spin. I want to sit down, but I know I’d suffocate if I did. I have to get out.
I don’t understand what’s happening. I try to say something, but I have no saliva, and my tongue feels swollen and isn’t moving. I push people out of the way, and some of them shove me back. My heart thumps against the inside of my chest. I must be having a heart attack. God, is this dying? Shit, I need air. I stagger out to the quadrant and slump down onto the grass. My breathing is forced, and my in-breath is a gasp. My limbs feel heavy and immovable, but another part of me is restless and urges me to stand up and keep moving.
A girl walks over to me, but I wave her away and keep pacing. My fast movements fan cool air onto my face. Slowly, the world tilts back onto its axis. I
notice the rain and a crowd of people watching me from the shelter of a stone archway. One of them yells out, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. I turn and walk in the opposite direction.
I find my way to the river and slide down the bank. I sit on the grassy verge and watch the steady flow of water. I used to believe, as a boy, that the river had magical powers. The colder the water, the stronger the power. For a moment, I think about walking down into the river, but then I feel my shoulders relax, and my breathing returns to normal. I cradle my head in my hands. What the hell just happened? I haven’t been here for twenty-four hours, and already I’ve messed up. Marked myself as the weird guy.
I wait for the cover of darkness before winding my way along a path and back to my room. I pull off my wet clothes and leave them in a pile on the floor before climbing into bed. A chill has seeped into my body; I wrap my arms around myself to warm up.
A bell rings out in the morning, but I can’t make myself get up. A few hours later, I feel pains in my stomach and remember that the last time I ate was on the train. I force myself to walk to the dining hall for lunch. I take a seat at one of the long tables. Tingling starts in my arms. Please, God, not again. My heart starts racing, and I can feel myself panicking as my breathing goes all funny. I run outside and head for my room.
A feeling of heaviness pins me to my bed in the morning, and I miss my first class. My stomach still doesn’t feel right, and the thought of food makes me nauseous. I touch my forehead, looking for signs of a fever, but it feels normal. I make myself get dressed and take the main path from my dorm to the lecture hall. I pull the hood of my duffel coat over my forehead as far down as it will go.
The Liminal Space Page 2