by Penny Thomas
This scene lacks the dramatic impact of the last, I know, but take note anyway. It’s going to be more difficult to see because I can’t touch the ground. Did I tell you that? I’m no longer of this earth and so I’m condemned never to be united with it. I’ve tried dive bombing it and creeping up on it but as soon as I get within a handful of inches I’m pinged back into the air like a cork from a bottle. You don’t realise how much you miss making mud pies until you’re deprived of them forever.
So, we’ll just hang around here and look through the window. I won’t tell you who this one is, it’ll spoil the ending, but look at her face. See the anxiety scratched there. Eyes constantly seeking the clock, watching the seconds twitch forwards. Tick-tock, tick-tock. She’s waiting, and she’s worrying, and the only thing that’s stopping her from going out and looking is the babe in the next room.
Seen enough? Then up we go again, and forward a couple of hours, and back to the grieving mother. I like the way you winced then, you’re less like me already. That’s good.
So behold the bereaved, rocking in her chair. The telephone keeps ringing, the front door keeps opening, people keep talking to her, trying to reach her, but she can’t hear them. Memories louder than words. Don’t turn your face away, that’s cheating. I’ll just keep talking anyway.
The front door opens again, and in he walks! That got your attention! She doesn’t raise her head at first, she doesn’t focus, but then she sees, and she hears the gasps around her, and she starts to walk towards him with her hands up in front of her face. He must be real because they all see him too. A dead man walking! A tumble of snapped bones and bloodied flesh put back together and made live again. How can that be? He’s bruised and confused. He opens his mouth to ask something and then she’s on him and he’s driven backwards by the force of her body and her joy.
Are you looking? Heart-warming, isn’t it? Imagine getting the chance to regain the one you’ve lost. Imagine that. And now in pile the relatives and the friends and the gruesome spectators. We’ll pull away now, I don’t want you to piece the puzzle together yet, and arrive at the ending before you’ve actually arrived at the ending.
And back to the clouds. Shall we dance for a while? I spend hours on the clouds above the cliff, our cliff, just dancing and grooving. It does tend to distract me from my task, though, and a fair few with intentions like yours slip past me and over the edge. He, the dead man, was one I was aware of and had to let go, though I wanted to intervene. I always want to intervene, once they’ve got my attention. But his was a cautionary tale too perfect, all the twists and turns and drama.
You’ve sure got some moves! Show me that jive again. I love it! Let’s go from the top just one more time, then I’ll spin us to the last couple of tableaux and get out of your hair. I’m sure you’re sick of me by now.
Do you recognise this street? Are you okay? Lie back and breathe deeply. You’ll be fine. So, we’re several hours before ‘The Return of the Prodigal Son’, now, and his day hasn’t even started yet. Here he is, he’s just cut down that alleyway and he’s in a rush. In slips a man behind him. Let’s get closer and see what happens.
Ooh! Bet that hurt! And he’s down like a sack of spuds. He’ll have a lump there the size of an egg, tomorrow. Away with his wallet and his briefcase. Even his jacket! But at least the thief has left him his shoes. We’ll leave the Prodigal Son to his dreams, we know he’s going to be okay because we saw him this very evening. Well, this very evening last Thursday. If you see what I mean? I’m getting my tenses confused but I’m sure you see what I mean.
So we’ll stick with the thief. He doesn’t look happy does he? The jacket’s a perfect fit, though, that should cheer him up. And into the pocket the wallet goes. A pivotal moment. Shall I spin us back a few seconds and replay that? Are you getting how this is going to end yet?
In and out of the shop, and what’s that? Looks like whisky to me. He’s a thirsty one! And he’s left the briefcase open on the street. Litter bug! Oops, nearly dropped you there, sorry. Let me hold you a bit tighter and get us above the houses. Yes, and the pylons! You know where we’re going, don’t you? I want to reach there first. Let him catch us up when he’s good and ready.
Ah, smell that sea breeze! I love the view from up here, which is lucky because I’ll be spending eternity taking it in. And here he comes, right on cue. Let’s shift over a bit, make room for him. He wants to look over the edge for a while and test his resolve. It’s a long way down and no way back up. Is he as desperate as you, do you think? As determined? Or is he just indulging a moment of petty cut-off-my-nose-to-spite-my-face? It never fails to amaze me how casually some people will extinguish their own light, particularly when they’ve had a couple of snifters. He’ll need some time though, so we’ll give him that. We’ve all been here after all.
I think he’s ready to go! Hang onto me, I’m going over with him. I love this bit, when we plummet together face to face. Isn’t this great? I can almost feel my once-stomach flipping upside down. Stop screaming! It’ll be the last ride you ever take, so why not enjoy it? Just look at him. You don’t have to be a ghost to tell what he’s thinking right now. Bit late though, isn’t it?
Okay, this may jolt a bit, but I’ll do my best to slow us down before the dreaded ping throws us back up again.
Woohoo, that was fun! Can we do it again? Oh, you forgot that I can’t touch the ground! Did you think you were done for? Take a look at him before we spin out of here. The wallet lying on his chest like a badge of honour. He’s still alive, just. Go on, take another look. No? All right, up, up, up we go, and then the final spin back to now, and I’ll leave you be. No harm done. Not to you anyway. Not yet.
I’ve had an idea! Why don’t we spin forward a few more hours and see how the girlfriend takes the news, once they’ve sorted out the mix-up with the identities? You forgot about her, didn’t you? But she’s still out there, watching the clock and hoping and getting ready to fling her arms around her man. She won’t get a chance to have her insides back. Are you sure? Shame.
Well, here we are, back at the beginning. I’m sure you were nearer the edge when I put you down. So are you going to jump? Go on, I’m dying, ha ha, to hear what you’ve decided.
Good man! So many ripples, and so much pain, and that’s without counting yours. Believe me, what you saw down there hurts like a bastard. Go home now and give her a kiss from me. Whoever she is, whoever’s in your life who needs her insides to stay right where they are, give her a kiss from me. I do miss the kissing.
Do you want to know another thing? I’m going to miss you. I really enjoyed the company and the larking around. I was hoping that we’d have an eternity of hanging out together.
So if you ever change your mind, I’ll still be here. I’m not going anywhere.
Harvest
Sian Preece
‘A writer?’ says Mrs Quinn. ‘We’ve had writers before…’ and she is so obviously trying to conceal some emotion that I suspect she’s had a hard time with them – a spoilt old bachelor fussing about his nursery food, or an arrogant boy who left cigarette burns in the furniture and thought he was Jack Kerouac. I determine to be No Trouble At All.
‘A poet,’ I add, to get it out in the open. I judge Mrs Quinn to be in her seventies at least, and imagine the memorised museum of thees and thous and strict rhyme schemes that must represent ‘poetry’ to her. But she shows none of the usual fear, and just says:
‘You’ll be quiet here.’
I feel we’ve reached an understanding.
She shows me the workings of the cottage – the place where the logs are kept, the tricksy half-turn that brings soft, cold water to the single tap – and conveys, by a series of delicate hints, how not to clog the toilet. There’s a small wood-burning stove in the vast fireplace, and a smoke-stained mantle above hinting at larger, more glorious fires in the past.
‘The local standing stones were scavenged to build the house,’ says Mrs Quinn. ‘People didn’t
understand then. About history. It could have been the Welsh Stonehenge! But to be fair, they raided the old church too – the garden wall is built from Norman stones – and, see, that little round window, set into the wall.’
There is still glass in it, no bigger than a saucer, a central cross of lead letting a thin yellow light into the dark room. The other windows are uncurtained, but there’s a thick tapestry to pull around the bed at night, a lumpy horsehair single bunk opposite the fireplace. It smells of damp and woodsmoke and other people’s sleep.
‘There’s still an ancient burial chamber,’ says Mrs Quinn, ‘a cairn, if you walk into the woods a bit. I’ve left some leaflets…’ There they are, fanned across the rough table on which I am to eat and work for the next few weeks. ‘Neolithic. Or is it some other…Stone Age? Anyway, very old. It’s all in the leaflets.’ She taps them with a finger.
Already proprietorial, wanting her out so I can take possession of the cottage, I walk her to the end of the garden where she shows me the tall, thin shed outside the gate, like a sentry box, where she will be leaving my meals each morning. My washing too if I want it done, for a small extra sum…
‘I’ll be fine,’ I tell her. I tend to wear the same clothes for weeks when I’m on a project. (This, I don’t tell her. People imagine you smell, and they may be right.)
‘Leave a note if you want anything,’ she says. ‘Or come down to the farmhouse if you’re lonely.’
She smiles, and I smile back; I won’t be.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
She sets off to the end of the track, where her grandson will come and pick her up on the quad bike. I see her wave to him, down in the valley below, and she stands to wait for him with that countryside placidity, not fidgeting or checking her watch. She wears no watch. I was right to come here. I wish I could stay to watch her ride off, daintily side-saddle on the pillion seat, but I turn back to the cottage and embark on my project of being No Trouble.
People do expect trouble from poets – breakdowns and crises, jealous love affairs. At parties they ask hopefully if I have ‘an over-active imagination’, and seem disappointed when I say that I do not. Flaubert wrote to a female admirer: Be regular and orderly in your life like a bourgeois, so that you may be violent and original in your work. I agree with this philosophy. So I see to my comforts, as particular as a cat, and like a cat I have no fear of dark nights or lonely forests. The drama happens on the page.
When I can be sure that Mrs Quinn has gone, I take a small, leg-stretching walk around the garden, tracing its circular perimeter, then come back in to try working at the table until the light fades. I get nothing useful done, but I know this is part of the process, the composting. I am patient. I reheat Mrs Quinn’s ‘welcome’ meal of a lamb stew on the little stove, leave the rinsed pot at the sentry box, and return to the cottage, locking the door, though she said that no one ever comes here. Teeth and face washed in the cold water, I draw the curtain around my bed and prepare for a good night’s sleep.
I sleep, but I am annoyed to find, in the morning, that I have dreamed. I know I always have dreams, like anyone, but I usually wake at the right time in my sleep cycle to forget them. I’ve been disturbed. It’s dawn, the birds probably woke me, and I go to the window and look out to the sentry box; I know my dream was set there, but I can remember no more, and it fades.
I can see I’m going to have to rise every day at dawn, if the birds have their way. But this is fine, I like the idea of corresponding to old patterns – bed at dusk, rise with the sun. I think I can find some natural rhythm there that will help.
Nevertheless, the work doesn’t go well today. After a few hours I take Mrs Quinn’s leaflets and go to look for the burial cairn. It’s not far from the cottage, but down a steep hill, I can see how it was missed when they were plundering stones for the house. The leaflet describes its various parts – the chambers where, when the mound was excavated a century ago, they found the bones of forty people, crockery, animal remains. It’s a low, open construction, no higher than my waist at any point, and it looks quite sweet, like a den that children would make if they had the patience to pile stone upon stone in such numbers. I like the chambers, each leading off a narrow central corridor. They are snug, like the cells of a honeycomb. Inviting and person-sized. I sit in one like a bath and feel nothing sinister, just the sun’s warmth radiating back out from the rock. I wish I knew more about geology, history. There’s a large slab at one end that the leaflet suggests, wistfully, may be ‘a sacrifice stone’, but I think of as The Picnic Table – I’ve brought the food that Mrs Quinn left this morning, and sit down on the table to eat it.
I was surprised that, though I had risen at dawn, she had still managed to get up before me and leave a small feast in the sentry box – a Thermos of coffee, hard-boiled eggs, bread that is surely home-made. A small pot of honey. When I arrived at the farm, she was checking her beehives, without a veil or gloves, and walked calmly to greet me through a tangle of cottage garden flowers, the dark, buzzing haze of the swarm parting around her. In a neat print frock and tennis shoes, she struck me as a proper farmer’s wife, gliding over the mud where I clumped laboriously in my hiking boots.
I shake the crumbs off my lap and set off back home. My work is waiting where I left it on the table. As my eyes adjust to the dark interior, I scowl at it – perhaps I would do better to take it to the cairn tomorrow. I eat a huge, delicious pasty, again bearing the hand of Mrs Quinn, and by dusk my eyes are drooping. I draw the curtain around my little bed.
And dream again. I remember more this time – a figure in the woods – not threatening at all. It comes to the bottom of the garden, by the sentry box, and gazes at the cottage. Is this my Muse? It’s a man – quite fitting that I should have a male Muse, if male writers get beautiful women; only fair. He stands by the garden gate, and then he is gone, sliding into the shadows of the forest, as slender and pale as a birch.
I wake with the birds again, and go straight to the window. I see immediately where the dream came from – of course it’s the sentry box. I can see this morning how much it looks like a human, the same rough height and heft, standing on the boundary between the garden and the forest. But it’s just a shed; I’ve seen inside it like a magician’s box. Nothing there. Just this morning’s bread, wholemeal this time, and cheese wrapped in greaseproof paper. Mrs Quinn has been here before me again.
I decide I won’t even bother with the table today. I eat the bread and cheese hastily, gather my notebook and pencils, and go straight to the cairn. A scattering of crows billows up as I approach – I wonder if they are expecting me to drop food for them. I know that crows can peck out lambs’ eyes, their tongues; the soft body parts. But it’s September, the lambs will be grown now, maybe even gone to slaughter already. I think of the stew I ate. I wonder how the Quinns manage, if the offer of washing was a hint, and if I should help them with the small fee for that. But the thought of contacting Mrs Quinn, speaking to her, makes me feel oddly uncomfortable. It’s not that I’m shy. Perhaps I am getting ready to write again – that can sometimes feel like you’re going down with something, a fever, moving you to isolate yourself like a sick animal.
But I haven’t written today. The stone starts to feel cold, the evening drawing in, and I clamber out of my chamber and hurry back to the cottage before it gets dark. When I get there, Mrs Quinn has left a cold chicken, stuffed with herbs. Potato salad. I eat fast, almost asleep as I finish the last mouthfuls. This evening I leave the bed curtain drawn back. To see the dawn, of course.
Tonight the man in my dream seems closer to the house, though I can see he is still outside the gate. I feel sure he can’t get in. He gives every impression of wanting me to go to him, like a dog that wants you to follow it to the door, outside, for a walk. I wonder if this represents my work in some way, my subconscious kicking in; or if it’s just the change of diet muddling my dreams, Mrs Quinn’s food…
Bread again, and honey this morning. A f
at slice of butter, still cold from the fridge. I suddenly think: it must be Mrs Quinn’s grandson – the one with the quad bike – he must come up here before dawn, leaving the food. Of course he does. And it is he who is coming into my dreams, waking me, disturbing the birds at dawn. A man at the bottom of the garden, indeed. A boy. I laugh at myself.
I put the food on the table, placing it meanly on my notebook, hoping it stains. My book is no friend to me these days. I can’t even bring myself to pick up my pencils. This is new for me; I’ve never been afraid to write. I bust through blocks, don’t believe in them. And besides, I feel the fever, the work brewing. This is usually an exciting time for me; it’s just not resolving itself into words. It’s baffling. I decide suddenly to leave my book, just take my breakfast to the cairn and spend the day there, thinking this through, or not thinking, letting it work through me. The idea strikes me as so excitingly right, I am almost running by the time I get there, my rucksack bouncing on my back. The crows seem less afraid of me today. I throw them a crust of my bread, and they’re too clever to come while I’m there, but I see their crafty corvid faces, remembering the food for later on.
The chamber is like an old armchair to me now, cosy and inviting. I try different chambers as the sun goes overhead, choosing each one to turn me, like a flower, to face the light, the warmth. I tune in to the sounds of the forest. I even think I can hear the stones themselves, the beetles scuttling up and down the trees…a spider runs across me, like a finger trailed over my face, and I jump up. The sun has moved. It’s time to be back home.
Getting in, I see my notebook idle on the table and, without slowing my pace, I snatch it up and stuff it into the stove. My hand is shaking as I strike the matches, one, two, putting them to the pages, watching the dark spasm and curl of them. Smiling at the light and heat. I even put the pencils in, see the paint peel off, a flaring chemical flame. It feels like I am getting something of worth from them at last. Words are just clumsy compared to those noises – the greedy eating of the fire, the sated sigh of smoke. I see the leaflets for the cairn and feed them in too. Then anything in the house that has writing on it – I cannot bear to see it, not the labels on the food cans nor the newspapers twisted into spills, nor even the trade name on the toilet (I prise the plastic label off with a knife). I rip and burn and douse in water, and what will not burn or drown, I take outside and bury, scraping a grave in the earth with a flat rock from the garden wall.