Soup By Volume Two

by Lisa Southard

  Chapter 3: Words from December 2012

  Buddha In December

  First day of the last month.

  Mist from the Tamar valley rises up to a fat cloud: the Buddha of Sky Water. Out of the mist, the sound of gunshot: the cycle of life and death.

  Sun pierces everything, one last time. After this its reach will weaken. We must hold our own warmth.

  At the end of my morning shower, turn the dial to a cold setting. From feet to head the nozzle travels and my muscles twitch like river fish and my skin vibrates and my gasps are laughing. Alive and warm.

  After breakfast, brew coffee, bitter hot and fierce in strength. Awake.

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  Whale And Cross

  Last night the Christmas lights of Cadgwith were switched on. It was a clear cold night and the switch needed throwing twice to shake the power through the homely strung decorations. Neon dolphins swung over the sea, there was a whale hitched to the miniature peninsular known locally as the Todden. Above the colourful whale is a plain lit cross, for the memory of those lost at sea. Everyone had a fair try at singing. Santa was sat in a makeshift grotto; we sat outside the pub watching children brandish their treats.

  Back to our home for the night, a fine granite chunk of a cottage, for a large glass of wine, a sauna (splendid what you can find in a cottage sometimes) and a curry feast cooked by our splendid host. For the grand finale, a debate over whether Florentines are a biscuit or a cake, myself being of the opinion ‘biscuit.’ Word games can last for years with the addition of wine fuelled questioning.

  Cleared our heads this morning with sea air, another sauna, a full English breakfast.

  Mr drives home, so I answer his phone.

  ‘Hello,’ says one of our friendly Bude Black Belts, ‘just letting you know the road by the Red Post Inn is shut, there’s been an accident.’

  He says he will start the class if we are late getting through. We take the A39 and are not late. Class rolls well, though we are tired. Sauna, relaxed kind of tired.

  On the way home we try the Red Post road, but it’s still closed. Heading for the A39, and my phone rings.

  Girl calling, voice edgy. ‘There’s been an accident,’ she says. She tells us the name of a close friend. So now we are waiting on news; how the surgery went, what the prognosis is.

  It’s a limbo moment.

  I want to be living in the reality where he wakes up with a headache and no car. I can think about this, picture a grumpy bruised face. He will be a sore loser about his car and I will be smiling so much to hear it: because I will be hearing it.

  That sadness exists is undeniable: experiencing, learning from and accepting the presence of sadness is part of learning the true value of life. Strength comes from every level of existence.

  Etymology Of Cake

  Our crashed out friend in the hospital bed will be kept under sedation for 72 hours. Prognosis suggests that shortly after that we can queue up to be joyfully annoyed with him for the superfluous drama. Fingers are crossed, candles lit. Fingers tap on a table top. Thumbs twizzle. Concentration, hmmm….something I put down and can’t relocate.

  I had already made soup, so cake was next.

  My Christmas culinary distraction cake. It was neither precisely measured nor expertly made. The act of slopping butter with sugar, the paring of peel, squeezing fresh citrus juice, dropping dried fruit over the washing up rack, the awkwardness with which I cut the baking paper and had to peg the sides in place to get the mixture in, the boozy soaked fruity mix that part way through baking acquired a thin layer of charred skin; the way I had to really think about the timings because I was tired and not concentrating? It passed the time productively.

  Etymology of cake: something round, lump of something. From the Old Norse ‘kaka.’

  Here

  Tiny spitballs of ice hit down from a bland winter sky.

  News comes along the relay line: crashed out friend in the hospital bed continues to improve. Not the most comfortable progress: he tries to pull out the drip feed, the instinct of fight and flight being much deeper than common sense.

  The outcome could have been more funereal. Instead, here is a kind of hibernation. Sleeping though the bleakest hours; waking, slowly, numbed; senses clearing, drop by drop. If you were ever going to revaluate your life, then here is the moment for it, the perfect bruised and bashed up moment.

  Are you thinking about it?

  I rub my fingertips where the blood-flow has slowed.

  Unseen Footage

  There was no camera handy to record two of Baby’s best happenings today. The first unseen piece was playing in the water that gathers in the kayak, using an empty snail shell as a dainty cup, and a piece of fir twig as a spoon. Ingestion was gently dissuaded for sanitary reasons; by way of a distraction because I should dislike to curb those fey impulses. We took ourselves to the little stone shed to watch Grandad fine tune the chainsaw.

  Down at the woodpile, Grandad hewed old trunks and Baby was introduced to cows. At first they were giant heads squeezed over the low wall and under the bars, with brown eyes even wider than Baby’s. She put out a hand and a cow tongue rasped the quilt of her coat sleeve. After a few laughing fits, Baby gathers handfuls of hay to put over the low wall. The cows are not cows, incidentally, they are skitty bullocks, most uncertain of the kneehigh pink coated thing that is chucking food at them. Tentative mooing ensues. One shows leader potential and re-licks the coat sleeve. Baby hoots. More mooing, one more re-lick. Baby holds up two palmfuls of damp hay, fingers boldly splayed: this second uncaptured piece is a fabulous balance of sound and picture:

  ‘Mmmmm. Mmmmm. Slup slup slup. Mmmmmmmmmmm!’

  Followed by emphatic head nodding.

  Aurora

  Decision to take an early brisk walk is slowed by the ice underfoot. The verges have enough rough ground to hold steps at the width and length intended. Dog paws perhaps are made of rough ground, for she doesn’t slip on any angle of hill; pads on any piece of tarmac she pleases. We are on the run of lane from Treniffle to Luccombe when the dark sky breaks. Cloud soaks up a flow of saffron light, it billows out like flaming June.

  Once I caught the edge of the Northern Lights; it was like this, luminosity flaring from night, just as suddenly gone.

  The risen sun and its tangerine finery slide behind muffling cloud.

  Dog and I walk, crunching ice, under the quilted silver.

  Officially Winter

  Behind the glass of passenger side window, artificially lit.

  Car park is sparsely populated.

  Wind blows, desolate resonance; shakes the last of the leaves from the token trees growing from graveled squares.

  Coffee banners thrill in the fight with unseen forces.

  Inside the superstore warmth is wafted through aisles of every kind of fruit.

  Breath hot into the wool loops of scarf.

  Glance up, only a glance is required.

  Mr has a signature walk, I always know it. I wonder how many steps I have watched him take.

  I always know him, but never quite what will be in the shopping bag.

  Brandy, port, two packs of thermal clothing.

  Paraselene

  Sat at the front room table so I can be next to the heater and the heater, though portable, is best here where it can also dry washing. Sun blazes outside but the cold damp air has brought the washing in. I have sunglasses on for writing. This morning’s walking was partly on ice. Brittle ice.

  Tap on my keyboard, find comfort in words.

  Also paint patient Christmas roses onto folded card, also make chicken pie. With sauce, this week. Reach for saucepan. Jollied up. There is a rainbow in it.

  A round one, like the aura that gathers round the moon. Excited enough to take a picture of it. Paraselene is a fine word: it means the image of the moon inside the lunar halo.

  Power Of Three

  Woke up to a sparkling frost with grass like peppermint ice. Had a b
other with the car door, which sometimes freezes shut. Today it locked itself open, hence the drive to the garage with binder twine tying me in, thinking I need a new lock on this, how much is a new lock? I have forty-five pence in my purse! Mr Garage Man squirts some WD40 and laughs at me. There is something wrong with the lock but it’s the wrong time to protest: the right time to say thank you and drive Boy to school. He has his walking boots on and I brought Dog, thinking we might all have to walk home while the car was garaged. Take Dog to the park instead, where ancient pines hold symmetrically foliaged twigs up to cerulean sky, and the horizon is made of rolling moor hills. After much running, fantastically backlit, she comes back to the car with icy belly fur, dog-stalactites.

  At home, I don’t have to fumble for my house key with numb fingers, as Boy has thoughtfully left his in the door for me. I warm up with some housework, mainly dragging Dog fur off the carpet with heavy handed vacuuming. Until the tube snaps, then I have to get the brush. Brushing carpets warms me up very well indeed. After handling chili peppers, at lunchtime I also warm up my eyes. When they’ve calmed, I shall seek out some duct tape and mend the hoover. These things are not turning out as presupposed, but not so bad: with deft surrender, rather fun.

  (Wondering about the title? Binder twine, WD40 and duct tape are the three most useful objects in the universe.)

  Business Meeting

  Ground ice slackens back to water, lurks in the shadow at the road’s edge. The shape of these puddles always reminds me of crocodiles. So we drive home, by the reptilian lines, noticing the clouds that dampen our chances of viewing the Geminid meteor shower everyone is posting about on Facebook. Visible from all time zones, weather depending. Moods stay clear: new horizons are clear. We are close to owning three clubs (not nightclubs; not quite like that. Think sports club without a permanent venue.)

  ‘Bude,’ Mr says, ‘Okehampton, Plymouth. BOP. Is that too cheesy, because that’s what we do: bop!’ (Mimes punch. Can’t mime kick: is driving.)

  I am laughing. Explain my answer. ‘No, it’s funny.’ In case he misreads the laugh as derisive.

  The in-car focus group approves, so BOP Tae Kwon Do is invented.

  This isn’t the grand unveiling, this is the initial, work in progress point.

  Drive past the crocodiles, feeling brave.

  Patchwork

  Compared to the ear snuggling warmth of a fleece hood, the air blows chill. Otherwise, a mild day; rainy, unstormy, a settled sort of grey.

  In the park, Dog chases her ball through more mud than other dogs, somehow.

  It’s a run around day, I get in the car and out the car and back in again, saying the next destination and task out loud to myself.

  Boy to school. Baby to Ella’s house. Words to paper. Marinate pork. Do not remove car seat. Remove chainsaw. Baby to Nanny’s house. Wash car windows. Boy from school. Eat. Friday: Okehampton.

  In snippets, a piece by piece day.

  Last drive home; under clear dark and stars.

  Time now for apple wine, then a fat quarter of sleep.

  Wintertime, And The Living Is Easy

  Here we are in Truro, town sized city.

  While Boy is at a meeting about a narrow boat expedition, his friend intends to take on Christmas shopping and win. A rendezvous point is decided. It will be my second of the day. My parents surprise me by not being late.

  Cobbled streets hiss and spit with frying food. Wide faced woman in a blue coat taunts the human statue. She calls him ‘Magic man! Magic man!’ He moves like stone, heavy with patience. Children hoot. Stalls are boxed and spread with colour and things that shine. I buy a card from an artist in Victorian dress, a finely lined drawing of a dragonfly, wing patterns wound with depictions of native wild things.

  Granny Meg leads the way through a line of charity shops. Granpa Jim left his last coat on the rocks. She gets him a replacement for a fiver.

  ‘Fishing,’ she says, affectionately annoyed.

  ‘Yeah and I lost my phone.’ Sheepish Granpa.

  We find a table on a mezzanine and order lunch. Warm foccacia, the gloss of good olives, sharp sip of espresso. Tranquil, languid talk. After goodbye at the Park & Ride bus, I find the boys and light rain slips from the sky. Shoppers stop, look up at the double rainbow.

  We’re early to the cinema, out of the rain, we have a row to ourselves.

  Ergo Dog’s Hero

  Baby strides the living room, wearing Grandad’s pants as a cape. This is how I can discover that her superhero hideaway is inside the folding clotheshorse.

  -Where’s my superhero lair?

  How silly of me to forget. It’s in my head, where I left it. I have simply neglected to think of it.

  While I rediscover this wonder carved from a solid crystal; circa Me Aged Nine; Baby addresses her lessons to Dog.

  ‘Thay! Thay!’ She holds a ball in her hand. ‘Woooo!’ Permission to fetch the flung item.

  She rehangs the underwear on the airer. Time to be sensible and fetch some supper.

  'Baby, why is Dog eating a slice of cheese?'

  She looks at the ceiling, shrugs, smirks: the sign that we will never know all of her secrets.

  Memorial

  Did you ever wade through rock pools and find a sea anemone filtering food from water with a cluster of flower bright feelers? As curious children we often held a fingertip up to the suctioning limbs. The anemone would spit us out and hide, all the bright feelers folded in a dark wet ocular mass.

  There is only so much that can be filtered.

  Under one sky and over one earth, children do these petty things and lose their jumpers and tell ridiculous fibs and nevertheless represent to us the strongest bonds of love. Where you are placed, under this sky, over this earth, is irrelevant to love, and to grief.

  Winterwolf

  The wind is singing, all those wild wordless sounds that shiver out the feral heart of me. I want to pull on my wolf-skin and run through the dark. There are millions of teeth in my mouth, each one is crazy and fierce. I can run until my feral heart beats so loud all I can hear is myself and it’s dark and there’s nothing to be seen and there is only me running through space for nothing else exists at all.

  When I return to the world, in human skin, I will lie on the couch and listen to the wind song and settle into sleep. Dream of the unchecked run: dream of space.

  Air Disaster Aversion

  The river is wider than its banks. Enviable lawn space of the house on the end dips into an unplanned stretch of pond. This morning’s rain, soaked up on a round trip of the park, seemed slighter than it was: my coat stays wet all day. Maybe I wasn’t as attentive to the weather as is usual.

  A chance examination of the coat rack finds a spare. It’s bright blue, brings a touch of Mediterranean cheer.

  While Dog tries her luck at smuggling wet fur onto the sofa, I’m googling post car crash brain injuries. Recovery of our crashed out friend is protracted, trickier than anticipated. As if some sort of universal sympathy is channeled, to start and finish a job today is rare. Highlight so far is the hour and a half wait for the soup, left defrosting on the wrong hob placement.

  When Boy watches Air Disaster Analysis, these are the kind of trivial incidents that add up to a blazing wreck.

  I will leave the keys to the plane at home tonight, pull on the ebullient blue coat and open my eyes to the weather.

  And though I have returned to my house to burn toast and forget to hang up the washing, I have returned through deep reflective pools, having heard the pelt of the rain.

  In the back seat of the car, a cold bag crammed with the gift of a turkey: 20lbs of homegrown turkey: a bundle of cards, a ribboned pot of something to pop in the fridge, a glass dish of homemade pâté. A note that reads ‘you two and taekwondo have kept my feet on the floor.’

  Good to be grounded.

  Breakfast Before The Party

  Bacon fizzing under the grill. Egg whites spread in the little iron pan, lace edged.
My coffee has the strength of a healthy elephant. We are doing that happy with a hint of panic, enjoying the day but so keen not to be late for the family fling thing.

  Can’t recall which farm the bacon hails from, but it’s close to here. Eggs from the Nextdoor Chickens. Bread from Parker’s Bakery. Salt and pepper from ceramic aeroplanes, holiday presents both. Cutlery from everywhere, some of which matches. Crockery, ditto.

  For a moment after eating, stilled contentment.

  Washing machine rolls a load of work clothes. There’s no hurry on when they dry.

  I’m not sure what I’ll wear for the party. I had better go and throw lots of not quite right attire onto the bed.

  After Party Shock

  The party we turn up for is an engagement celebration. The couple are running late. I am keeping a fidgety Baby amused and Little Grandson is sat eating a bag of crisps. I can’t see Mr Craig when he steps into the Saddler’s pub, only I hear him call for our attention. When the crowd quiets he says, and his voice is so serious:

  'There isn’t going to be an engagement party tonight:’

  Earth stops turning. You can feel hearts thudding.

  'Because in half an hour Natalie and I are getting married.’

  Jaws drop, eyes swim, we check on Granma’s pacemaker.

  When I see how he is dressed, it makes clearer sense; though it’s all a pinch past articulation, we are not convinced this is not a dream. To the gorgeous Georgian venue we go, all shook up: such a sneaky well orchestrated boggling fantastic jolt…

  Not About What, All About How

  Astonishment at the surprise wedding rings around our heads. Stopping and smiling happens frequently. Easy to be almost cross, because of the shock: more powerful than I would have guessed. Impossible to be cross, because it was utterly brilliant. Perfect life theatre.

  Plugged the stereo in this morning, rang out the Christmas carols, spun, balletic, across the swept carpet while Dog sighed on the sofa.

  Plenty of other drama going on in the world.

  Music wrings out a release of tears- exaltation and sorrows in salted drops. Too much emotion before breakfast. One banana, one ginger tea: ready for a quiet day. Girl is away on a family tour, so I go to her house to feed Bunny and borrow a vacuum cleaner that works, and furthermore actually do use it to clean all of our carpets. I wrap some presents for Boy right under his nose. (Again! Score 5 mum points!) There isn’t much, but there isn’t nothing.

  In the evening steam from the fire heated water soaks the whole bathroom. Candles are lit, the table is laden with food.

  Keys

  Presents and feasting and company later.

  Here, first awake in the house, I sneak myself downstairs to play with words which are always my favourite toys. If this seems a trivial thing to say, you have misunderstood the art of playing.

  Three chocolates slip into my mouth, longing to melt. Coffee keeps the sweetness in check.

  Smells like a coffeehouse: pithy, pungent first brew.

  Starling song and choral harmony and footsteps next door I hear.

  Letter squares on my keyboard, set out in a grid like the table of elements; beyond this, the washing that still needs drying but is tucked back from the centre, the snoozing dog who knows I have the wrong socks on for walking, from twin windows, the sky so soft, gauzy rain falling. Gloss of wet ivy on the fat trunked ash, this is what I see.

  Under fingertips, these smoothed well-worn keys. All the words waiting to be unlocked. This is what I feel.

  Unlocked or unwrapped?

  The strongest magic is in the sharing. This too I feel. Fingers on the keys find the best phrase: Thank you.

  Three Dogs Running

  In spite of the laden table; the clove studded ham, the barrage of cheeses, pâtés, breads, soups, cheesecakes, crumbles, crisps, olives, grapes; everything even has its own knife or spoon or ladle and the plates match the bowls; in spite of this carnal level of celebration, I do not believe we would revel like this if the company was wrong. The main thing is, we are here together. That is the real rich stuff.

  Dog sleeps under the table. She is all run out from a stroll at Sandy Bay. Fat Beagle galloped like a puppy in the wave spray. Bouncy Beagle ran through the landslide mud, made a terracotta hound of himself. Wow, we said, will you look at the grand scale of the slid earth there, and those tonnes of thrown down stone? It has a look of a communal exodus; suddenly, all those tonnes, landing. The beach must shake. Remarkable, we agree: but if the time were tallied, more of it is spent admiring the happiness of dogs.

  Practise Practice

  Slants of rain hit a tribe of pheasants in the field opposite. Thirteen have gathered, Mr has counted. Through rain and a lumbrous effort of cloud, sun diffuses strong light, gives the unwary a dose of starburst eyes. Our solar powered waving cat is busy bringing in luck, and a rainbow passes close by. Maybe good portents, maybe not: if I focus correctly, how can they be less?

  I practise my attitude through the medium of words, until it becomes my practice. Always that infusion from verb to noun, from the present action to the future reality.

  ’It is often forgotten that (dictionaries) are artificial repositories, put together well after the languages they define. The roots of language are irrational and of a magical nature.’

  Jorge Luis Borges.

  Wine & Appreciation

  Eating toast, suppertime toast, with a choice of toppings. Butter, I reach for, and uncap the whiskey marmalade. I have a wide bladed knife in hand. The butter is room temperature, the Rayburn has been lit all day. The bread had staled but a stint in the toaster makes it fine.

  From rising late, the day has yawned, stretched as far as walking in the park. The house has a scent of wood dust, as Mr has a new shelf in progress, and a scattered mess of chewed cardboard, as Baby had a grand game with Dog, before being transferred to her travel cot, where she sleeps now, huddled by old teddy bears.

  Downstairs, full of supper, her Grandparents get a wine buzz going.

  The Work Of Maneki-neko

  Dark and early, the storm struck. Thunder, overhead, close enough to knock birds from perches; the window panes flex, but hold to their frames, and rain is burst from rift heavens.

  Baby and Grandad don’t shift or twitch, they must be in some other world. No booming there, only snoring.

  When Granma gets out of bed, she needs coffee.

  Everyone talks about the storm. The fear of God is rediscovered.

  ‘I thought the world was ending,’ Girl says, ‘I thought, those damn Mayans got the date wrong- it’s today!’ She pulls that face where her eyes are two glazed earthenware saucers.

  The end of the year is close, I am thinking, what sort of reality should I like to live in next: how should the 2013 world look?

  On the wide wood of our windowsill, the beckoning cat keeps busy, hustling luck from silver clouded sky, arm clicking like a metronome.

  Three Flowers, One Bridge, Two Paddles

  Three strawberry flowers in the hedge, too damp and dark to make fruit. Cheerful little things, they seem happy to be nodding in a winter breeze. Dog waits for me at the corner, patient with my need to think.

  The last day of any year calls for reflection, itches for projection. We see how we got here, and where we should like to be. Sometimes we remember where we thought we would be by now, and feel inclined to give up. I’ve had those years, where the idea of making resolutions was the idea of setting oneself up to be disappointed: where I have forgotten to factor in how life can wallop a person off track.

  I won’t give up on building my bridge, from here to where things are so much tidier and we own a camper van. I think, while Dog splashes. All the lanes teeming with streams of turning water, noisy like a running bath.

  So much surface water, sees me, and still a skyful of cloud?

  Two kayaks in the garden, and two paddles…

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