Sam Skelton
SHORT STORIES
BENCH – a triptych bench noun: 1. a long seat for several people, typically made of wood or stone. 2. a long work table in a workshop or laboratory. verb: 1. exhibit (an item) at a show. 2. withdraw (a sports player) from play. A: The plaque had arrived in the post that morning. He heard as it was pushed through the letterbox with a shoving followed by a hard thud hitting the floor. At first Harvey thought someone was trying to break in and reached for his trusty cricket bat but then remembered his order and felt excited from his colicky chest to the top of his bald egg head. He left the delivery there for three agonising hours. Contamination was a killer but finally resistance was futile, and Harvey shuffled the exhausting journey from chair, to hall, to front door. A little more contamination couldn’t hurt him now surely, what was that song again ‘every breath you take? ’Maybe but he didn’t think it was about breathing really. Harvey couldn’t remember. He felt sure there were more relevant songs he could be humming but that was the problem with aging. At some point the memories started to choose you rather than the other way round. Harvey hummed the wrong song while planning his retrieval of the parcel from the front door mat. Every breath you take, lose knees bend forward. Every move you make, lean over and down. Every breath you take, every move you make, flex fingers and scoop. I’ll be watching you. Hand on thigh, back to stand and breathe. The Police. That’s who the song was by. His wife had loved their music. The package was well-padded, a mark of the quality he’d hoped for. It was always chancy buying on the computer, but the reviews had been favourable, and the company boasted a family lineage of trusted metal working. Harvey had been right to take the risk. He fetched scissors and snipped the edge of the rectangular shape carefully, not to cause any damage. Layer upon layer of bubble wrap enclosed the plaque. It was fiddly to open but fifteen minutes later and his diligence was rewarded. It was a thing of beauty, even better than he had imagined: Heavy brass. Perfectly bevelled edges. So smooth it looked like undisturbed water. ‘That’s grand, really grand’. He ran his fingers over the inscription carved in the metal and despite his weathered fingertips could feel the grooves and curves it made. Following the letters, a small smile began to spread to a larger one as he read their names together again immortalised in the brassy glow. She would have loved this. Closing his eyes, he pictured her face and the joy she would have shown. He held the plaque out to this image proudly, reverently, with an intensity of purpose. ‘I ordered this. I had it made. This is for our bench Elsie. For our bench in our favourite place to remember all that we had’. He slumped back down in his wing-backed chair, carefully, slowly, still holding the brass plaque in his palm with satisfaction knowing that the journey was nearly completed. The metal warmed his hand. All it needed now was fitting. The bench was already installed. Today an anonymous bench, but tomorrow it would be his and his beautiful wife’s, their names enshrined sitting at the river’s edge as the cormorants dived and the herons stood still as statues, proudly eyeing the disintegrating world. The smell of green river, dark peaty earth and Elsie’s perfume rose inside him, and Harvey inhaled trying to breathe it in, but the stale odour of self-isolation returned him to reality. His lonely house with one man in it. It was the end of the world, the great pandemic to beat all others. It wasn’t how he imagined he would end but first there was a task to complete. This was to be his final mission; to memorialise love. Then he would happily succumb to the oblivion that Elsie already inhabited. He would join her there gladly. He leaned back in the chair and felt his death pulling at the edges of him. ‘Just a few more days, that’s all I need. Please, just a little more time’. B: Beatrice half skipped, half walked, whipping a long branch of willow up and down to hear it rip the air around her. She was wearing children’s leggings with silver moons and stars embossed down each leg and half hidden by a faded yellow dress with ripped petticoats swinging round her too thin body. Her skin was dark and shiny in the sunshine, but hair sprouted from her head in a startling fashion, that wasn’t fashion at all, and quite correctly looked as if it had been untouched for months. She cut an alarming figure or would have if there was anyone to see her, but there wasn’t. There hadn’t been anyone else around for quite some time. The willow whipped around Beatrice’s bare feet as she danced her well-worn grassy paths. Tangles of Giant Hogweed and Himalayan Balsam fought the Knotweed sewing the landscape together and permeating everything. The grass became gravel, then rock, then river. Beatrice had set her traps yesterday and she salivated at the thought of a fresh fish. When had she last eaten? Maybe a day ago. Maybe more. She had prayed to the river goddess, thrown flowers into the water. If she was good, there would be fishy fish for supper. She dipped her toes in. Oh, so cold, but humming a little tune of anticipation she waded in. There was nothing. Not a single fish, traps empty or swept away. Those fishy fish had outsmarted her again, diving under or nibbling the trap strings and carrying them away to use as fish beds for their babies. She imagined all the fish babies snug with their Muma and Papa and bellies full of delicious dinner. The thought stopped the tears streaming down her cheeks quelling her frustration and soothing her like a lullaby. At least some children were being looked after and cared for. She backed out of the river and sat directly down on the bench she knew was behind her. The wood was warm after the stark cold of the water. She stroked it to dry her hands and spread her skirts out to dry. Maybe they had been wrong. Maybe this wasn’t a special place after all. She turned to the plaque on the bench to address them directly. The plaque looked back at her accusingly daring her challenge and glinting copper with intent. She spoke with a small, firm, and childlike tone to be sure that she did not offend and remind them that she was still young but what she was saying was of serious import: ‘Elsie and Harvey Tanner, I realise that I may have offended you initially when I carved that B on your lovely bench and I apologise again for that, but when you informed me that this was your special place with your writing and allowed me to catch that fish and invited me back again so gracefully, I kind of expected that there would be more fish’. It had been a while since she had spoken, and she was out of breath. She needed to slow down and remember that breaking things down into smaller pieces of information was more helpful than just talking at something. She had learned that somewhere, from someone maybe, but it was too long ago to remember. She continued: ‘And it’s not that I’m ungrateful. Not at all. I was just wondering if you could be kind enough to pay proper attention in future and allow the specialness out again?’ She was waiting for an answer when she had a thought. Leaning over to the left leg of the bench she saw the mud she’d used to fill in her carving and repair the damage had shrunk and cracked in the heat. The letter B was clearly visible as a blemish on the lovely dark grain of the wood. This could be why the fish were not being caught. She immediately starting to dig a small handful of mud and once satisfied with its consistency, she turned and addressed the bench formally, prefaced with a little curtsey. ‘My sincere apologies Madame Elsie and Mr Harvey’. She plastered the soft wet mud into the scarred wooden leg until the capital B she had so painstakingly whittled out some weeks ago could no longer be seen. ‘There. All gone’. The plaque glittered and winked at her, and she smiled in return. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you’ she sang knowing that they had heard her. ‘I knew you’d understand. You are so, so kind’. Beatrice swung her skinny arms out as wide as she could and turned around and around until she was dizzy, stopping stock still to watch the world continue to spin about her. She knew it: There would be fish a plenty and maybe even more in this special place because it was indeed special, and Elsie and Harvey loved her as if she was their own child and would look after her what ever happened. There may be no people, she hadn’t seen any in ages, but there were plenty of fish. Fishy fish wouldn’t escape her now. Everything was fixed and perfect and Beatrice traversed the distance back to the water in nine big, joyful skips. She would offer flowers to the water goddess and make daisy crowns for Elsie and Harvey and reset her fishy fish traps like she had all the time in the world. C: At the tail end of a civilisation craft is a corridor. The walls, floor and ceiling are an inconsequential grey. It is lit by a concealed system giving the impression of a light one might remember from early morning in spring but there are no windows, it is not spring and natural light is only a diminishing memory of a time long past when civilisation lived close enough to a star to see light at all. The corridor finishes in a dead end but there are doors running down either side of it. They are plain, industrial with white metal handles ergonomically designed for comfort and featuring outdated touch locks that may be old but work efficiently with the surety of comprehensive good design. The doors are also grey except for a large blue letter inscribed on each one in plain font. The letters start with Z crossing the corridor to Y and back to X in a zig zag of lettering working alphabetically backwards until you reach A at the other end. While they were searching, no one had thought to extend the search radius as far as this alphabet corridor. It was a mostly disused facility and there were more likely places to investigate. This was a pity because if they had looked in this corridor, they would have discovered that 9 was behind the door that was lettered C and had been for quite some time. 9 woke up on the bench again, their body immediately beginning to complain of the hard surface they had committed to for the night. 9 felt like a tight round ball that had just been whacked by a large cricket bat. At least that was how 9 imagined it. They had only seen a cricket bat once, along with the corresponding cricket ball. It was encased in the temperature-controlled sports gallery alongside an explanation of ‘cricket’. While 9 hadn’t fully understood the point, they had appreciated the aesthetic immediately. They wished they could have touched it. Sitting up, peeling themselves from the wooden surface they pulled the blanket about themselves being careful not to let it drop on to the floor and snugged their face into the weave of it. It smelled of the time and love someone had taken to embroider the tiny roses onto the wool after knitting it. It was real wool and cost nearly three month’s wages. 9 was not going to let it dangle on to the ground for a moment, even if that ground was an immaculate, self- cleaning lawn. They began a roll of shoulders in a circle, first forwards, then backwards. A series of satisfying little crunches accompanied the movement. Then a tipping of the head, ear to shoulder on the right, ear to shoulder on the left and felt the unfamiliar full weight of their shifting head and its pull floor-wards. 9 smiled. How they loved room C with its eighty percent gravity. A leaden-weighted, stiff body was a small price to pay for a sleep on real wood with a lovely blanket. 9 swung their legs, back and forth, back and forth over the sign reading: Please do not touch this restored historic object. 9 would never do anything to harm the bench or diminish the benches beauty but historic or not, it had been made to be used. Anyway, a chance to connect with the past seemed to make much more sense than this present, that the life 9 was living now. The search for 9 would discover their location in room C soon no doubt. It wouldn’t be long before they thought to trace the finger print to the key code of the door. This was 9’s special place and they wanted to keep it that way. It was time to leave. But they hesitated. They didn’t want to go. 9 savoured the pull of gravity and belonging to a long dead world. They stroked the grain of the wood with precise movements, imagining a time of trees, of breathing unfiltered air, of romanticism and the possibility of love. Then manoeuvred their pregnant belly around to face the rear of the bench to grasp the edge and lower themselves down. Gravity did make some things much trickier. Their hand caught an indent in the top edge they hadn’t noticed before. Had there been some sort of plaque on the bench? It was long worn away but a tiny corner glittered gold in the simulated overhead lighting. 9 leaned forward to grasp the leg with the carved B and lowered down with an awkward bump and cradled their belly feeling its stretch and weight. They should not have run off on the repopulation day. Everyone would be worried. This was a duty to perform to the civilisation, just like everyone else’s. 9 knew they needed to hurry to the nursery suites and apologise. They’d taken extra risk with precious cargo and it was this child’s time. Walking towards the exit door they glanced back for one last look at their beautiful bench with its tiny corner of shiny brass metal on the top edge and its worn carving on the leg that had saved them from falling. They would return but today 9 would deliver another member of the civilisation and the child would be taken for raising just as 9 had been. Then rest time before impregnation again and sleeping and dreaming, on their bench, in C. That was something to look forward to. For now though 9 must hurry, they had already wasted enough time.
THE MAN WITH THE HANDS He’d had both of his hands sheared off at the wrist in an industrial weaving accident. That’s what he told me when I tried to shake his hand but then recoiled from the rings of scars so raised and visible right down to his knuckles. ‘It looks a bit strange but they’re old scars. Your face, is it new?’ He indicated the skin graft covering my forehead. ‘Cancer.’ I didn’t meet his eyes. I was getting used to avoiding conversations about scars, knew better than to start one. I wanted another first chance to meet him, to not react in the way so many reacted to me, to not stare or shrink back. They had been able to reattach his hands, he said, because the factory manager had experienced the type of injury before and knew exactly what to do. Speed and sterile conditions were the key factors to a successful repair. His voice took the familiar tone of a story repeated many times; deadpan, practiced, resigned. Too late to apologise I nodded and smiled, not knowing what else to do. The falconer walked the path ahead of me, downhill, curving to the right and towards a wooden construction at the bottom by some trees. I watched his arms swinging slightly. He seemed relaxed but his hands hung awkwardly, angular and out of place. I tried not to be mesmerised by the motion. His hands had been cut off. It was so unexpected, I repeated it over and over in my mind to make it true. This man had lost both his hands. Not lost. They were chopped off and sewn back on. An operation had reattached his hands. I imagined the surgeon leaning over his anaesthetised body, screwing bone to bone, matching vein to vein, nerve to nerve. The dexterity of the surgeon’s hands unpicking the complexity of the insides of another person’s hands. Did they feel grateful that it was not their hands that had been separated by the weaving machines? Did the surgeon’s fingers hesitate or tense as they lifted the severed hands onto the sterilized table? Did they jerk or tingle identifying blood vessels and tendons, stitching palm to wrist, weaving the hands back to life? ‘Nearly there. Have you ever seen a falcon up close before?’ ‘Only flying in the sky.’ The falconer’s fingers rested on the latch. ‘Quiet now, until I remove its hood’. His hands twisted, lifted, released and fingered the hood. They shook almost imperceptibly and reddened with the movement. He noticed I was watching them, and I sheared my mind back to the falcon, adjusting my gaze. It sat hunched like an old man dappled in the gloom, one yellow talon curled onto three knuckles, the other stretched in anticipation. Its feathers rippled as it eyed me, black rimmed in gold and glassy, greedy. ‘It’s an amazing looking bird. Is it safe?’ ‘She is a falcon; she’ll always be wild.’ ‘She’s quite frightening this close up.’ ‘Provided she’s handled properly she isn’t dangerous. She knows my hands. She’ll get to know yours too. ’ She knew his hands. Did he know his hands after the operation, or did they feel like someone else’s? My face felt like someone else’s. I needed to get used to it. Did he need to get used to his new, old hands? ‘Does she live in this hut all the time?’ ‘This is just where she rests. We’re out in the field most of the time hunting. She gets to decide if she wants to come back with me at the end of the day. Always has, so far, but maybe one day…’ He trails off, then laughs as he lifts his left arm straight out, his hand seeming to twist too far over inside his gauntlet. The falcon hops onto his wrist and sinks her claws into the leather. The falconer and the falcon, two solitary birds ready to face the elements. Does the weight of the bird resting on his wrist hurt? Do his hands hurt? There are so many questions I will never ask, so many questions he would prefer not to answer. He tells me to stand on his right and we walk out in to the sunshine. As my eyes adjust, I catch him staring at the scars on my face, but he doesn’t look away. I meet his gaze and we both smile. ‘I’ll give you a demonstration before you have a go. If you’re brave enough?’ Brave. I will have to be brave enough; I am standing next to a man whose hands were sliced from his body. I imagine being there when it happened, reaching down to collect the disembodied hands from the factory floor, wrapping them in ice for the journey to the hospital. Even that is unbearable. He holds the bird high as she raises her wings, but my eyes are on his other hand. The fingers are spread, undulating, juddering, as if testing the air, as if it is he, not the falcon preparing to take flight. In one swift motion the falcon rises, wings beating, feathers channelling air across my disfigured face and the falconer’s hands reach skyward, travelling with her as far as they can go. Then he stands, eyes glazed, head tilted after her, as if he too is wheeling and gliding in the blue. As if he could simply stretch out his arms with his reattached hands, and fly far above, weaving patterns in the sky.
THE TEDDARS We brought Charlie home at seven and a half weeks old. A Red Fox Labrador, he had been born in a barn, a proper farm dog, and the whole way back to the city he sat up straight, eyes dancing side to side. His black nose sniffed the new sniffs, oversized paws padded the children’s laps despite their efforts to contain him and mouth panted an excited pant. We had prepared for fear, whining, crying. No need. He was not at all afraid. I remember the first few days as a blur of fur dashing from room to room and a flurry of activity as I attempted to save carpets with strategically positioned training pads. It was all worth it for the puppy cuddles when he finally flaked out in his dog bed. The weeks after settled into routine and order until Charlie was almost completely reliable, the carpets were either relatively safe or replaced with hard wood floors, and we reached that clichéd stage of not remembering life before the dog had made our family exhaustedly complete. It was at this point, two months after he had arrived, that The Teddars began. I can’t remember who started it but one of the children brought home a teddy bear and placed it in the dog bed. It was pale brown and fluffy as a new chick, with kind glass eyes. Charlie was flummoxed. Who was this creature filling up his bed? He growled and woofed, but the bear did nothing. He flattened his body to the floor, stalked closer and pounced onto the interloper. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. They went everywhere together, Charlie lopping at full tilt with teddy firmly in his mouth dragging beside him. Charlie took teddy to bed at night, to the kitchen for breakfast in the morning. Charlie took him upstairs for bath time, down the steps to the garden for a wee. Charlie took teddy to the park and showed him the pond, the muddy wildlife garden, and his favourite cat poo spot. We decided at that point that it would be better if teddy didn’t go to the park again. Charlie liked the teddy so much that the kids brought him another one, and another, until finally there were five teddies of varying sizes and hues and I’m not sure how, but they collectively became known as ‘The Teddars’. There’s a funny thing that happens with pets. Despite being named, they somehow develop any number of additional names. Over the next few months Charlie was addressed by a number of alternatives, most of which he answered to. I called him Charlie or Chi-Chi. The children called him Chezzy, The Chezster, Charles Jamesford, Moose and The Blessed. Maybe that’s how the teddies became known as The Teddars, but that name never wavered. The Teddars were always called The Teddars, and Charlie learned that name too. ‘Go find The Teddars’ was a popular game. They would often be scattered around the house, underbeds, in toy boxes, on the shoe rack, anywhere he had left them. Charlie would launch himself, skidding on floorboards, swerving round doorways, running from room to room like a cartoon dog collecting his teds. Once the pile was made, he’d then hurl himself on top rolling in The Teddars heads, arms and legs of fur. It was a game guaranteed to avert a sulk, bring a smile, banish disagreements, and prolong bedtime by at least half an hour. Charlie’s obsession lasted eighteen months. Eighteen months of sleeping next to his dog bed because he’d filled it with The Teddars and there was no room left for him. Eighteen months of dragging five mud covered teddies through the house after playing outside, then sitting panting at the washing machine watching them going round and round. Eighteen months of telling my children that Charlie did not need any more teddy bears as the daily ‘go find the Teddars’ game caused chaos enough with five. I didn’t see the end coming but I guess it was inevitable. I’d had been at work all day, sitting staring at a screen reflecting the sunshine outside. I left early planning to get home before the kids returned from school and take Charlie for a walk on the common. Spring is a joyful time for dog lovers, months of sludge and layers of waterproofs are finally sloughed off. The first grasp of a dog lead without gloves, the first step in trainers instead of walking boots, the first warm light dappling your dog’s fur, erases any memories of the constant muddy paw battle that’s been waged for the previous months. Arriving home, Charlie jumped and bounced side to side, ears raised, tail swinging, his whole body greeting me with joy and excitement. There were very few occasions where this wasn’t the case, even when he was unwell, he would still come to greet me despite lowered ears and clouded eyes. I wish people were always this welcoming. Humans have so much to learn from dogs. ‘Good boy.’ I bent down for a cuddle, shrugging my jacket off, and was about to hang it up when I saw. There were clouds all along the floor, trailing from hall, to kitchen, and all over the living room. Cirrus, Cumulus, Stratus, Cumulonimbus. Clouds in clumps and stretched out strings. Clouds piled high or flattened to the ground. ‘What is this, Charlie? ’He wagged a delighted reply. I followed the trail, unable to imagine what there was in the house that looked like this, what he had managed to uncover. Then I found a leg. It was furry, disembodied, without a partner. A leg with the stuffing pulled out. A green glass eye lay next to it, staring up at the ceiling. There would be no more ‘go find The Teddars’, no puppy galloping off around the house, no oversized paws leaping onto a pile of fur, no dog camouflaged by bears. He had torn The Teddars limb from limb, broken each part of them and spread the stuffing round every room. He was fully grown. He had come of age. There was no regret. He stood looking me directly in the eye, all dog. We cleared and hoovered up the mess. Threw the broken remains of The Teddars away. Charlie’s interest transferred to female dogs of any shape and size, except strangely any breeds that looked like teddy bears. He would avoid Cavachon’s, Cockapoo’s, and Shichon’s. Maybe it was guilt. Who knows? With any other dogs he was the Marquis de Sade of the park. The children grew and left home adventuring, studying, making their own decisions, growing their own homes. Charlie loved their visits, they would walk and play but he began to slow, to sleep more, not to show so much interest in the prettiest dogs on the common. At the tail end of his life, as arthritis and heart conditions began to make their presence known, my health began to fail too. I had cancer twice, one squamous skin, one head and neck. As Charlie began to decrease the length of his walks, rest for longer in the day and require daily medication, I recovered from operations to my face, burning radiotherapy and weekly Chemo that turned me grey. We suffered and aged, broke and struggled, stayed in bed together for days. We became devoted partners, formed our own smaller pack. Charlie added a few pounds; I didn’t mention it. I had two large scars on my face; he never said a thing. Charlie crossed the rainbow bridge at age thirteen, two days away from being with me for thirteen full years. I knew he was old for a dog as big as he was, but somehow, I thought he would just continue on. In the end walking became a struggle, comfort unattainable, there was too much pain for both of us to endure. The children came, his pack surrounded him, and our hearts broke. He was more than a dog. He was the hub of our family. I read somewhere that dogs don’t live as long as humans because if life’s lesson is to learn happiness, dogs grasp that much faster than us. They don’t have to keep being taught. It makes sense, but I’d take it further. Charlie showed us so much about valuing every day, about living a positive life; he didn’t just learn to be happy, he passed his knowledge on. He was our teacher patiently repeating the lessons until we began to understand, right to the last, even at his death, even after. Its spring again, gloves left at home, face warm from the sun. The echoes of Charlie trot with me down the lane and around the corner, splashing across the stream as I head into woodland. I whisper, ‘good dog’ and the tears flow. Grief, like Charlie’s ghost accompanies me with a remorseless predictability and I welcome it. I have only one regret. I wish that instead of sweeping up those Teddars, I had kept them. I wish I had repaired them, sewn up their torn faces, reattached their ears, arms and legs. I wish I had seen that broken things aren’t necessarily broken, that damage can be repaired, and brings new life. I wish I had kept those Teddars as a lesson in survival and as a reminder of Charlie’s joy at the clouds he made that day in his prime.
THIS WOMAN'S WORK I am listening to my kitchen. The door moves in and out with a withering cry. I have seen those coming in, I have seen those carried out. I hear my grandmother telling me to shut that wretched door, silly girl. Stop the draft flowing into the kitchen agitating the curtains and upsetting the doilies set out on floral tea plates, inciting battle with the cold to prevent it from whistling up stockinged legs and settling in lungs vulnerable to infection and disease that may not be curable. There was always a draft. Always the possibility of illness and death. I rise to shut the door, to do as I am told, but catch myself. This is not my grandmother’s house. Never has been. My grandmother’s voice does not belong in this kitchen. It is modern day. There is central heating. Double glazed windows. I leave the door, banish my grandmother. She has no right to invade my home, so I breathe slowly, full chested heaves, obliterating antiquated anxieties and predictions of ailment. Soothing these memories I own. Paying them less attention. What I’m doing here? I am not listening for familiar echoes or voices from family memory. I’m listening for the unfamiliar. I’m listening for absence. There were women here who claimed this kitchen before me. Cooking and scrubbing, keeping fires lit and pots boiling, weaving and braiding loose ends into protection and warmth for their kin. I am listening for the women lost to history, whose lives have been erased by domesticity. They were here. I can feel them. I am adding myself to their space so we are here together in a never ending circle of joy, surprise, despair, exhaustion. The tasks we complete to facilitate continuity, a thankless production-line of care that collages the walls and the floor and swirls up and around to fil in every gap until all is permeated with smells of home- made bread, soap flakes on washboards, coal shovelled onto fires, pots and pots of stew. I am attempting to remember what has been forgotten. Women of no consequence who held up the world in my home before me. This kitchen is modern now, too full of convenience with easy clean laminated cupboards, anti-microbial work surfaces, a six foot fridge freezer and instant gas, instant electricity, instant hot water. I wonder what the women from the past would think we had gained? I wonder what they thought about while they worked their women’s work. I mentally add tasks to an endless invisible list for the morning; mop the floor, clean fingerprints from the microwave, plan dinner, buy milk. There will always be women who toil here. The past diminishes until it is obliterated from memory, but it never ends. It can be heard by every woman in every kitchen. By every act of domesticity. How much has changed. How little.
MAHOGANY It wasn’t until I saw her for the second time that she stopped me in my tracks. The cheeky air of nonchalance, attitude of superiority and deliberately haughty demeanour were a winning trio. I laughed out loud at the arrogance of it. I stood in front of the shop window. She languished behind it. Only a cheap pane of war glass separated us.The surface of the glass was lightly swirled and marked by small, almost imperceptible bubbles, trapped during a manufacturing process that had been too hasty, that had made the best of materials available during times of rationing and frugality. The bubbles were held in stasis, just under the surface. They would never rise or burst. If I had realised then that I would feel similarly trapped, would I have turned from her sleek outlines and never gone back? I’m not so certain. I could see her timeless beauty through the window, but I think even then, I was aware she was a force of nature not to be trifled with. She never pretended otherwise. I was smitten. My waking thought would be of her. With effort I would dismiss from from my mind. I’d meticulously plan my day, but as early morning shafts of sunlight divided the room into ladders of light and shadow, I’d find myself contemplating whether she’d like my home. My thoughts constantly circled back to her. My apartment became spotlessly clean. I listened to audiobooks, I took up crochet, but her attitude and form penetrated anything I tried. She had inadvertently caught my heart by all its strings. Worst still I’d persuade myself that just one more walk to the antique shop would be harmless and there I would be, yet again, mooching outside Edwards & Son Antiques on the High Street nearly every day. The shop was usually shut. It was neglected, forlorn. The window display was sparse and in lack of stock, covered by the addition of knitted blankets and lots of lace draped over mismatched pieces of mid-century furniture. An obligatory print of a half-naked woman hung over flock wallpaper in a crumbling gilt frame. A piece of threadbare carpet labelled ‘Genuine Persian Rug’ propped up the corner. To this decrepitude there was, of course, one exception. She stood centre stage and I could not draw my eyes away from her. The immaculate sheen of her surfaces glimmered hope. Her solid yet delicate legs demanded adoration. She outshone her setting and became the sole object of my desire. She was the table of my life. I’d stand transfixed until winter sunlight faded and dusk closed about me. The darkness brought darker shadows to her grain and I became increasingly desperate to touch and stroke her. Her beauty penetrated every edge of my being. I began to pine if I was not waiting ready and willing outside her shop day and night. I left her flowers on the pavement when I had to leave to sleep. My courting continued through Michaelmas and on to the colder blustery November weeks. I purchased her a soft red cashmere scarf. I drew her pictures of trees native to the South West of England on quality cartridge paper. I stood in showers and increasingly fiercer weather, thinking of how the architecture and layout of my apartment would complement her structure and design. As mid -December approached there arrived a smothering of snow transforming all in its path to powdery whiteness. The shop front and pavements were becoming quickly covered. The thought of her being obscured from view, sent me into a panic. Ignoring polite manners, I pressed my nose against the glass to look through. My breath frosted the glass. It was ridiculous. I was ridiculous. A poor spinster on Christmas Eve standing outside a shop peering through the glass at something I would probably never have. My situation was Dickensian and yet the daily visitations brought me joy and hope where previously there was none. “Happy Christmas, my dear,” I whispered, because if you can’t say it at Christmas when can you say it? And turned on my heel to head home when there came a booming “OOAHF” from the shop door. “Are you the lady who keeps staring at that there table for hours? Looks, as its Christmas Eve love, I’ll do it you half price with delivery thrown in.” I held my breath. Slow motion snowflakes settled on my eyelashes and hair while I looked and considered. My already freezing fingers and toes began to numb. The wind fingered my hair. Time slowed to a stop. I dared not break the spell. “Yes,I am.” “Well then?” Mahogany came home on December 24th at 5pm. She was delivered with little ceremony but proper padding and protection by the antique shop’s owner and his son in a van with ‘Got Wood’ sign written on the side. Upon arrival Mahogany got the very spot that had hoped she would like, right under the large Victorian sash window in the living room. Mr Edwards and his Son eased her into position without obstruction, her dark brown complimenting the white of the window frame. She overlooked the now sparse magnolia tree that graced the front garden with its flowers for such a short time each spring. My life was complete. We settled in together. I introduced her to my antiquated collection of walnut puzzle boxes and laid out the many carved spoons I collected. I set about describing significant events from my childhood and making plans for the future for us. Like all partners do. Mahogany smelt of Jamaican sunsets and sweet red earth. I imagined her journey to England had been traumatic however long ago. I told her stories of tables I had known throughout my life. She was the perfect listener and I promised her that I would never part with her under any circumstances. I was foolishly blind with love. That first night I changed in to my night clothes and returned to Mahogany to tentatively dust her with a cloth. I had some bees wax with natural lavender scent which I brought out in the hope that there might be some polishing but felt it too forward of me and too soon but I slept better than I had in months. It felt like my loneliness had ended for good. Christmas came and went and after her first week of settling in I would tip her on her side at night so we could spoon together. I would sleep with my head on a pillow on her legs and my back curled against the underside of her silky dark brilliance. At meal times I would lay her with plates, cutlery and drinking glasses in various combinations. I would consume my meals with a relish that we both enjoyed. I was sure we were happy and fulfilled. I couldn’t imagine anything coming between us. On an overcast and frosty February morning the first unexpected parcel arrived. I had been sitting at my desk and trying to work, when the doorbell rang and I resented the intrusion. I carried the large cardboard box and placed it gingerly on her table top to prize it open. Inside there were six crystal wine glasses with long stems and weighted hand-blown feet that rung slightly as you placed them down. I was astonished. They were stunningly beautiful and unique. I looked quizzically at Mahogany. Over the coming weeks parcel after parcel was hand delivered to our address. I watched my dwindling bank balance on a daily basis. Mahogany desired, indeed needed, table settings. There arrived fine bone china plates edged in 18 carat gold and sterling silver, porcelain sugar bowls and salt sellers cast in solid bronze. There followed glasses for red wine, white wine, brandy and schnapps. Champagne flutes were accompanied by free champagne with matching fruit bowls and vases of cut crystal. . Magazines and newspaper supplements arrived showing place settings of the rich and famous. At first I went with this reenactment of celebrity meals: I served us Elvis Presley’s wedding breakfast, Helen Mirren’s favourite supper and Andy Warhol’s birthday cakes. A book on historically significant feasts meant we ate the last meal served on the Titanic. All of the last meals served on the Titanic. I spent every spare minute cooking the produce that arrived from upmarket grocers and specialist shops to attempt authenticity. The ordering was getting out of control: Sets of fish knives arrived despite my version to any sort of sea food. Table runners, coasters and table mat sets came via special delivery wrapped in packaging so smart it had doubled the price. Napkins adorned her entire table top, every single one having a matching napkin holder. Boxes of cutlery spilled open on to the floor so one had to wear shoes at all times for fear of a slicing knife or piercing fork. We had every place setting known to person kind and still the boxes kept arriving. I was crotchety and exhausted. Our sleeping arrangements were becoming strained and stiff. I felt no comfort in her embrace. Our relationship was strained at best. In truth, my patience was wearing thin. The denouement came on an early February morning just after the milkman had clinked his bottles up to my front porch. The doorbell rang and I ran to pay him but found instead the postman on my doorstep proffering yet another package. I flinched before bringing it inside. The box rattled in a disparaging way. It was entirely full of spoons. Spoons of every size you could imagine from giant serving ones with scalloped edges to dessert spoons so small they looked like they belonged in a dolls house. I stood incredulous at the audacity of the purchase. “Fucking spoons. Fucking, fucking spoons. What the hell are we going to do with all these spoons Mahogany?” Mahogany remained motionless. “That’s it. I’ve bloody had it. I can’t stand it anymore. Enough of it. I want you to leave.” The moment it was out I wanted to take it back. I apologised and cagouled, pleaded and begged for forgiveness. I lied and explained that I understood the need for spoons. I would have said anything, I did, but we both knew it was over. She went the very next day. The owner and his son from Edward’s Antiques came to collect her in their ‘Got Wood” van and with the same professional precision with which she had arrived, they manoeuvred her out of my life. When she was gone, I sat in her place under the window in silence. I stroked the indentations in the carpet where her legs had been, feeling like I may slip under the floor and never to be found. The invasive glare of a winter blue sky filtered through the windows above and I lay back as the panes of glass appeared to flex in and out, in and out breathing for me. I’m not sure how long I lay like that. I could see frost threatening the new buds on the Magnolia tree, but they endured. I endured with them. Spring arrived bringing a pinkish blush that flushed the undersides of the buds. I felt the colour returning to my skin. The blush spread and grew as the budding flowers fattened marking a readiness to bloom. I felt hungry. Watching the petals unfurl softened the sharp air and loosened the breath in my lungs. Mahogany was gone. It was time to move on. I packed up the table settings in several large suitcases padded with tissue paper and bubble wrap. There were some items I could return. It was a fresh and still morning as I walked to the post office. I avoided the familiar route that would take me past Edwards and Son Antiques. I scurried head down and hood up with my bag full of parcels until I was nearly at the end of a run- down Victorian parade of arched windows. The post office was in sight when I realised that the establishment to my right was an antique shop. I definitely didn’t intend to look but something flashed in my peripheral vision and I turned my head. There behind the plain glass frontage, only inches from my face, was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. It stopped me in my tracks. She was petite, ornate and delicate with four slim legs, a heavily padded behind and a cheeky, open, down to earth manner. Undoubtedly fun but clearly a chair of honesty and integrity that had been dealt some hardships but knew who she was. There would be no months of courtship required, nor would she have any interest in shopping, table settings or elaborate meals. I hesitated, my previous interest was only in tables and I was shocked at our instant attraction. I stepped closer to look through the clear glass and had an epiphany. Here in front of me was what I had been looking for all my life. I’d been such a fool to trifle with tables, what I’d needed was a chair all along. My heart was pounding. I couldn’t wait to take her home and sit on her. It was love at first sight.
RIVERBANK Willow branches drape the riverbank, elongated leaves weaving in to the rushes to sooth the troubled and roughly torn earth edge. River water, green with algae breathing its air, rushes and babbles over stepping stones, making unplanned bridges of bark and moss as it carries the organic detritus of upstream to downstream, in a never-ending game of river hide and seek. Moorhens and Cormorants glide past, black feathered guardians of pomp and ceremony as they lead the way for the arrival of two snow white swans nodding their heads in acknowledgement of their royal status, simultaneously fixing their beady eyes on the glittering swish of Pike below the glassy surface. There will be feasting today. A ladybird preens under her six spotted shell, balancing on newly greened wild geraniums, while sloughing each leg in turn. Once satisfied of her pristine state, she spreads wide her transparent wings to glide in red blurred flurry, through the shimmer of summer heat, landing only to display herself proudly in pastures new. A spider multi-eyes the silken web she has just spun from Cardinal Flower to Crested Iris, admiring the fine thread juxtaposed by luscious purple and ink spot blue. She luxuriates in a delicious anticipation of the tasty morsel newly bound over and round that vibrates the symmetry of her delicate spinning and weaving. A snail languishes in its earth mottled shell, not yet ready to emerge and wend its weary way through grassy forests and stinging nettled sidings, ever slowly searching his patch of riverbank for the nestled perfection of a tree bark hollow, that he can finally call home. Into this landscape two lovers meander, hand in hand, stepping in and out of each other’s stride. Their fingers entwine while two hearts beat in synchronous joy at the luck of their togetherness. There is no place they would rather be, nor any person they would prefer to be with. They tread as if time itself had chosen them to be celestial bodies personified and transported to this new Eden, as if the unending tick of a love metronome had been set in motion the moment they met, and all the world's composers were now writing their song. The lovers pause momentarily, watching the swans and their accomplices’ receding from view. They kiss tenderly and lightly before they lay out a rough cotton patterned blanket under the stems of the cardinal flower and crested iris to frame their love with blooms. In laying their patterned blanket they are too in love to notice the breaking of an intricate spider web and the fleeing of a spider who has not had her lunch. Nor do they hear the crunch of a snail shell under foot as it unexpectedly finds its final resting place and shrivels a slimy exit from the house moving world. Finally, the lovers pour sparkling tall glasses of wine and lay back under the bough of the beautiful flowers to marvel at the warmth of the earth beneath their bodies, and the glory of unending turquoise sky. As they lie, gasping in wonder, wrapped in the ache of desire, a small red six spotted beetle drops from the ink blue Iris straight into one of the flutes of sparkling alcohol and tries to swim, then slowly drowns without anyone noticing.
THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA ‘They walked towards each other along The Great Wall of China.’ ‘Who did?’ ‘They did.’ ‘Well, that’s obvious then.’ Tiny globules of spittle form themselves in the corners of his mouth as if saliva could bring clarity to woefully slow comprehension. His frustration spills into the café, bumping every other molecule to one side, turning the air acrid with disbelief. ‘Surely you’ve heard this story?’ ‘No.’ ‘And years later he came to her art installation.’ ‘What art installation? ‘To sit opposite her and she cried and...’ ‘I’ve honestly no idea what you’re talking about.’ I’m really trying to remember any sort of event like this, but I have nothing. Nothing at all. ‘It was all over social media.’ ‘I’m not good at all that stuff.’ ‘Jesus Christ. How the hell do you survive?’ I just kind of let everything that happens, happen. I remember some parts, I forget others, and the memories diffuse through me like Brownian Motion. I used to be concerned about the forgetting, I used to desperately cling to memories, repeating them over and over as they faded. Now I understand they will fill me up in the end and it will be enough. That’s the trouble with the past, I no longer know what I should be remembering. But I don’t tell him that. Instead I say: ‘I don’t know how I survive Linus. I just do.’ He would never understand what Brownian motion was anyway. It would take hours. ‘Hmm.’ ‘Maybe, it’s because I have you.’ It’s a lie, but he’s satisfied. We’re sat at a green wooden table in a coffee shop called Coffee #1. In a world where everything has a hash tag in order to promote something, I like its proper use to represent the word ‘number’. They also brew great coffee and serve it discreetly to your table without shouting your name across the whole shop. I appreciate the anonymity. ‘Flat White and Americano no milk?’ ‘Thanks.’ It’s a check in after the funeral: Linus wanting to reassure himself that I am coping, assuage any guilt about being busy with work and family while I am alone. He doesn’t usually show much interest in my life, but it gets me out of the flat and he is my brother after all. I slide Linus’s Flat White nearer to him. I’m surprised he hasn’t opted for cake. I appraise his seated figure: Shorter hair; Adidas t-shirt; new technical trainers. He’s on one of his fitness streaks again. The coffee’s too hot to drink so I stir it with my spoon, round and round, until a whirlpool appears. I disappear down the emerging spout to the bottom of the cup. We’ve talked all the small talk; how I am, how he is, his wife and children, my daughter. There is just one more topic I want to broach, and I’m not sure how to bring it up. My spoon dings against the rim of the cup. Linus is getting impatient with my silence. I am usually more accommodating of his faster pace of life but I’m gathering courage. He fiddles with brown paper packets, fingering the sugar inside that he won’t be opening or adding to his coffee, that he won’t be allowing himself. ‘Li I wanted to talk to you about the parrot.’ ‘Don’t call me Li.’ He used to like it. ‘The parrot...’ He probably suspects what’s coming ‘I don’t think I can have her.’ He pauses. Takes a dramatic breath. ‘You don’t want Dad’s parrot?’ Why is he acting as if he’s aghast? He gives me no choice but to back down. ‘No’, I sputter. ‘It’s not that.’ He pauses, smiles, and I realise he’s deflected me already. The smile is not welcoming, it is simply an embellishment on the freedom he has continued to afford himself. My opportunity is gone. Of course it is. What was I thinking? When has Linus ever shared responsibility? I was born into a syrupy sap, sticky with expectation, while Linus shot out into a cool river to flow downstream. I’ve spent years listening to lessons on duty and caring for others, while Linus has had a leisurely swim. I watch him from the riverbank as his long limbs reach ahead in a confident front crawl. Elbow, forearm, hand, so effortless. I want to get in the water and ask for what I need, but there’s no way in, no opening to climb down. I am not welcome to share his domain. The water belongs to Linus and I am land-bound. Maybe it is better to be a tree, to plant my feet into solid earth and allow the roots to bind me. Maybe it is safer to accept the inevitability of looking after Dad’s parrot. How hard can it be? If I shared the water with Linus, if I managed to find a way into his river, I would probably dissolve anyway. Later in the quiet of the night I look up performance and The Great Wall of China. Linus was correct. It was a performance artist who walked it. Two of them in fact. They strode from either end, envisioning a romantic wedding when they met in the center, which instead became calamity. They didn’t marry, they parted ways. Marina Abramovich and her lover Ulay learned that familiarity with aspiration can only lead to disappointment. With time the wonder of a thing always eventually becomes mundane. The walk and wall were long, hard and unforgiving. Their bodies and egos were soft, fragile and sensitive. Separation begat resentment. Love begat its death. Maybe people are simply not supposed to walk towards each other at a similar pace. Perhaps life is always some sort of chase. But the MOMA story continues: Twenty-two years later he chose to enter an exhibition she was performing in and sat opposite her in the gallery. Ulay looking at Marina. They hadn’t seen each other for all that time, and she reached out and cried before regathering herself again, blanking her features, resetting the cold exterior for another punter. I watched it on YouTube and its unsettling, her ability to clean sheet her emotions, her life. Maybe though, it wasn’t that hard. Maybe she’d learned what begins in plans and dreams, once substantiated, rarely lives up to expectation. She had the time in those twenty-two years to organise her memories to a distanced consideration of Ulay and their love. Perhaps she barely remembered him at all. I could construct a Great Wall of China against Linus and the parrot, separate myself from expectation and duty, protect myself from love and attachment. Should I take this stance when I collect the parrot? Sit opposite it, a rock face of scathing granite? Stone cold refuse to even take it? No. No, I don’t think I could do it. Even Marina’s poker face cried a little on the wall, wept again all those years later sat opposite her ex-lover before giving itself over to strangers queuing to be entertained. If I had been Marina, I would have walked until I was crippled, crumpled into Ulay’s arms, demolished the wall. I wouldn’t have been brave enough to let him go. I power down the laptop and realise I have no other light but the screen. The room flickers and goes out. The dark is as thick as molasses, as weighty as a patchwork quilt. In the black I realise I should have continued to tell Linus how I was feeling in Coffee #1. Made him listen. Made him wear my shoes. I should have stated that yes, I was struggling on my own, missing my daughter now Living so far away in London, grieving Dad, but I didn’t need to look after a parrot to have something to care for, something to do. I should have been honest. Too late now. I fetch the parrot tomorrow. Tomorrow is just a few hours away. The darkness diffuses through my skin looking for a higher concentration to invade. I feel its previous peacefulness churned to a new purpose. Why did Linus mention Marina and the Great Wall of China? Did he want to show me how tough I should be? Did he want to remind me my path will never be easy? Does he really expect me to sit opposite him like Marina; quiet, unchallenging, ready to restart again and again? Does he think this is equality? Fuck him. I reach for the side light. Enough of the darkness, but I am angry. I want my life to impinge on my brother. I want my voice recognised and heard. It has always been easier for him and I am resentful of this man-boy brother of mine who was only shooting to the moon in cardboard boxes ten years ago, and now brings me articles from the Guardian about MOMA art installations. I imagine him up in space and looking down at me walking The Great Wall of China. How tiny and sorrowful I must seem. How much a speck in the distance on a fruitless trajectory. Light brings exhaustion and perspective. My anger disperses bumping particles of abandonment on their way. My brother has never understood the work needed in the background. He has never appreciated the sacrifices made for his adventures and I love him, and I should never accept this Parrot which may be his one opportunity to learn how to Grow-Up and accept just a little responsibility. But It is too late for anger, for regret, to change anything. I am trapped with no alternative but to walk a wall full of fault-lines, with Dad’s parrot, to an insignificant end.