by J. A. Baker
A goldfinch has just landed outside my window, its startling colours so vivid that it causes me to stop awhile, to cease my writing and stare at it in awe, the vibrancy of its red face and yellow wings reminding me of a warm summer’s day, the type that seems to go on forever, the heat making everyone languorous and indifferent, the landscape cracked and dry as the sun sucks every last drop of moisture from the earth leaving it hard and unyielding beneath our feet.
Do you remember last summer, Clara? That day when we talked about spending the rest of our lives together? It was, and still is, one of the happiest days of my life. You spoke of love and commitment and how we knew each other intimately; every nuance of thought, every inch of skin, every breath that left our lungs, a shared action, a collective gathering of existential occurrences. I could almost hear my own blood as it pulsed around my body, felt the thud of my heart like a metronome – solid and steady within my chest. The innocent glassiness in your eyes told me everything I needed to know – that we were meant to be together. You are the other half of me, dear Clara. Without you, I am nothing. An empty husk, a shell of a man, lost and rudderless.
Which brings me to my next question – when can I expect you back, my darling? Time drags without you by my side. Every second is a minute, every minute an hour. I realise that it is right and proper that you must spend time with your gran as her illness progresses. Time spent with her is precious, as is our time together, but know this – I am counting every second until you return.
I am willing to bet that it is remarkably quiet up there in the wilds of Scotland. Good for the soul, I should imagine, although the sadness of seeing your gran’s health failing will possibly be more than you can bear and will detract from any pleasures you may gain from your surroundings. I wish I was there with you, my darling, to reassure you and provide a crumb of comfort to you in this trying time. Were it not for my job, I would drive up there and keep you company but unfortunately, I am rather mired down in marking and the many other duties that come with my teaching position so will have to stay put, but rest assured, you are never far from my thoughts. If I am being perfectly honest, you are always in my thoughts, some of them bordering on sensual and erotic.
Your last letter left me wondering what is going through your mind up there in your grandparents’ bothy. I didn’t know how to feel after reading your words, the words that left me wondering whether or not you still harboured the same strong feelings for me that I feel for you. I am hoping that the stress of caring for your gran and the isolation all played a part in your terse missive.
Forgive me, I think terse is too strong a word. You are too gentle, too caring a person to ever be described as such. I did, however, detect a note of weariness in your letter. I hope it is not directed towards me, but rather a generality of your current circumstances.
I realise I am rather old-fashioned in many respects and would do well to lay aside my crusty ways and sometimes grumpy demeanour. It’s a veneer I use, a protective suit of armour to keep the rest of the world at bay but I think that perhaps in doing so, I have also inadvertently pushed you away. I hope this is not the case. I would never knowingly do such a thing. You do know that, don’t you, my dear girl? I am hoping that by the time this letter reaches you, you will have changed your mind about extending your stay and will maybe give some thought to returning home in time for summer. Our summer. The time we could spend together. You do remember last summer, don’t you, my darling? It will be forever emblazoned in my memory as the best time of my life. Each and every second spent with you is memorable and to be cherished. Every time I hear the rush of the river or the rustle of the breeze through the treetops, I am reminded of you, of our time together, the tender moments we shared in the past and the time we will hopefully spend with one another in the future.
Anyway, I am rambling. I began this letter in the hope of cheering you up and here I am, being morose and acting like a petulant child who is being denied his own way.
I miss you, my dear Clara, and look forward to hearing from you. Please give my love to your gran and grandpa.
All my love,
Dominic.
4
Present Day
Her silence says more than words ever could. Dominic pulls up the covers and tucks them under her chin. He wonders where her bulk has gone. Where is the large buxom woman that once stood her ground and refused to back down or cower in the face of adversity? Before him lies a shrivelled husk of a person, cheeks shrunken, eyes set deep into her skull. He reaches out, his hand hovering over her face, wanting to touch her, yet not wanting to feel her parchment-dry skin, not wanting to be subjected to the coolness of her sun-deprived flesh. He can’t remember the last time she was well enough to come downstairs, let alone go outside and raise her face to the sky, and feel the gentle warmth of a soft spring day that would inject some life into her grey, pallid flesh.
So much lost. All that life and vigour and strength now reduced to this – this tiny shrunken being lying before him in her bed. Is this what she would have wanted for herself? Is this how anybody should spend their lives, holed up in a dank bedroom, the curtains permanently drawn because of her sensitivity to light, a variety of creams and potions piled high on the bedside cabinet to help alleviate bedsores, a commode stuffed away in the corner of the room because she is no longer able to manage her own toileting needs. This isn’t a life. It isn’t even an existence. It’s a nightmare from which there is no escape.
There are days when being by her side soothes him, makes him feel anchored to this house, to his life. And then there are days when the very sight of her makes him want to shout and cry at the unfairness of it all. It’s an exhausting process, being here for her, looking after her day after day, making sure her needs are met, that she is fed and clean and cared for. And then there is the guilt that weighs him down for harbouring those feelings. She deserves to be looked after, to have somebody by her side who will hold her hand as her body shrinks and her brain shuts down. All those thoughts and memories that used to run through her head. Where are they now? It was those very thoughts and memories that made her who she was, brought her to life, gave her that spark. And now look at her. Look at their lives and what they have been reduced to.
He sits by her side, watching her, wondering how it all came to this. Where did the years go? Time is his enemy as it rushes past, ravaging the remnants of his life, shredding it into tiny little pieces. The sight of his own face in the nearby mirror cuts through his thoughts. He can see his mother’s features in his own – the shape of his eyes, the slightly downward slope of his mouth and the fine lines that sit across his forehead, deepening with each passing year. It is hard to comprehend that he is twice the age that his father was when he died. So many difficult years to live through, although not as difficult as that other period in his life. The one he would sooner forget. He closes his eyes, blots out those thoughts then opens his eyes again, the lids heavy, his thin lashes fluttering as he stares down at her, a flood of ancient memories threatening to overwhelm him.
She’s sleeping now. Her expression is peaceful, her frail body succumbing to the calming effects of a deep slumber. Reaching out, he trails his fingers over her face, trying not to shiver at the dryness of her skin, the sparseness of her carefully combed hair, the slight odour that wafts up from under the sheets. The odour of an unkempt body. He does his best to care for her, to make sure her personal hygiene is as good as it can be, but it’s not an easy task nor is it a palatable one. Many men would shudder at the thought of it, but not him. He has kept at it all these years even though there are days when it all feels too much, as if the light at the end of the tunnel has been turned off leaving him stumbling about in the darkness, crashing into barriers and losing impetus at the thought of making it through another lonely day.
He stands, his body feeling twice its usual weight. Everything will seem better after a shower and a glass of the good stuff. Just the one. He limits himself during the week, nee
ding to stay alert for the following day, reasoning that one glass of whisky is for medicinal purposes, calming him just enough to aid a solid night’s sleep, blurring the edges and helping him to forget the things that keep him awake at night if he abstains.
The shower is hot, the armchair a welcoming sensation as he lowers himself into it, his body weary after another arduous week spent teaching youngsters who are impervious to his methods and dead set against any type of learning. They all seem to know better, their minds angled in other directions. Perhaps he has lost the knack of knowing what is required to delve inside their heads and stoke up some excitement, his methods now antiquated and no longer of use to anybody. Perhaps it’s time to think about retirement.
He reaches over to the bottle, its heft and amber hue a reassuring sight in the dimness of the room, and pours himself a long slug, the gentle trickle of the liquid the only noise in the surrounding silence. The thrum of his heartbeat slows down from a racing pulse to a gentle tick inside his abdomen as he raises the glass to his lips and lets the whisky do its job, allowing him to forget, allowing him to push everything away and focus only on the peaty flavour as it hits the back of his throat with a welcome punch. No more classroom worries, no more caring duties. No more of anything except being his own person and savouring the moment, his mind slowing down, his senses in harmony with his immediate environment.
This is where he is happiest. This is where everything feels just right, where it all makes sense. Not out there in society, amidst the bustling crowds and the constantly moving swathe of bodies that cross his path. This is his safe haven, somewhere he escapes to when it all becomes too much. Nobody can bother him when he is here, in his own little bubble of happiness. He is immune to everyone and everything.
He swallows and rubs at his eyes. Happiness is too strong a word. Contentment seems more fitting. Happiness suggests gaiety and merriment and he can’t remember the last time he felt either of those emotions or partook in any activity that lent itself to such sentiments. He is content here in this place. For now.
The glass is empty. He stares at it, tempted to pour another, the will to finish the bottle so strong he has to stand up and pace around the room to quell it. Two is too many. Two will make him tired and irritable in the morning. Tonight, it will numb and quieten his thoughts but in the morning the effects will linger, leaving him fatigued and that is the last thing he needs.
It’s the emptiness of this house that gets to him. The quiet and the calm he welcomes, the lack of company is something different. It weighs heavily on him, pushing him deep into the ground, his feet slowly sinking into the loam. Another drink would help dampen those thoughts.
Another drink could also exacerbate them.
He snatches up the newspaper and sits down on a hard chair at the table, the solid surface beneath his backside forcing him into a less relaxed state of mind, his eyes blandly scanning the headlines, his mind unable to properly read and digest any of the news articles.
A noise from behind stirs him, cutting into his thoughts. He turns around, listening again. He could have sworn he heard his name being called. His senses now sharpened, he stands up, ready to rush upstairs. There is a part of him that is ever vigilant, aware always of the slightest of sounds, his body and mind ready to jump to attention when required. He has forgotten how to be fully relaxed. While his body grows older and begins to sag, his brain remains alert, prepared for every little movement, every murmur she makes. It’s a skill he has learnt over the years, something he needs to do to care for her.
Going out during the day and leaving her here on her own is the hardest part. Living not so far from the school has made it easier. He calls home every lunchtime, leaving the noise and the mayhem behind for a short while to sit at her side and make sure she is happy and safe, to hold her hand and remind her that she isn’t alone. He is here for her. Always here.
Does he wish he had a better life, an easier one, free from her demands? Free from the guilt? Of course. But it is what it is and nothing is going to change that. No amount of wishing or praying or moments of anger and angst will alter this situation. He has to accept it and get on with his life, not waste time carping about things he cannot change.
He listens again for her voice calling from upstairs but there is nothing. Just an endless silence that stretches on and on and on.
A heaviness settles within him, ploughing a furrow deep in the marrow of his bones. He stifles a yawn, then feels a frisson of apprehension as it comes again. Another noise, but this time it is different. Not his name being called but a rattling sound coming from nearby. Not a sound he recognises, but then again, his hearing isn’t what it used to be. It is dulled by years of neglect and the regular prolonged ringing of the school bell next to his desk.
The stairs groan, a discordant series of sharp thuds and creaks as he makes his way up to her bedroom. He pushes at the door and slips into the darkness of her room, his footfall now muted by the carpeted flooring. His palms are slippery with perspiration as he grips at the handle and peers into the greyness, bracing himself for what he may find there. Days with her are often long and unpredictable. She is sometimes prone to violent outbursts that are difficult to contain, her mind on another tangent and almost impossible to direct or distract. She was always predisposed to such behaviour, her temper a physical force in the house when he was a boy. Her emaciated figure now stops her from carrying out anything too forceful or damaging but he remains attentive at all times, just in case.
Relief blooms within his chest as he stares down at her unmoving body, the tiny mound under the bedsheets that is deathly still. She is asleep. Some evenings she attempts to get out of bed, her legs flailing uselessly, her walking cane a weapon as she wields it in the air, her anger at her inability to walk unaided consuming her. But not this time. Tonight, she is sleeping peacefully. He heaves a sigh of gratitude and backs out of the room, closing it with a quiet, careful click.
Downstairs he checks each room, looking for open windows, anything that may lead him to the source of the noise, but finds nothing. A loud rap comes again, clearly this time. A deep dull thump. The sound of somebody using the brass door knocker. He rarely receives visitors and is unused to hearing the sound of it as it echoes around the hallway. It’s late and dark out. A chill skids over his flesh, prickling his arms and the back of his neck.
Hands clasped as if in prayer, he strides across to the hallway and unlocks the door, waiting a second or two before pulling it open and peering around the door frame only to be greeted by a blast of cold air and little else. He leans farther out, squinting into the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust then glances both ways but sees nothing except a dim outline of nearby shrubbery and hedgerows, hears nothing but the distant rumble of traffic carried by the prevailing winds that rush over the fields towards his house.
Slamming the door in frustration would ordinarily be his choice of response but he is keen to keep the noise down, not needlessly drag his poor mother from a deep and soundless slumber. So instead, closes it as silently as he can, muttering under his breath about local children and their idiotic pranks and how parents should ensure their offspring are accounted for. Because that’s who it will be, prowling around here in the dark, knocking on his door then scarpering before he can discover who it is. Living out here in the woods almost a mile away from the rest of the neighbourhood has often made him a target. A solitary house is easier to spot. It’s an incongruous sight, his home, with its dimly lit windows amidst the trees, and its tall chimney that spouts a spiralling trail of smoke from his open fire. He’s heard it all before, had to listen to every derogatory term imaginable used about it – a witch’s house, a haunted cottage, the house of horrors – by pupils past and present. He is perpetually torn between feeling insulted and caring so little that he finds it marginally amusing.
They should have moved after the death of his father, found somewhere more alluring, a modern property with all the latest mod cons, but
the time never seemed to be right. And then with his mother’s subsequent health issues, it became too difficult to consider. A smallholding had always been his father’s dream and he worked hard to buy this place. Leaving would feel like an affront to his life’s work even though the surrounding land is now barren. It’s all too late now anyway. Moving his mother in her current state of health is unthinkable. They are both here to stay.
He drops down into his armchair thinking that perhaps he is too old for everything. Too old to be a carer, too old to teach. Just too bloody old to give a damn about the things he once delighted in – flowers, the changing seasons, poetry and of course his study of physiognomy – the things that once held such great fascination for him are now the very things that leave him cold. No matter how hard he tries, he simply cannot drum up any enthusiasm for such pastimes, his energy sapped, his mind devoid of curiosity and passion.
His eyes stray to the corner of the room, to an area that has remained untouched for so many years now that he cannot recall exactly when it was that he made the decision to lock everything away. He shuts his eyes against the fear and nausea that rise. No, he won’t go down that route. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. It’s too painful, still too raw and besides, he has neither the energy nor the gumption for it. What is the point? Why put himself through it when nothing can be gained from such a venture. That box of things, the only keepsake he has, will remain untouched. It stirs up too many bad memories, dredging up things he would rather remain submerged and hidden.
What will happen to its contents, he wonders, when he finally shuffles off this mortal coil. Perhaps it would be best to take a match to the box and everything within it, help rid himself of those lingering memories, that time in his life when everything seemed shiny and new. When life held such promise before it became blackened and charred, an unrecognisable pile of ash that crumbled through his fingers, dusty fragments of a part of his life he would sooner forget.
