by Richard Gwyn
It goes without saying that none of the literary tasks that occupy me provides sufficient income to make a decent living – nothing near it – but with the money I received from my aunt’s inheritance, I have more than enough to get by, and my needs are relatively simple.
From the start I have imposed on myself a schedule, and my workplace is the library. I try to maintain a routine for a very good reason: since moving to Llys Rhosyn I have begun to suffer from insomnia, and have discovered that unless I set myself a timetable of some kind, my days are likely to fall apart, and night and day form one seamless trajectory. At night I sleep little, or not at all, passing most of the hours of darkness curled up in an armchair in the library, or else stretched out on the sofa in the living room, attempting to read, or watching DVDs from Megan’s collection. British films from the 1940s are my current favourite – as they were Megan’s staple – and though occasionally drifting into semi-consciousness, I never manage to achieve deep, healing sleep. In consequence, during the day, I often slump at my desk, or else succumb to slumber in the very armchair in which my aunt expired, only to wake half an hour later; and although not refreshed, I go about my business, but without enthusiasm or energy, for sleeplessness drains a person in more than a purely physical sense.
Time spent alone moves at a different speed to time spent in the company of others. It shifts in jolts and spurts, and there are long lacunae in which the overwhelming patience of the natural world serves as a constant reminder of one’s own insignificance, and whatever endeavour you have in mind, whatever tasks you set yourself, take place against the backdrop of an unyielding constancy, a reminder that despite, or because of, the changing of the seasons, the fall of leaves in autumn, the abundance of flora and excitation of birdlife in the spring, all is subject to repetition; a process of eternal return.
Seated at the big desk in the library I am able to look out over the landscape, which from this vantage point does not include the field or the tent but rather the woods that lie to the west of the house, these woods that I have known all my life, have walked in, spying on deer, collecting mushrooms in autumn and observing, when I am lucky, the nocturnal activities of badgers, or of a family of foxes, one in particular, the dog fox, who ventures out of the woods at sunset, crossing the dirt and gravel driveway where my car is parked, occasionally stopping to sniff the air before continuing on his missions of plunder and forage. I see the fox more frequently than I ever see Morgan, my neighbour.
I stare out of the big, latticed window at the woods of beech and alder that bank the hillside. The buzzard, my buzzard, is hovering at some distance from the highest trees when, with a flurry of wing-beat and a terrible shrieking, a posse of crows, a murder of crows falls upon it, flapping from the upper reaches of the woods, making their hateful sounds, harrying and feinting, closing in on him with their sharp beaks, swooping on the buzzard, which dives away, possibly injured, I cannot tell. How terrible, I think, to be set upon by crows, up there in the sky.
5
Around midday I make coffee, and drink it in the kitchen, while staring out of the window, before my impatience gets the better of me and I return outside. I climb over the low fence at the bottom of the garden. The sun is high above the upper reaches of the woods and a fresh breeze blows down the valley.
The tent still betrays no sign of human activity. I am emboldened by the strong coffee, proprietorial even. I call out a sort of greeting at the tent. Hullo, I say: anybody there? Then on a whim, I repeat the question in Welsh, my ancestral language, just in case. Since I rarely speak out loud in the confines of the house, my voice sounds utterly strange. There is no response, of course, but again, when I focus my gaze on the tent, close to, I am struck by the dazzle and intensity of its colour – its deep, electric, oceanic blue – and I feel something like a pain in the space behind my eyes. I squat by the opening and put my hand on the zipper, but this time I do not hesitate, I pull it sharply upward.
Inside is the usual camping paraphernalia: a sleeping bag spread diagonally across the groundsheet, a rucksack propped at the far end, some scattered hiking garments, strong boots, an empty plastic water-bottle, a torch. I don’t want to look in the rucksack, I have seen enough. I am squatting uncomfortably on my haunches – there was no other way to enter the tent apart from crawling on all fours – when the entrance-flap drops behind me, and I succumb to what can only be described as a fainting-fit. Perhaps it is my prolonged sleeplessness, I don’t know, I don’t feel on edge or nervous, but one moment I am crouching, neither fully inside nor out, and the next I fall forward, into the middle of the tent, and at once I am drowning, submerged in a diaphanous blue, in complete and utter saturation of the colour blue. How, the question presents itself vaguely to my ebbing consciousness, can a colour so disorientate, cause me to fall into a swoon, as a Victorian writer might have described a lady’s collapse at the dinner table? The archaic word seems apt: swoon fits perfectly the sensation of falling from a height, and then floating away, drifting inside this blue, blue space, this zone, buffeted by the blue waves of unbearable nostalgia for something that I have never known, as in a dream, with a quiet yet palpable drumming in my ears as the ocean sways beneath me, and I the sole object on its now churning surface, captive and hostage of the colour blue, pinned to the groundsheet with the tent walls flapping gently around me in the swelling breeze, drugged to this world of infinite azure.
I don’t know how long I stay there before slowly regaining my senses, and then I shuffle backwards, arse-first from the tent, my face wet with tears, though I have no memory of crying. I wipe my eyes with my sleeve, half-expecting to see that I have wept blue tears, but thankfully no, just salt, just water, and I zip up the tent again, take some deep breaths and look around.
There is no one in sight. Yet I know I am being watched.
6
Rather than return directly to the house, I decide to take a walk. I follow a narrow path that runs parallel to the drive, then veers off and climbs through the woods overlooking the house on the west side. I walk quickly, to stretch my limbs and to banish the feeling of helplessness that overwhelmed me inside the tent. But there is something else, which takes a while to register: it is not only colder now, but darker, the woods dim in the fading light of early evening.
Shocked that I have been sleeping in a stranger’s tent for several hours, I continue to walk briskly, as if trying to catch up with the accelerated passage of time. In the woods, swathes of bluebells carpet the ground and the smell of the soil is moist and pungent. Everything is breathing. The thick undergrowth, in particular, looks to be alive; small shoots press determinedly past the topsoil, surging through the weeds and mulch that adds its own damp aroma to the wild garlic scattered beneath the trees. The track I am following climbs steeply, and after ten minutes, just before the summit of the hill, a turning of the trail offers a panorama of the valley. It is a place where I often stop, to sit on a fallen tree-trunk. The house is almost directly below me.
I am about to take my customary seat on the trunk when I notice a figure walking down the drive towards the house. It is too distant for me to be certain at first, but it appears to be a young woman. She is dressed in blue jeans and a black top.
The stranger walks towards my car, and I can see now that she is carrying something in one hand; it looks like a bunch of flowers, a conjecture confirmed as she stops and bends at the edge of the drive to pick something from the ground in a place where daffodils flourished a couple of weeks ago, and still a few remain. Then she stands and looks around, turning her head towards the woods and, lifting her face, seems to be staring directly at me.
I doubt she can have seen me, hidden as I am by the trees; besides, the angle of elevation would make it difficult for her to discern any human shape, even one dressed, like myself, in a red shirt, but as she maintains her stare I feel a leaping in my chest, as though I have beenfound out, as though I were a fugitive who has been spied by his pursuer. We all possess s
ome kind of instinct that inspires fear when watched from a distance by a stranger, buried deep within the mechanics of the reptilian brain, which reminds us that we were once the prey of other, ferocious creatures. But my panic rapidly gives way to indignation as she lowers her gaze and makes her way towards the back door. She doesn’t hesitate, she walks straight to the door, which, as usual, is on the latch; perhaps she knocks but if so doesn’t wait long for a response before she lets herself in.
I set off down through the woods at once, slipping and crashing through fern and bracken. It takes me the best part of two minutes to reach the drive, where I break into a run, not slowing until I reach the back door. I stop briefly to gather myself, before striding purposefully into the kitchen.
She sits by the table, watching me as I make my entry. A bunch of wild flowers sits in a vase in the middle of the table. She looks me over and smiles, not betraying any trace of nervousness. Meanwhile, my heart thumps and my legs are shaking. I am unaccustomed to such violent exertions. I lean against the sink to regain a semblance of self-control, and from there, of course, I can see it – the blue tent – framed in the middle of the window.
Shall I make us tea, she says, – or shall we do the introductions first?
Rather than wait for an answer, she gets up and reaches for two mugs from the cabinet (she evidently knows where things belong), inspects the tea-caddy, sniffs the contents, and scoops two spoonfuls into the pot. She must have put the kettle on to boil while I was coming down through the woods.
Sugar?
I gesture to the sideboard.
No, she says, I mean, do you take sugar?
I shake my head.
Milk?
I point to the fridge, although I know this is not what she means either, as she is already heading towards it. I am out of breath and have a stitch, but am trying, unsuccessfully, to hide my discomfort.
My, she says, you are out of shape, and smiles again, quite sweetly, stirring the contents of the teapot.
What – I begin, between deep breaths, still with one hand leaning on the sink – are you doing in my house? I could, within the law, shoot you. As an intruder.
She makes a tutting sound. How you exaggerate. That is not the law, she says, still stirring. Not in this country, anyhow. Besides, I’ll bet you don’t have a gun.
I don’t answer this. Instead, I watch her unhurried movements as she prepares the tea. I notice she has long slender fingers and a small mole on the side of her neck. I appreciate the fingers, which look artful and expressive.
She hands me a mug of tea, and takes the other for herself.
Mind if I smoke?
This is the point at which I might be expected to bring an end to the interview, if such it is, but there is something that holds me back. My curiosity, perhaps. I am not, in any case, a committed anti-smoker, have been known to smoke myself; so I shrug, which she takes as assent.
Mind if we sit down? she asks.
Mind if?
She sits anyway, produces a pouch of rolling tobacco, papers and a matchbox, and nimbly tailors a cigarette. Again, I watch her fingers as they go about this business, smoothing the paper, carefully filling a furrow with straggly tobacco, rolling with one deft movement, inserting a filter and raising the thin cigarette to her lips for a lick, tongue poised. She strikes a match, lights up, inhales, blows out smoke, and picks away a strand of loose tobacco that has evaded the filter and adheres to her lower lip, flicking it to the floor. She sits back in her chair and hoists one sneaker-shod foot onto the other knee. Her jeans are a faded blue denim with several patches sewn on, small labours of love; paisley, velvet, a tiny square of red, a triangle of black.
In answer to your question, she says, eventually: you came into my home, I came into yours. What’s the difference?
Your tent, I say. Not your house, your home.
Tent, house, whatever. My dwelling-place, my residence, temporary though it might be. You too are a temporary resident, if you think about it.
I have no idea what she means by this. Perhaps she is attempting to be profound.
Tell me, she says, her eyes bright: what happened to you inside the tent? I know that something happened. You were in there for an age. Don’t pretend that nothing happened because it will be obvious you are lying.
Nothing much, I say.
See, she says. You’re lying already. The one thing that doesn’t happen when somebody goes into the tent is ‘nothing much’. Not unless that person is an absolute cretin. So, please, what happened inside my tent?
I see no point in dragging this thing out.
I kind of collapsed, I say. I passed out. And then, yes, I must have slept. No idea how long for. I have trouble sleeping at night.
She takes a sip of tea, looks at me thoughtfully.
You were so collapsed when I looked in. Tell me, did it feel as though you were at sea, did it feel as if you were afloat in the ocean? Was everything very blue when you ‘kind of collapsed’?
Something like that, I say, sighing.
She nods her head in an encouraging and sympathetic manner.
That’s good? I ask.
Yes, that’s good. Very blue is how it should be. Do we have anything to eat? I’m starving, do you mind?
I allow the ‘we’ to pass.
There’s bread, I say, in the bread-bin, and I indicate the sideboard with the back of my hand. There’s cheese in the fridge. Soup, which you can heat up. Help yourself. Not that you need any encouragement.
Thank you. I will make a sandwich.
She speaks in soft, clear tones, a mellifluous voice, and sometimes, as in that declarative ‘I will make a sandwich’, with a kind of engineered, suspect formality, as if she and I both know that conversation, or this conversation, at least, is a game, a froth on the substantial world. While she busies herself preparing her snack, I have the chance properly to regain my breath. She is right about one thing: I am in poor shape. I make a mental note to extend my daily walks now that the weather is improving, go deeper into the mountains, take a picnic, make a day of it once in a while.
She has prepared her sandwich but remains standing at the sideboard. She does not cut the sandwich in half, but lifts the whole round to her mouth and eats hungrily. When she has finished, she wipes a few crumbs from her lips with the back of her hand.
Did you make the bread? she says.
I did.
It’s very good, she says.
This is already the longest face-to-face conversation I have taken part in for several months, since, in fact, my pilgrimage up Lord Hereford’s Knob with the hapless Brynmor Williams. My conversational skills are in decline. But if my own words sound strange to me, so do hers.
Why don’t you have a dog? she asks, slicing cheese.
I don’t care for dogs, I say.
A dog would be company, she says.
I don’t much care for company, I say.
She turns from her slicing and looks me in the eye.
Do you want me to leave?
No, I say, not yet. I want to find out why you are here.
That, she says, will involve a lengthy explanation.
I have time, as you see.
I gesture around me, meaning, I suppose, to include the kitchen, the house, who knows, the whole world, as though time, or its unsteady passing, were somehow integral to the physical space around me.
She fills a glass with water from the tap and stands by the sink, taking small sips.
The tent bothers you?
I sigh again, but do not reply at once.
Well? she asks, peering at me over her glass of water.
Where did you get your tent? It is most unusual.
She hesitates, but only for a moment.
Your Aunt Megan gave it to me, as a gift.
She clearly enjoys my surprise at this, and laughs out loud. Her delight is child-like, and I almost expect her to start clapping her hands. When her amusement has abated she puts the glass of wate
r down on the sideboard and resumes her seat, but now with her elbows on the table, supporting her head in her hands, staring at me over the vase of cut flowers.
My name, she says, is Alice.
7
Your aunt was my teacher, she says (or I seem to remember her saying); and the mother I would have liked to have had, or perhaps – she ponders this – an older sister. (Very much older, I am thinking.) I know it’s a terrible cliché, but meeting her changed my life. We happened into each other in one of those random encounters or coincidences Megan was so fond of, and from then on, until a year ago, when she died, we were in touch every week, by phone, by email … and I visited here, two or three times a year. I came to stay with her many times over the past ten years … but I didn’t make it to the funeral, I can’t abide funerals, all the trappings of death and departure, I can’t stomach them … so I didn’t come. Megan would have understood, I know that for sure. But I was with her a couple of weeks before she died, here at Llys Rhosyn … and although she was quite old I don’t think Megan was really very ill. I think she just decided to die. And pouf, she died …
