IN THE MORNING SUN

Pleasure from completing the first of this day’s tasks spreads through my old bones as I sit in the morning sunshine, enjoying the warmth on the bench outside Tesco. Now all I have to do is catch my bus home and cook for my grandson’s birthday. It’s funny how the small things give the most satisfaction now.

Not so many people are about this early on the weekend. Only a few scurry past, on their way to weekend jobs or other business, their tired eyes avoiding the acknowledgment of anyone else, heads bent as they hurry along. I wonder at them and make up small scenarios and stories for each as they walk by.

The man in a black coat walking towards me is on his way home from his fancy lady’s house, back to the nagging wife who drove him to the affair… There goes a woman in a grey dress who is about to become the reluctant substitute mother to her brother’s daughter. She can’t avoid the fact that her niece needs to be loved by someone… And there a black cat, without a tail; a strange sight in the shopping mall in town.

The cat stalks his way toward me, the stub of his tail pointing straight up in the air and twitching as though looking for the part it has lost. He pauses and delicately sniffs the air, then continues on. Rather than walk straight by he walks around me as if somehow aware I am superstitious and hoping he will not cross my path. When he reaches the back of the bench he stops and leaps up onto it, then slowly steps down to sit facing to me. After a few seconds pass a vibrating purr emanates from deep in his throat as he pushes his head into my hand which is resting on my lap.

It’s obvious he wants me to stroke him, but what if he has fleas or some other more insidious disease? A few more moments pass and I decide it’s too late for caution; I give in and stroke his head, gently scratching behind his ears. All cats seem to like this scratching behind the ears. He lifts his paw and gently rests it on my leg, making an advance towards sitting on my lap.

I enjoy the warm pressure and uncross my legs making it more inviting for him to curl up on me. He’s startled by the movement and backs away. I feel regret and hold myself as still as I can, breathing deep and slow, my hand back in my lap. He moves forward once more and pushes his head along my thigh, his purring starts up for a second time.

A familiar tremble passes through me, I can’t seem to control my own stillness at my age and every now and then I shake for no reason, shivering as though it is cold sat here in the sunshine. The cat doesn’t seem to mind though and he puts his paw back on my leg, gently clawing at the fabric of my skirt. I reach to pat him once more.

As though summoned by my movement, the bus arrives, loud and with the stink of diesel it lurches to a stop in front of me. Sadly it’s time to say good bye. I stand, pick up my shopping bags and make my way to the opening bus doors. Glancing behind me I see him leap down from the bench and watch me board the bus standing with one front paw raised.

A STRANGE SONG

He could remember an infinite expanse of blue then the sound of breaking glass, a screech of tyres and fluttering birds around him. Before that there was nothing and afterwards just this white cage and strange figures. He was confused but unable to communicate any of this to the figures in white. They seemed to be trying to articulate something to him or find something out but he couldn’t understand their sounds, their thought images were confusing and his own attempts at being understood seemed to be falling on deaf ears. When they mumbled amongst themselves he could see flashes of images, but none of them made any sense.

One of the figures moved towards him with a long silver stick, stuck it in his shoulder and walked away; slowly he drifted from this strange reality and back to the tree tops and blueness.

Robin should have been courting the hens, protecting his territory. Instead he headed to the window again, unfamiliar concerns crowding his mind. Was Jessie ok? Would the doctors be able to help? How would he get on in his job? Would he ever even return to work? All of this seemed strange yet somehow natural to be wondering about, more important than the yearly pull to find his mate, raise chicks and hunt insects or find berries. He sat on the window ledge and knocked on the window. Robin could see Jessie perched on the side of the bed, dazedly looking about the stark room, hunched into himself. Slowly he looked up and stared fixedly into his eyes as though trying to communicate through the power of thought.

Images flashed quickly across Robin’s mind, blue skies, a cage, a nest… and a questioning feeling behind it all. He opened his mouth to respond – not quite knowing how he understood that the images came from her. “twiddle-oo, twiddle-eedee, twiddle-oo twiddle”
He tried again knowing the words he wanted to say and keeping them firmly in his mind.
“twiddle-oo, twiddle-eedee, twiddle-oo twiddle”

Jessie seemed to understand this time and jumped from the bed coming closer to the window. Again images flashed across his mind, a pale pink sky with a glowing orange orb, dew and a crisp feeling of morning, all imbued with a feeling of complete joy and hope. He understood and replied, letting her know he would return. An urge to spread his wings overcame him and he took flight, landing on a branch in a nearby hedge. Jessie was all but forgotten.

The figures returned to Jessie’s room later that day. Again they spoke at him and sometimes amongst themselves. He was beginning to pick up some words from their talk, random words stayed with him – Dissociative disorder…alteration, identity confusion… posture…amnesia – he was unsure what this all meant but knew it was in regards to him and was afraid for himself, afraid for his future, something he’d never been conscious of feeling before.

Later a woman came in with a tray of food and a plastic cup. Jessie remained perched on the bed as far back as he could huddle into the corner. The woman strode up to him, reached for his head and held his face in her hands, forcing his mouth open she pushed some pills inside and down his throat. The tray was then left on the table by the bed and the woman retreated closing the door behind her.

Once alone Jessie eyed the food and hesitantly pecked at the rice. After a while he became drowsy again. It was dark outside now. Carefully he tucked his head under his arm and closed his eyes.

The sky was just showing the first pale fingers of dawn when Robin returned and tapped on Jessie’s window. He had wanted to sing in the dawn with the other birds, enjoy the shared visions of a new day, to lift his voice in praise of life and insects! But the new unfamiliar side of him urged him to go back and see what was happening to the woman in the stone and glass cage. Jessie was already awake and squatting on a chair by the window. He must be beginning to use his arms like the other humans.

All Jessie projected when he arrived was a request for silence and he moved his lips while the thought pictures appeared in his mind. He complied, wanting to anyway; he’d always liked to wait until the first traces of pink appeared before he joined in with his song. He wasn’t sure how he knew this but it was beginning to become more natural, not just the singing but the feathers, the woods, the pull of the seasons and complete awareness of now. Robin hopped about on the window, turning to face the dawn; aware of Jessie’s presence, he sat and waited for the rising sun’s beauty.

Slowly at first the pale grey bled into white, warmed up to amber and the first traces of pink appeared. A burst of song broke from their throats at the same moment “twiddle-oo, twiddle-eedee, twiddle-oo twiddle” Jessie’s a strange whistling yelp from behind the glass and the glorious joyful sound of his own bursting from his throat. Ahh it was bliss! To be a part of the beginning of the day, to sing in chorus with the maggpies, pigeons, thrushes, finches and any others who joined in.

When the sun had risen high enough for his praise and joy to subside he turned back to the window. Jessie’s eyes were glued to him, images flooded to him about yesterday and his lips moved rapidly, small gasps and squeeks occassionally emitting from them. He kept his focus although understanding was becoming harder than it had last season. He replied and could tell that despite his present concern he was being of little help. Part way through his projected explaination he suddenly flew off in search of insects and seeds, no longer able to hold himself their in obendience to this ever more increasingly unfamiliar will.

The men in white returned later that morning, Jessie was still perched on the chair wistfully looking out the window. This time when they spoke to him he grasped some of the meaning in their sounds. He tried to answer, focussing on the images he was trying to convey and miraculously words dropped from his lips.
‘Where am I? I want to fly again’
The men smiled kindly, looking at each other with congratulations as though they had taught him how to speak. They answered slowly.
‘Saint James’ Psychiatric Hospital, you’ve been here for almost three months now, you were in a bad car accident.’

Memory flooded back through Jessie’s mind although it wasn’t of any car acident. He’d been flying through the woods and crossed the path where the racing machines ran. As he swooped down with the air current he’d colided with the window of one of the machines, then woken up here in this hospital/cage. As the memory of the collision came to him he toppled from his place on the chair and banged his head hard on the floor.

Robin had been pecking at the earth trying to snare himself a particularly clever worm for his lunch when suddenly he toppled over on his side. When gained consciousness he was in a bed in a white room, a bandage around his forhead. He looked down at the sheets in wonder, confused by the dream he’d had of endless blue skies, magnificent sunrises and singing like he’d never done before.

ANGEL FACE

Greg looked into Becky eye’s as she passed him the eggs and bacon. They were red – like the dessert, no rain, no moisture for months now. All bled out, no tears, love, no emotion left to show. Silently he ate the breakfast. He ate in a daze of memories – Shelly would have been smiling and singing happily along to the early morning children’s T.V by now. Now she would never go to school, ride a bike or know her grandparents from the black and white photographs… His parents had passed years ago, Becky’s mother had died last year and her Dad was nowhere to be found – dead too for all they knew, she hardly remembered him. They were all alone now, their family slowly shrinking and leaving just them. No one else was left to care about or to care for them, no-one else, nothing.

The fork scraped against the ceramic making a harsh sound like fingers down a blackboard. Startled he looked up. Becky made an effort to smile at him and failed as he rose to leave, bereft of all ability to show anything anymore. Time for the rest of the days work – a few more hours in the cold air would get his mind off what should have been past events – events that kept haunting him. His little girl’s happy face – cut it off, stop the thoughts right there, no need to go over scenes that were past and unchangeable, set in stone like the writing at her grave….

The truck, the banter. Fat Kevin was always boasting the best load, competing with the other crews for the best of the pick from other peoples junk. The different teams they had never even met, but worked the same part of the city a few blocks to the east or west. How would anyone know who had ‘won’ that day?

To him every bag now showed a different profile of her face – laughing, tired, mouth stuffed with sweets and cheeks distended, but never really his little girl – all gone, never to come again. There was no more excited expectation of what treasures he may find that someone had carelessly discarded in their waste. No more energy for anything other than to get through another day. And at the end of the shift, it was just rubbish - wasn’t it? No profound epiphanies, he was a garbage man after all wasn’t he? No one cared who he was, knew his face or thanked him for the work. Keep the streets kleen like the sign said – with a ‘K’. Always at the end of the day, Kevin wheezingly boastful of the ‘amazing find’ he happened along during his shift. What a lucky bugger he’d be – bit of extra cash here and there never hurt anyone.

Life was automatic these days – at the end of his shift a stop at the cemetery on the way home, kiss Becky hello, sit down for a cuppa, dinner a few hours later and then off to bed no later than 8, in time for the next day’s shift. The bright colours of the children’s toys looking lost and out of place in the dusty lounge, but neither of them had been able to bring themselves to packing them away so they sat there and probably would for a long while yet.

The alarm rang all too soon. Up again and looking into Becky’s red eyes. Like the dessert – he always thought that. Who can take the pain of a dead child away? No one can erase that kind of desolation. So the desert would remain and he would keep getting up and collecting the rubbish until…. He didn’t know.

Shelly was sunshine, she was life, vibrance, the very essence of being. EVRYTHING was fascinating, important and worth wondering about, worth raising voice to ask, to try to learn… A face like a china doll.

There was her face again – no, surely just another rubbish bag? He looked again and gently picked it up in his big hand. A face, not Shelly’s, but so close - the same dancing eyes, the curl of a smile on her lips and the apricot glow on her cheeks. No not Shelly, it couldn’t be – he visited her each day, or the tiny grave – but a doll, antique it must be; with the fine brittle plastic like they used to make before things became mass produced and cheap. The body was a rotten mass of rags but the face was in perfect condition, definitely an antique doll, probably belonging to some hoity toity rich girl from Camberwell 50 or more years ago. Who’d forgotten and discarded it – this face of an angel. It could almost have been modelled on Shelly’s face, it was so close a likeness – or maybe Becky’s as a child, mother and daughter looking so much alike, just the difference in age of course. Becky’s now beginning to sag, becoming tired and showing all the pain and loss of the last 18 months. Carefully he wrapped the doll, or the remnants of, in a cloth.

Back at the depot and there was fat Kevin boasting again, some side table with a missing leg. Antique he said, state of the art ‘A Dee-boo-see piece’ he wheezed. He knew nothing that fat, useless piece of waste, with his skiting, boastful mannerisms. He’d like to sock him right in the mouth, watch the blood bleed from his fat oily lips and hear the air hastily escape from his overworked lungs as he doubled over in agony and disgrace.

Another Kleen Streets crew he’d never seen before, looking on with mild amusement at this fat man trying to sound and look important. Except for one, and old guy hanging back carefully watching from the sidelines all that was going on, as though he too were made of some sort of fragile old plastic and was afraid he might break somehow.

Before he knew it he was standing in front of the fat man, fists clenched, jaw set, watching from a different space and time. Watching with breath held and bitten lips.
‘That’s nothing!’ The voice sounded foreign – far away. ‘Debussy never made a stick of furniture in his life you wanker. But this – this is really worth something, look at the fine work in the face, probably be able to fetch a bit for this one but I’ll be keeping it.’

He tenderly pulled the doll from his pocket and removed the cloth to reveal the angelic face and rotten rags that were once its body. Not liking to be shown up as a fool Kevin snatched it from his large hands roughly, cracking the face in the process, destroying the near perfect likeness of his dear little girl.

‘A rotten doll? With a cracked skull? You’re the wanker mate, this is shit.’ And he tossed it to the side. The doll skittered across the asphalt lot and stopped at the feet of the old man.

Before he knew it his right fist was buried in the warm folds of flesh about Kevin’s waist, his left swinging sharply and catching Kevin’s brow. He could hear the air hissing from his mouth – just as he’d imagined a few moments before. He looked down to see Kevin doubling over and staring up at him with bulging eyes as he slumped to the ground. He half wondered if he’d really done it or was at home dreaming in bed. He’d wanted to hit him for a long time, so much anger inside over things he had no power to influence; it seemed to have bubbled over and out onto Kevin.

His knuckles smarted. Shelley’s face was still on the ground in front of the old man. Slowly he bent and picked it up. He looked at it with a strange tenderness and walked slowly towards Greg.

‘I guess it’s not worth anything now’ he said. ‘But I’d give you a couple’a bucks for it, looks exactly like my little girl, though she wouldn’t be so little now. Grown up, married, moved on probably and I’ve never laid eyes on her since she was a toddler.’

Greg looked at him quizzically. Who was this old boy? What was so familiar about his face? Or was he just having one of those days?

‘I’d rather hang onto it if it’s all the same to you – it reminds me of my little one who passed some months back…’ His voice petered out. He’d surprised himself twice in one day. He never mentioned Shelly at work, everyone on his crew knew of course but it wasn’t the type of thing they’d talk about or wanted to acknowledge. No one knows what to say about the death of a child, best to leave it and say nothing at all. Less embarrassment and discomfort for all concerned.

‘Strange you say the same, it’s the image of my Becky. Ahh, still what’s gone is done and I shouldn’t be hanging onto things I can’t change.’