Where there's hope there's life

The centre of Swindon remains uninspiring, its very blandness seeming to stifle any new growth. The pubs on Fleet Street entice the ASBO crowd to drink in the sun where they can easily shout abuse to passers by. I hurry past on my way home avoiding eye contact by looking skyward.

As I get to the corner a flash of green catches my eye, slowing down I notice a small tree clinging to the wall of the pub – one story up. Its roots dig into the mortar, yet no crack can be seen. The vibrant green leaves undulate in the breeze reminding me of far away places. Flouting the humdrum of Swindon life it reaches for the sunshine, valiantly holding onto its existance and reaching for something more. The tree makes me smile, although it didn’t try to – it has no need of admiration, it has found its niche already.

It's not my business

I’d been holding on since I left work, which made it hard to focus on the artwork I was supposed to be reviewing. Happy with my notes I tucked them into my bag and headed towards the stairs wondering where the closest toilet was. As I reached the bottom of the stairs a woman and a young girl appeared. The woman began fiddling with the lock to the ladies.
‘Relief!’ I thought gratefully and walked towards her as she opened the door. ‘You don’t mind if I go too do you?’
She looked around, startled and clutched at the suitcase on wheels I’d not noticed until then.
‘Sure.’ She replied nervously, eyes darting here and there as she pushed the little one ahead of her. ‘Just let me know when you’re done.’ I strolled in behind her, watching her manoeuvre the suitcase in front of her and ushering the girl to the second stall.
Not thinking too much about her strange behaviour due to the pressure from my bladder I pushed into my own stall and sat down to answer nature’s call.

Over the tinkling of my pee I heard the suitcase open and something heavy drop on the floor. It made a dull thud, like documents being dropped. I began to hum in an effort to disguise my listening from her. Over the repetitive tune I heard crackling as though something was being stowed into a plastic bag. Curious, but aware that I would never find out what it was until she left I flushed and opened the stall to see her zipping the case closed. There was no sign of the package I thought I’d heard. I thanked her for letting me in to use the loo and left. As I reached the door I heard the little girl calling to the woman.
‘I can’t flush the toilet!’
‘Never mind darling, you wash your hands while I flush it for you.’

Wondering how I was going to get back in without the woman knowing, I went and bought myself a coffee from the theatre café while I waited for the woman to reappear. She did shortly, returning the key to the desk. I smiled as she walked past me and out onto the street.

Now I just had to get back into the toilets to see if I could find out what she’d been up to. The toilets would be locked and I had no excuse - like a child - for them to let me in on my own. I waited, nursing my coffee and turning over in my mind ways to get the key. Half an hour passed before I decided to simply ask and try my luck.

The girls at the booking desk were busy selling tickets and I waited in line for another 15 minutes. By then I really did need the toilet and was bouncing from foot to foot to avoid peeing my pants. I asked in a slightly exasperated voice if I could have the key to the ladies and was rewarded for my efforts with a smile and the silver key that I hoped would solve the mystery along with my weak bladder issue.

Hurrying down the stairs in anticipation and intense need I fiddled with the lock just like the woman before me had. I made my way to the stall which the little girl had used and sat down, my need to pee taking priority over the need to find out what she was up to.

As I sat I looked around for somewhere to hide whatever it was – it had sounded reasonably large. I peered into the toilet paper dispenser only to find toilet paper. There was no sanitary waste disposal unit, or anywhere else to secrete a package. Stumped and feeling overly suspicious, I stood up and flushed the toilet. A pitiful trickle of water splashed into the bowl and stopped. Smiling to myself I lifted the lid on the cistern, sure I would find a concealed packet.

Rewarded for my efforts an opaque plastic zip-lock bag sat at the bottom of the cistern, almost filling it to the top. Trying not to be too grossed out by putting my hands in toilet water I reached in and pulled it out. It was heavy alright, but not as big as I’d anticipated after hearing it drop on the floor. The toilet hissed as the cistern filled with water again.

Sure that I was the only one in the toilets I pulled open the bag and peered inside. Stacks of £20 and £50 pound notes poked out from the plastic and I was sorely tempted to take a pile and put the rest back. My voice of conscience shouted over the darker me and I closed the bag up, flushed the water from the cistern and placed the bag back inside.

There must’ve been at least £10,000 in the bag. I wondered why someone would place that much money in a toilet. Curiosity won over my duty as a UK citizen and I decided to wait and see if someone would come to collect it. I returned the key to the desk and asked if I could take another look at the art display in the lower foyer, closer to the toilets. The girl agreed I could. I made my way down the stairs to a table that had a good view of the toilet door but offered cover from a casual glance around the bar.

Not known for my patience I plugged my iPod into my ears and looked about at the images on the walls. An hour passed but still no-one came, the rope barring access to this part of the theatre remained in place. I tapped my foot impatiently and sighed, I had other things I needed to be getting on with and I could get into some serious trouble for not reporting what I knew. Even worse, I could get hurt if whoever came to collect the cash saw me staking out the ladies. I began to worry about the woman and myself. Who knew who’d turn up and what they were capable of?

As I rose to abandon my plan and call the police a small woman with a cute toddler walked down the stairs. Sitting down again quietly I watched as she let herself into the ladies. I took in everything I could about her – the large black handbag, stylish jeans and shirt, long black pony tail and expensive Louboutin shoes with the trademark glossy red soles. The little boy was dressed in denim dungarees with a playful yellow t-shirt underneath. The laces on his left trainer were undone but he made it down the stairs without falling.

Not knowing I had been holding my breath I exhaled loudly as the door swung closed behind the pair. A few minutes passed before the door opened again and the lady stepped out. Her handbag bulged and the little boy was nowhere to be seen. She carefully locked the door behind her and trotted up the stairs to the main foyer.

Now in a bit of a dilemma, I sat, stunned at what I had stumbled upon and wondering what I was supposed to do next. I was worried about the little boy – I hadn’t heard any sound, but what if he’d been hurt – or worse… Terrible images of his small body twisted on the floor flitted around my head. I wanted to go back to the desk and get the key, but what if the woman, or someone more threatening, was there and saw me? Scared and worried but unable to do nothing I darted up the stairs to the desk.
‘I’m so sorry, but could I please have the key to the loos again? I must’ve drunk far too much today.’ I asked, smiling and feeling insanely conspicuous. The girl behind the desk smiled kindly and passed it to me. As I turned I was confronted by the woman I’d seen earlier.
‘You don’t mind if I go to do you?’ She asked. I could hear the strain in her voice.
‘’Course not.’ I replied and walked down the stairs with her close behind. She didn’t have her case anymore and the little girl was sat at one of the tables in the theatre café.
‘Just let me know when you’re done ‘cause I’ll have to lock it up again.’
I let us both in and walked around to the cubicles. One of the cubicle doors seemed to be locked and I could hear the little boy crying. Humming to myself I pushed into the loo and sat down. I sat for a good ten minutes wanting to give the woman enough time to comfort her child and leave without having to explain to me.
‘I’m done’ she shouted ‘Thanks so much for your kindness.’

The quiet toddler steps disappeared along with the echoes of the woman’s shoes and I wondered again if I had chosen the right path.

Summer Solstice 08

Stonehenge stood in the distance, blending into the grey clouds that pressed upon the landscape releasing a fine drizzle punctuated by brightly coloured umbrellas. Thousands of people formed a line along the fence, like marching ants. Drumming reached my ears and the stones took the shape of a design I had only seen in pictures.

Excited that we’d finally made it I urged my aching limbs forward, hurrying with my friends towards the circle. My first sight of England’s most well known site was made all the more special by the trip down the river Avon to get there – following the footsteps of an ancient people thousands of years before.

The huge megaliths stood solid while the crowd pulsated to the drumming and I stood amazed at the spectacle before me. A feeling of calm spread through me – similar to the time I had visited Uluru years before, on the other side of the world.

People from all walks of life milled about. Some stumbled past inebriated, one chanted ‘Summer Sol, Sol, Sol…’ clearly under the influence of something. He fell to the ground not far from me and twitched as he answered the question in my mind.
‘K Hole, K Hole, K Hole’ he repeated.

Cider cans and plastic bags littered the ground and I wondered at the lack of reverence for a site so closely entwined with England. The ingenuity of the people who had transported these enormous rocks here and erected them in this precise pattern was mind blowing, surely a little respect for it wasn’t much to ask?

My thoughts drifted back to our journey along the Avon, the calm river speckled with starlight, the ghosts of swans disappearing before us in the predawn and then the frantic paddling to save ourselves from the weir and the menacing spikes that poked from beneath the rushing water. It was hard to think how the Neolithic people managed to move these giant stones along that same route.

The ancient stones seemed to hold their breath, waiting for the madness to subside and leave them to return to their pondering. Still contained in my bubble I began to notice the difference in each slab of sandstone, bluestone and sarsen, carried from distant places. Lichen and birds had made their homes in the crevasses and chinks, in some way giving them further life, making them relevant to now, more so than the festivities that continued around me.

Tired of the crowd we turned to leave; sleep beckoned our aching bodies as we returned for our boats and then home to sleep and dream of ancient times.

Do not stand at my grave and weep

The sun shone out from the clouds, making me sweat in my black clothes, the race to place flowers on his grave before the service had left me feeling rushed. We took our seats near the front as the last of the first hymn petered out, kissing the others hello.

The Irish priest voiced platitudes about eternal life and returning to Christ. In one voice the congregation obediently answered ‘amen’ and stood as instructed, beginning the next hymn. Shade touched the garden as I looked around me at the pliant faces, wondering at the comfort derived from these services, long after their loved ones had passed.

The melodies were unfamiliar; I supposed I seemed hard, standing silent with lips tightly closed. The hymn finished and another priest beckoned us to sit, reminding me of the long aerobic services I had attended as a child.

I was surprised by the elderly lady who took her turn at the podium, almost too short to see over the lectern. Her voice rose clearly out over the crowd, acknowledging the loss of all those sat before her. Offering no promises of golden streets in heaven, yet providing comfort with her encouragement to continue on, remembering, loving, living. I thought of those I’d lost, not unhappy that they’d moved on, knowing they were fine wherever they may be, but sad for my loss. Grief is a selfish thing.

The next song passed by and the first priest returned, thanking us for attending, talking on until I didn’t hear anymore and sat wondering about the elderly woman’s wisdom. She didn’t seem like a priest, although I wouldn’t know what one looked like – the religion of my upbringing would never allow a woman to preach – and the programme provided little help either. I wondered who she grieved for and was grateful for her words, when all the others seemed just noise.

AN ODE TO RUBEN DUDLEY

His hands were strong and rough from work and his shed was dark but full of mystery and intrigue. Papa never had much time for children but I was in awe of him, the amazing things he knew, the gruffness that he spoke to us with and his harsh words when we were caught in the bowels of his work room only served to deepen my interest and love for the old man.

Wanting him to be proud of me and pick me out as one of his favourite grandchildren I would always jump at the chance to go walking along the sand dunes by the beach with him and his dog of many names – Gus, Buggerlugs, Boy and Dud just to name a few. But he answered to all. Wandering along the peaks of the windswept dunes and looking down at the crashing waves I felt free and loved – in good capable hands with my Papa.

As I grew older my respect and love for him only grew. Determined never to need help or give in to his age he dug out his own indoor, back yard swimming pool at the age of 83, rigged up an old wood heater to the water circulation so it was warm enough for his beloved wife and built a shed around it with en-suite bathroom inside, scoffing at his sons when they advised getting a small digger in, or workmen to do it for him. His response was the same a few years later when the boiler in his ceiling broke and needed to be replaced.

One question he never seemed to like answering, and that I never liked to ask, was his age. My own father could answer those sorts of mundane everyday queries. Papa was for asking how things worked – could you make a motor bike out of a bicycle? Or a pottery wheel out of a washing machine? Or for laughing with at ‘the old boys’ as they tried to cross the road in front of his house, or the teenage girls that ran along with no bras making milkshakes. His wheezing cough of a laugh and the mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he made those comments still resonate in my mind.

One day quite suddenly, just as I was starting to think he’d live far past 100, he lost his marbles – to use his words. Forgot what he was doing, why he was doing it and almost who he was. But his spirit remained; he knew where he wanted to go. So when I made the journey to the home where he was placed he asked me as I walked through the door ‘Have you come to get me for the final round up?’ He didn’t know I was his granddaughter any more and he didn’t really care, because “when you live you live in clover and when you’re dead, you’re dead all over.”

SEEN THROUGH A WINDOW

The fire in the grate is crackling and the room is warm; outside the window snow is gently falling and covering the street with its pure whiteness. I’m glad I’m not out there in the cold and instead can admire the view from the warmth of this room. A fragile girl in rags walks into my view of across the street and knocks on the door of the house opposite. It looks like she is trying to sell matches but is turned away. Shivering she slowly moves down the steps away from the door and to the side of the house; almost out of my range of sight. I move in my chair so as not to lose her, I’m captured by her innocence and want to know what she will do next. Part of me hopes she will knock on our door so I can invite her in and warm her by the fire.
She looks into the window of the house she has just visited, then away and crouches down in the street, right across from me. One of her matches is lit and she stares into the flame as though entranced by visions only she can see. I wish I could see what she does… I look about our front room at the large Christmas tree, decorated within an inch of its life, presents overflowing from beneath it and then back out the window at the tiny girl, she’s lit another match. I watch her as she stares into the flame letting it burn down to her tiny fingers, her blue lips moving as though in conversation.
I want to get up and go to her but I’m frozen like the snow outside on the street and can only sit and stare, wishing, hoping that she will knock on my door. Another match is lit, this time her movements are lethargic and she appears to be falling asleep outside in the cold. But it doesn’t stop her intently staring at the tiny flame which burns all the way to her fingers and seems to touch her just before she drops the charred remains on the ground.
Still staring out the window I stand ready to make for the door and go to her, but as I stand so does she and she walks around the side of the house and out of my line of sight. I sit back down again and wistfully stare out the window wondering how her Christmas will be.

AN UNWANTED GIFT

I wasn’t always blind or homeless but my destiny led me to where I am and I guess I can’t complain. I was a valued house boy of a rich merchant, running errands for him here and there about the city for many years. But my luck changed with his – as is the fate of a slave.

So when my master lost his riches I lost my home along with them. I was sold onto another who beat me in his drunken fits for many years. On the last occasion I was beaten so badly about the head that I lost my sight. A sightless slave is of little use to his master and so I was thrown out onto these dusty streets.

So I was stripped of my first home, thrown from my second a blind and bleeding mess and I ended up here. In a manner I am lucky to be blind as an able bodied person would not fare well from begging, as it is I manage to eek out enough to live by from this and the kindness of a few who take pity on me by giving me their scraps and a few sheckles occasionally. I am now an old and infirm man and my only hope of freedom from my fate lies in death which surely is not too far around the corner.

Still I consider myself lucky to have lived so long and to have stumbled upon the kindness of a few in these poor back streets of this dusty town. Although I am blind I still know of many things going on in this neighbourhood. With the loss of my eyes came the sharpness of my ears, touch and smell. It’s amazing how much can be gleaned from the conversation around me, the ambient noises and smells in the streets tell there own tales and one of my occasional benefactors keeps me up to date with other news and gossip from further about the town as well as the few scraps she can spare. For example a great profit who has gained much notoriety in his time is visiting our town today to talk to any who will listen of his theories and the new god he follows. She has promised to come by if she is able and take me to him as I have an interest in philosophy and talk of the gods although they seem to have forsaken me.

I can hear her quick footsteps now, hurrying towards me. I rise slowly as my bones aren’t nearly as strong or dependable as they once were when I was serving and being cared for by my first master. I pat myself down, trying to bring some order to my dishevelled appearance. I can feel the dirt caked on the soles of my feet and the clouds of dust emanating from my rags as I pat them down in a futile attempt at tidying myself up. I must be a sight and I smile to my self – appreciative that I cannot see.

She reaches me and gently takes my hand. I can feel her excitement as she tells me of the crowds that have come to see him and the wise men who follow him. He is said to have caused much discussion and talk wherever he has gone and a rumour of miracles follows him also. I laugh, asking her what he will do for us poor slaves and beggars. She doesn’t answer and simply leads me on faster. I can hear a crowd ahead and then we are pushing through masses of people toward a loud and sonorous voice. A cool hand is placed over my face, a prayer said and as the hand is moved away my eyes smart from the bright sunlight that I have only felt for many a year.

FOLLOW ME

There are flowers at the door again, just the same as the year before, left on the day after the anniversary of the death of my husband Tom. I knew Jacob had left them even though I hadn’t seen him do it. Jacob is our, my, closest neighbour – about a 10 minute walk as the crow flies. He grew up in these mountains so he knows the place like the back of his hand and the weather quirks are predicted by him like he has a sixth sense. He was a great help to us when we first moved here and we became close friends quite quickly, although he too values his solitude.

We moved here from the city only a year before Tom’s passing, the Snowy Mountains. I love this part of the country, the seemingly endless eucalypt forest, the high peaks of the mountains and the quiet that descends when the snow comes in winter – it helps me write. We’d tired of the hustle and bustle of city life, although Melbourne isn’t the biggest or busiest of the worlds’ cities. Still Collingwood had lost its inner urban charm and seeing that neither of our work required us to be in town we sold up and swapped our three bedroom terrace for 20 acres of land and a rambling weather board house. Tom was a fantastic artist, able to pick and choose his commissions. I’d also become quite well known, as my medium work further enhanced my writing.

I hardly see anyone these days and the spirits don’t visit me anymore either, aside from Tom. On the anniversary of his passing he comes to me of his own volition, always with the same message - asking me to follow him. I miss him intensely, it’s almost a physical pain and if I didn’t hold such a firm belief that taking my own life was an unforgivable insult against the powers that be I would follow him, without a second thought. Existence without Tom is almost unbearable but that’s the way it is.

I hardly see Jacob anymore either – unless it’s for his flower errand and he never knocks then. We were all good friends, but since Tom’s death I see neither hide nor hair of him, as though he’s afraid of the house, or me. I’m not too sure why, but I have my own theories.
Not too long before Tom’s death Jacob began acting a little strange around Tom and was becoming overly attentive with me. Tom and I discussed it and assumed that Jacob had a crush on me. There aren’t too many women around here or who see living so far from town as a desirable way of life. I’m not fantastically attractive but then I’ve not been chasing parked busses either so I suppose all in all it’s understandable that he developed ‘a thing’ for me. I didn’t see it as cause for alarm and neither had Tom and now I suppose with all that happening in Jacobs’ head so close to Toms’ passing he maybe feels weird about continuing our friendship.

There was one time when Jacob made an obvious pass at me – he brushed up against my breast and under his breath I heard him murmur that he could give me so much more than my lay about artist husband. Not that Tom was a lay about – anything but, though I suppose you create your own fantasies to support your needs and wants. I told him off, let him know that Tom was the love of my life and nothing short of death could come between us.

Now I think about it though, Jacob did seem almost hostile towards Tom at times. Tom never made anything of it to my knowledge though and things were kept friendly enough. The day before I found Tom’s body they’d been going to meet and check the fences on Jacob’s property before catching up over a beer. But they hadn’t gone, something had come up for Jacob and so Tom had worked on the car instead a vintage wreck he’d bought on the internet just after we moved here.

We were so happy together and I can never believe that he took his own life although that was the unspoken belief of others around here and I can’t explain what he was doing there. I have tried so many times to block the image of his broken body frozen at the bottom of a small cliff near where we live. I thought he’d been out working on the other love of his life – the 1930 Chrysler Roadster. I remember the faint metallic banging coming from the shed at the side of the house and the freaky weather we’d had – gale winds and then snow that evening - in the middle of January! It remained for a day or two and then the summer returned. If it hadn’t have been for that, maybe Tom would still be with me.

I try and continue parts of my routine and even though I don’t have spirits visiting me anymore I do still ‘open’ myself to them regularly. I put the lights out and light some candles, then sit, close my eyes and meditate for a while, sometimes just a half an hour and other times I may get lost in it for God knows how long, the spirit contact is almost secondary.

My mind drifts away for a while and images begin coming to me – faintly at first and then clearer, quicker. There’s a smell of eucalypt; it’s dusk and two men are walking up a steep incline. The overall feeling is tense but friendly. The figures walk along the cliff and then one disappears from the vision, the other turns red then black and I come out of it, back to now. I’m not sure what it means, but I think Jacob may know something more about Tom’s death. I’m sure it has to do with that.

Today I walked up to the ridge where I found Tom it’s similar but not the same as that of my vision. I sat and meditated again, hoping to find out more which I did but I’m not sure if it sheds anymore light on things. This time I didn’t get any pictures, just sounds and voices from time past. First there were parts of a conversation – ‘I can’t help but love her and although we’re friends, I resent your position’ voice one claimed.
‘How can you say that when I’m offering you a solution to both problems? You get your land and we get our lives back.’ replied the second voice – I think it’s part of a conversation had by Tom and Jacob although the voices were hollow and far away. Then there’s a sound of rocks falling down a cliff and a yell for help.

It seems as though Jacob was implicated in Tom’s death, why he’s never come to me about it eludes me – maybe he knew nothing of it. The only way I can see to get to the bottom of these visions is to go and visit Jacob. It might be nice to see him again.

I climb the ridge again on my way to Jacob’s and pass the place where I found Tom, a shiver passes through me and I wonder if I am doing the right thing. Still, I can’t see any other way to go about it – going to the police with talk of my visions wouldn’t ‘prove’ anything. I’m so nervous when I arrive, I can see that Jacob is in his shed so I walk over, still undecided on how I will go about this. As I get closer I can hear him mumbling to himself as he goes about whatever it is he’s working on so I stand outside the door and listen for a while.

‘…never should have happened but then what was I to do? I couldn’t have saved him… Stupid fool, walking so close to the edge, I should never have stopped by to ask for his help. And Sarah, oh Sarah…’ He stops talking and I hear him walking to the shed door, rather than confront him I turn and go back home having heard enough.

A stupid accident and twist from the weather had taken Tom from me. But it still didn’t explain why I’d been left to go find his body and cope with the grief and questions of my husband taking his own life. I have the vague sensation of falling as I remember finding Tom’s twisted body and push it away.


I sit down surrounded by candles again and close my eyes, this is the only way I know how to get to the bottom of it all and I have chosen the evening before Tom’s anniversary in the hope that I will be more connected to that time. I quickly enter a deep meditive state and visions of times much earlier - when we’d been here about six months - come to me. Tom and Jacob are talking about farming and the seemingly endless drought. Jacob is saying it’s the perfect time to be expanding his farm if he could find land at the right price. Tom replies they should talk about it more, that he doesn’t think country life is for him and he’s not been truly happy since being here (although he’d not ever discussed this with me) and maybe he’s found someone willing to sell. Jacob cocks his head to one side and then the vision fades.

This is all news to me –was Tom ever going to come to me about this? The property was in both our names and he knew I loved it here, surely we could’ve reached a compromise?

I spend the next day walking the gardens that we planted together, I just seem to keep floating through time waiting for Tom’s visit this evening, although I’m confused and upset at what I have discovered. I don’t know what I will do when I see his spirit tonight.

Jacob appears at the bottom of the drive and walks up carrying some tools as though he’s come to tend our, my, garden. It’s a little strange so I walk towards him down through the fruit trees and then step out in front of him. A look of disbelief crosses his face quickly followed by horror. His face is white and he whispers my name. Before he can say anymore I ask him what he’s doing here.
‘I’ve come to tend the gardens; I keep them and the house now, surely you know? Since Tom and then you… I took the place over and have been keeping it since.’ He stammers incredulously.
I’m taken aback and stand there for a moment unsure what to do. He tentatively reaches out to touch me and his hand passes straight through my shoulder. I’m falling again; earth and rocks are falling with me. It stops and my own crumpled body lies beside that of my beloved.

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.