Above it all

He was so calm, so peaceful lying there in the milky sunlight. Tourists in varying degrees of exertion huffed and puffed past him like little engines, climbing the last few steps to the summit where the view spanned out like a gentle watercolour. I wondered if the colours ever grew more vivid, if it transformed to resemble a textured oil painting in the brightness of summer. There was a hum of chatter as people pointed out landmarks and familiarities of life that seemed so small and insignificant from such a height; roads that twisted like bits of fine thread, lakes that resembled puddles after a rainstorm, cars that seemed to scurry like insects instead of rolling smoothly. The world was a busy rush below, with places to be and appointments to keep, but up there life drifted and the air was lighter. Perhaps that was why he came.

His wiry fur sat smooth against his back, thinner in places where his summer coat came through. Like radars, his triangular ears tracked the movement around him, moving independently. The rest of his body seemed oblivious to the hubbub, completely at ease in his domain. There were scars on his muzzle and the pads of his paws were cracked like a dessert ground; signs of a life spent outdoors. The muscles in his legs were toned and strong; I saw him trotting easily back and forth from the summit in my mind, his tongue lolling and his eyes bright.

He gave a languorous stretch and flopped onto his side to reveal a white belly, slightly stained from the dusty track. My fingers itched to stroke him, to scratch behind his ears, but caution raised its head.

Locals told me eruption was due any day and showed me pictures of the last. Smoke billowed like a plume of downy feathers; cast in black and white, the event seemed steeped in doom. I asked how much advance warning they would receive; they laughed and said that it wouldn’t matter anyway, that no one would leave their homes.

Staring at him, I wondered where he would be the next time it happened, whether he would be the first to know so close to the mouth. He whimpered in his sleep; his toes twitched and jerked. In his dreams he was running.      

Beside him, the crater of Mount Vesuvius gave a steamy hiss.  

FYI - Travel version

You will have ankles the size of tree trunks for days after the long haul flight, despite wearing flight socks, necking aspirin and going for religious walks up and down the plane every hour.

You will have a tattoo that resembles an overfed pigeon instead of a dove as a result of the grotesque swelling.

You will lose your suitcase in transition and have to rely on the kindness of your friends to supply you with clothing for three days, feeling grateful that the climate is hot enough for shorts so you don’t have to wear trousers that are six inches too short for your lanky limbs.

You will take turns on cockroach watch in the small hours of the morning, all the while wondering if what you’ve heard is true and they can in fact fly.

You will find a lizard in your bed.

You will obsess over whether the mosquito bite on your bottom has given you malaria.

You will feel like the air is suffocating you between twelve and three and take refuge in any shade you can find.

You will be soaking wet for ten days because of intense heat and experience the mortifying sensation of sweat pouring down the backs of your legs and dripping into a puddle of your own creation.

You will stick to every smooth surface you sit on and have to peel yourself off like an old plaster.

You will wash for ten days in freezing cold water with a bucket and scoop and become adamant that it is the best treat in the world.

You will resemble a tomato.

You will eat rice for breakfast, lunch and tea, occasionally with a fish head to accompany.

You will endure the greatest bout of constipation.

You will be asked by a Filipino called Peter whether or not you are able to go ‘totally’.

You will be appalled when you discover that he was enquiring after your bowel movements.

You will trudge through sewage in flip-flops in the shade of a mountain made of rubbish.

You will be the only white face for miles and miles.

You will be stared at and touched.

You will have to bin half of your clothes when preparing to leave because they are stained with sun tan lotion and sand.

You will want to jump on the first flight back as soon as you get home.  

 

 

 

Eventually

She didn’t know how to smile. Her face was stuck, frozen in bland expression. Her eyes moved, but only when she felt the need to change the subject of her stare. They lumbered lazily from one new face to the next as people tried to raise a reaction other than indifference. Her golden brown face was unmarked, flawless like that of a doll who never experiences the wear and tear of response, the stretches of emotion that contort our faces into new shapes, into new meanings. The movements that distinguish us as individual, as human, as real.

I held her. Her body was barely the size of a toddler, a misconception of age. She was four, they told me. My mouth dropped. Four, and yet she couldn’t walk, feed herself, clap her hands, play. Smile. I kept coming back to that appalling truth. I had never met anyone who didn’t know how to smile. Lost the want to, yes, but even they could recreate the muscle movements. A skill taught in infancy.

I thought of the four-year olds in my class back in England, at their faces full of character, full of happiness, indignation, intrigue, fear, excitement, roguishness and all manner of expressions that could fill sheets and sheets of paper. I thought of their parents, so pleased to see them after a few hours of daily separation, so eager to scoop them up and carry them home, to listen to their chatter and to revel in their company until their eyelids drooped and they were carried to bed.

They found her in a cot, staring up at the holed ceiling with only patches of sun and moon for company, the only indication that life occurred around her. I wondered if she cried in those early days, if she thought that would work to gain attention, to alert someone to her needs. I wondered when she stopped trying.

She didn’t even have a name.

They picked her up and took her then and there, without question, without hesitation. Now, they fill her life with faces, with eyes that search for and hold hers. They smile at her every day, trusting that eventually she’ll learn, that eventually the muscles in her cheeks and around her eyes will react like tightened bands and pull her face into the most beautiful of smiles.

Then she’ll laugh, and Neglect’s spell will shatter.  

Eventually.

 

FYI

They don’t prepare you for life in the field. They give you the theory, the classic tales, then slap you with a pass and send you out on your own, sitting in front of thirty pairs of eyes and thirty fidgeting bottoms that you would love to Velcro still. They say nothing can prepare you for your first class, and it’s probably true. It’s an individual journey, a teacher’s rite of passage.

But if it was possible, if a personalised list of facts had been available for us to peruse, I know what mine would have said.

You will:

·         Clear up sick that looks and smells like feta cheese.

·         Have a child trick you into believing that he speaks no English until 3 weeks later when you catch him discussing his preference of ladybird colour while sharing a book with a friend.

·         Rugby tackle a child who moons the waiting parents at home time through the windowed door because she saw something shiny on the floor and couldn’t wait until she had been properly changed after having wet herself to pick it up.

·         Have a child stand in front of you with wide innocent eyes claiming that he was nowhere near any scissors while you count the number of severed curly blonde locks that cover his jumper.

·         Have to conceal your horror when a child shouts for your assistance in the toilet and then proceeds to bend over with an order to wipe his bottom.

·         Endure the crying sobs emanating from beneath your desk from a child who wanted a blue plate instead of orange.

·         Meet a child who is petrified of rain.

·         Have to stifle an overpowering need to giggle when a child farts on the carpet during story time, sending out a rumble that is reminiscent of thunder.

·         Explain to a puzzled child, while dialling 999, why inserting a lego brick up ones nose is not advisable.

·         Feel an overwhelming sense of pride when a struggling child writes his name for the first time.

·         Have a fridge covered in multi-coloured pictures that make you smile each time you open it.

·         Well-up every time a child tells you they love you.

·         Smile your biggest smile when the time comes for the class photo.  

·         Cry when it’s time to say goodbye and let them continue into the next year without you.

·         Know that it’s worth it in the end.

 

The Dinner Date

The Dinner Date

 I had lunch with a monkey once. It wasn’t planned, it was just one of those chance meetings, like when you dine for one in a café where the tables are so close together you feel as if, by the end of the meal, you know the person on the table next to you, how they eat, how they drink, how they dab at their mouth with their napkin, how they smile as thoughts pop into their head that no one else can see, and at the end, when one of you rises to leave, you feel you should arrange another time to meet or say ‘nice to see you’ just as you would with a friend. Well, that’s what it was like for me and the monkey. Except it wasn’t in a cramped café but on the balcony of a hotel in The Gambia, and we weren’t nibbling at neat little sandwiches or sipping Italian coffee, rather I was savouring the last remnants of sweating cheese and bread I had saved from the complimentary breakfast and he was sucking on a small green banana with his great elastic lips.

We sat in silence, occasionally swapping testing glances and making the smallest of movements to settle ourselves into the comfort of each other’s company. I noticed how his fur shone green in the spotted sunlight that filtered through the trees above us and thought it must be oily. No doubt he thought the same of me as I had yet to shower and could feel my hair clinging to the mouldings of my scalp and becoming increasingly limp and pathetic in the gathering African heat. I suddenly felt self-conscious and raised a hand to fluff it a little. The monkey watched my action with mild curiosity. His banana was almost finished, as was my bread and cheese, and I felt a little sad as we eliminated the last morsels in unison. I looked at him, unsure of how best to finish our meeting, of the correct etiquette when dining with a monkey. He seemed less concerned and simply discarded the unwanted banana skin on the tiled balcony floor, transferred his weight from his haunches to his feet and leapt into the branches of the overhanging tree without so much as a backward glance. I stared at the abandoned banana skin and felt used.

Then the ants came.

Where the Mangoes Grow

Where the Mangoes Grow

 

I stood fully clothed on the edge of the water watching the Filipino children play, creating ripples that widened and collided with others just as their voices did. The sun beat down with its forty degree rays and my body’s survival response was to blanket my skin in a thin layer of cooling sweat. The air ambled lazily around us, a well-known tyrannical presence in that place. The dam was packed with visitors, their voices chattering in unfathomable Tagalog or screeching enthusiastically through the overused wires of the karaoke machines. On the opposite bank, thick jungle terrain towered above the dam, the trees a knot of untamed nature, reminding me how far from home I was.

Some boys had crafted a raft from fallen branches and were showing off in front of a group of supposedly disinterested girls. They stood precariously on top of the unsteady vessel and dived into the murky waters, staying beneath the surface long enough to create some unease amongst the fairer sex and then popping up in their midst to a chorus of shrieks and giggles. I was reminded of my own youth back in England, where the sun sat further back in the sky and had a shier disposition. Here, the tough brown skin of the Filipino youth seemed to reflect the sun’s rays rather than absorb them like mine; a miracle of design. I wondered if I stayed, if I decided to set down my roots, whether my skin would alter. Would I mutate to withstand the force of light and heat?   

A ripple of water reached out to lick my toes and remind me of the relief it offered. I turned to take in the glistening faces of my pale-faced team and it suddenly seemed ridiculous to resist. I caught the eye of one; she raised a challenging eyebrow and rose to her feet, her shoes already forgotten. It was time to immerse ourselves in this place, to disregard our British inhibitions. Knowing that my team weren’t far behind, I launched myself into the murky jungle river and, ignoring the dead fish that floated inches from my face, swam out to join the fun.

Later, as our wet clothes began to crisp and stiffen, we sat and ate mangoes, the juice oozing through our fingers to be caught by eager tongues that were enamoured with the sweet taste.

 

65, 42, 27

65, 42, 27

 

I unzip my suitcase, take a tape measure and learn the dimensions: 65, 42, 27. The boundaries of a portable life. Four sides with a lid. A lid I can sit on to squash what’s beneath until it fits, but a lid nonetheless. That final blockade.

I look at the contents of my cupboards, the stashings in my drawers and boxes. I start with my clothes. I won’t need so many jumpers and thick socks, the Texas climate is more sympathetic than the English, but consider when I come home to visit? Perhaps they can stay here, in a special container just for me. Can a place remain home if you’ll only ever visit? There are items I have not worn for years, but I still feel a clinging to them, a sadness that we have to part. Giving them to charity makes me feel better. I fill a bag.

I asses the knick knacks that hang from my walls, that cover every surface, that lay forgotten in boxes. Gifts from friends, family, myself, handmade. I begin to sort through and find that each one holds a memory, a face that I cannot give away. I make space for them in my 65, 42, 27.

Slowly, my room begins to look unfamiliar, empty and larger than life. I have stripped me away from the walls and out of the cupboards. I now reside in 65, 42, 27. But I surprise myself. I feel light, I feel liberated. I have often commented how freeing it would be if my possessions could fit into a suitcase. Now that they do, I know it to be true.

I sit on the lid and pull the zip round. I padlock my life and pocket the key. I haul it downstairs and place it by the door that will soon be opened. I turn my attention to the people who, no matter how much I squash and squeeze, will never fit into 65, 42, 27. I hold each of them close and thank God that love isn’t something to be packed into a suitcase. I sigh in relief that my memories are automatically zipped and locked in my mind; I would hate to leave one behind. I pick up my 65, 42, 27 with its limiting lid, turn from the people I love and know that my heart has dimensions for all.

 

 

 

Just for a Moment

First draft of a Ghost Story...

Just for a Moment

 Molly had a knack for pushing me into things I didn’t want to do. Even though she was younger than me, I could never say no. It was her eyes that did it. The way they gazed up at me with such pleading, like the eyes of someone about to die.

I should have taken that look as an omen.

Little Orping was in the centre of nowhere, and although mother kept insisting that we ‘give the place time’, we had decided in a sisterly pact to despise it and never alter our judgment on the matter. The hamlet held the lives of three families, ours an added fourth, and festering there was the worst weather in Britain. Drizzly mist swept the length of the streets and seeped through the protection of our clothes until we were sodden and miserable.

My father had decided to uproot us from the grandeur of York when his work at the factory had come to an abrupt end due to its closure. That night, in the attic room I shared with Molly, we had listened to our mother weep through the floorboards and woke in the morning to find our bags already packed.

The train had taken us to Little Orping later that day, snaking its way through civilisation until it petered out and died and all we could see through the smeared windows was the vastness of nothing and the thin tributaries of drizzle carving murky streams through the muck.     

Father started work on the land the very afternoon of our arrival. Our landlord and owner of Little Orping was a friend from his past and had offered him money to help him and a small band of workers to fell the wood that sat on the boundaries of his meagre empire. As he put it, to ‘make room for the light’. My sister and I had no idea to his meaning. His name was Greaves, only he insisted that we call him Sir to our dislike. During that first introduction, when he turned his proud back, Molly and I pulled grotesque faces despite the promise of severe penalty from my mother’s disapproving eyes.

On that first night in Little Orping, sleeping side by side with our matching welts, Molly and I swore our loyalty to each other and our return to York.

The next day, dressed in thick coats and our escape plans prolonged due to our sudden need to explore, we escaped the confines of Little Orping and headed for the woods, the only source of entertainment for two bored, degenerate children. As soon as we entered we felt the familiar sense of excitement that we had often felt when sneaking into York Minster, and both expressed how sad it would be to lose the only treasure in that dreary place. The tall trees reminded us of the high stone arches carved centuries ago, but the dull light that filtered in through the leaves above bore no resemblance to the glorious sunlight that streamed in through the stained glass windows to make pools of swirling colour on the flagstone floors. However, the silence was the same. In the Minster it was as though the carved saints and angels had been talking right up to the point of your entrance, and were holding their breath until you left again so as not to reveal themselves as real. In the wood, it was as though the very trees were holding their tongues. I wondered what they possibly had to talk about.

We moved amongst the branches, mapping a new route through the matted ground and breaking the hush with our rebellious chatter. We were so concerned with our giggles that we nearly ended up as a bundled heap on the floor along with a large man and his drooling dogs. We untangled ourselves quickly, Molly struggling to stifle yet more giggles as she stared into the heated face of Greaves.     

His eyes were ablaze as they fixed upon us, but he made no move to speak. After hurriedly scouring the surrounding area, he demanded in whispered tones that we follow him back to Little Orping, stressing how worried our mother would be. It was then that I felt it. The sudden heaviness of the air, as though the mist was thickening. As though something else moved amongst the trees. Before I could accept Greaves’ offer, Molly grabbed my hand and pulled me into a run that took us away from the whimpers of his dogs and further into the suffocation she seemed oblivious to.

As we ran, I was struck by how large the woods were. From the outskirts, they seemed small and contained, but inside the trees created an illusion of a never ending world. I was just about to drag my hand back and demand Molly stop when she did of her own accord. I fell forward, being careful to miss her and landed with a thump on the leaf strewn floor. Molly made no move to help me up, and when I glared at her with thunderous words about to spew forth, I realised why.

Her eyes were wide; her lips slightly parted as she stared across at a large wooden hut nestled into a circular embrace of trees. It was one storey high, the type of which had been erected during the war, and seemed to be in a case of serious disrepair. Windows hung like limp limbs from their hinges, the front door had all but fallen clear of the structure, and there was not one single light to signify any life within the walls.

Naturally, Molly unfroze and leapt towards the gaping doorway. She was gone before I had time to shout her name.

I scrabbled to my feet, ignoring the protests of my knees that seemed to have taken most of the impact during my fall. I didn’t hesitate as I entered the hut. My only thought was Molly and the fact that the place looked as though it could crumble to dust at any moment.

So shocked was I, then, when I found myself in a most resplendent cinema.

The ticket booth stood empty to my right, the leather seat within dipped with the impression of having just been vacated, as though someone had been seated there only moments before. Ahead, a refreshment counter stood decked with sweets that I had never seen. As I drew closer and examined their names, I recalled a memory of my father speaking about his trips to the cinema in his youth and the sweets he used to buy. He had met my mother there, and had spoiled her with a packet of mint marvels. I saw them there in that cinema in the woods, nestled in the bottom corner of the display case as though plucked from my father’s memory.

As I moved through to the only inner door Molly could have disappeared through, I felt as though I was being watched, and turned my head in all directions. Posters upon posters of film stars I didn’t recognise plastered the walls haphazardly. It was the only decoration in the place that seemed untidy, as though they had been added as a ruched afterthought. On closer inspection, I noticed that nearly all of them held somewhere within their picture the same young woman, blonde and beautiful, with a heart-shaped face and donned in elegant fashions from a time gone by. As I looked at her closer still, I noticed lines drawn across her face, tears in the paper where her smooth skin and high cheekbones resided. Gentle slashes across her lips, her neck. I shivered, held captivated by that strange finding until Molly filled my thoughts again and I moved on towards the door.

Once inside, I saw her, standing close to a wide stage above which hung the cinema screen, curtains drawn as though ready for an audience. She turned as she heard me enter, and I realised she was holding something close to her chest. It was furry and limp, and at first I was repulsed until I drew closer and saw that it was a coat, similar to one my Grandmother had worn whenever she had gone out in public, despite my mother saying how dated it looked. This coat was different though. Unlike my Grandmother’s, which had looked rather ragged and matted by the time she had died, the one clutched in Molly’s hands looked brand new, as though it had just left the factory where skilled hands had sewn the pelts into a garment fit for a film star. Molly stroked it as I neared her, stating how beautiful it was and how she had just found it lying there on the stage. How she would love to wear it, to try it on just for a moment.

Just for a moment.

He came as soon at her arms delved into the sleeves, as soon as a smile lit her face and scattered into an array of laughter.

The Wurlitzer surfaced like a terrible fish from the depths of the stage. His arms and legs flailed like those of a marionette as he created the music that would haunt me into adulthood. His hair was matted in clumps about his head, the skin around them red raw as though constantly scratched at by jagged nails.  

I never saw his face, only watched as he played and played and played, as my sister, laughing still and draped in fur, crept ever closer to him and then sat beside that figure on the stool. As the Wurlitzer descended down again into the stage, as terror froze me to the spot and I watched my sister go.

I watched my sister go.

Greaves found me there an hour later, petrified and alone. He had brought with him a rally of men. Where he had found so many people in such a cut off world I still do not know. But my father was among them. And my mother had come too. As she lifted me into her arms and carried me away, I screamed for Molly, I screamed for my little sister. But she did not answer, and the men took no notice as Greaves gestured to the cinema and the surrounding wood and gave out his solemn command:

‘Gentlemen, cut it down.’

When the job was done, and every tree had been felled, I was allowed back to see the debris. There was no sign of any man-made structure amongst the trunks and twigs. No sign of the cinema in the woods, and no sign at all of a little girl in a fur coat.

Nobody spoke of the incident. My mother went into silence for the rest of her days, and my father, after moving us back to York, lost himself and his family to drink.

I married young, to a handsome man who wanted to care for me and ease the pain I held in my eyes. To this day, I haven’t told him about Molly and her disappearance. We have a child now. A girl, Bella, and at times when she giggles or seizes my hand in such a way, I am transported to my childhood and to Molly. I have learnt to not let those moments paralyse me as they once did.  

Now I feel I have written everything, and I hear my Bella calling. She is declaring that a parcel has just been delivered. I hear her unwrapping it as she approaches. She exclaims how elegant, how beautiful the contents is, how she would love to wear it, to try it on just for a moment.

Just for a moment.