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Writer's pictureCrone

A day. Yesterday.

I think it was the clicking of the dog's feet on the floorboards that woke me. Kevin the very fit decorator removed the carpets and painted the wood a discreet white-grey last autumn. The walls, instead of the pinkish lilac I had before, are a cool pale lavender, with one darker wall behind the bed. The whole room looks a lot nicer and the floor makes it brighter, but the click-clickety-clack of a dog walking is disturbing. I didn't want to wake up. I mean, what's the point? That click-clack, though, that restless movement, it was unignorable. As was the pressure on my bladder. I'd got up twice in the night - that never happens. I hate getting up. It disturbs the cats who occasionally get very wakeful and have a midnight escapade session of racing around and fighting, leaping on my prone form as I try to go back to sleep. And then there's the issue of whether or not the dressing-gown is required, then navigating steep stairs, the cold stone floors if I can't find the slippers. And the use of more toilet paper! One of my friends told me she was only using one sheet for a pee. I couldn't imagine that but two seems just about OK.


Reluctantly, I sat up on the edge of the bed. The dog walked over, his tail slowly wagging and ears soft. I stroked his head and got up. I had a plan. Sort of. A long walk. Then somehow get through another nine hours before going to bed again. I have commitments. The article on women footballers. Researching A Level texts. This blog. My educational reading. Clean the windows. Prune the hedges. Wash every item that comes in my shopping delivery later. Yes, I had a delivery. I'd booked it before the shit hit the fan and kept it because I am scared.


That was my feeling this morning. Fear. How long can the money hold out? What are the implications of moving funds from one account to another? What about my dad, who's now going to be on half-pay? For how long can I help him? Oh, and beyond that, there's the fear of going crazy. Let's be honest, I've gone crazy before. I can tap into the feelings I had when I was out of work after the accident - with some of the same fears about the uncertain future and my financial resources. But then I could have visitors. Paula brought me spicy parsnip soup from her freezer. Scott took the dog out while his wife smiled her radiance at me, and their son squirmed on her knee. My boyfriend came and kissed my scarred lips, which I resisted, shamed by the toothless pink gumminess and wire cage that made up my mouth. I resisted but was so grateful. I could still be me. The person that was loved despite everything. Despite who I was, who I am. I can also tap into the fear I experienced at the end of my relationship with him, he who is still my beloved, and the desperate seeking after something to fill the time between sleep and the chance to drink wine again. The time when my neighbours saw me taken away in an ambulance after my family thought I was suicidal. I was suicidal. It's just I was even more afraid of screwing it up, of the pain.


Pain is also what scares me now. A marrow-deep fear of sickness, pain, death. I have this conviction I'll get it badly and at the worst of times. I'll be taken away in an ambulance but there won't be any ventilators or oxygen for me. Too old. History of smoking then vaping. Just a trolley in a corridor and the slow, agonising suffocation. 'Sorry,' the medical staff will say, their real empathy buried under weeks of exhaustion, death, wracking coughs, bleach-raw hands and existential terror, 'but there are others we can save. Have some morphine.' Oh, please, let them give me morphine. And then, what about my dog and the cats? Will they die of starvation in a house with a black cross painted on the front door? Scrabbling at the windows as passers-by in masks scurry on with their desperately bought supplies, keeping a wide berth from the door as though it radiated infection. Will I get the chance to say goodbye to my father on FaceTime? Will I never see my beloved again, in the flesh, feel him kiss lips where the scarring is now almost invisible?


I push the thoughts away. Somewhere. I don't know. Put them in a sticky bag, like those old sweet packets you find in coat pockets, crumpled with the gungy remains of sugar that's tacky and repellent inside the crackling plastic. I eat fruit and oats and nuts. Try to focus on a taste I enjoy. The taste too of strong coffee. Try to relish the sunshine through dirty windows that I can, later, clean. I get prepared. Dog treats and poo bags. Bucket by the door to clean his feet when we get back.


I am listening to Karen Maitland's Company of Liars, in which the plague is sweeping across England. Seems fitting. So, with pestilence in my mind on this brisk, bright morning with the promise of balmy warmth later, I set out, the dog trotting gamely at my side.


We cross the park, head down the hill, along a residential road and into a dagger of countryside that cuts into the north-eastern corner of the town. Cross the river and the railway track, pass through a horse field and onto the footpath leading to the woods where I criss-cross on the tracks for a couple of hours. I'm trying to find a place where I could bring my yoga mat tomorrow. The edge of the golf course, through which a footpath passes, seems best. I'd have to bring disinfectant wipes and water, maybe sandwiches in a sealed bag that I could eat without touching them. Tomorrow is meant to be hot and my garden is bounded by too many tall things. My pruning tools aren't as sharp as they need to be. I have no ladder. I must text my neighbour, ask if she minds me chopping. I remember when I first saw her - doing a HIIT session in her garden, small but lean and strong in Lycra with bubbles of blond hair, inky tattoos and gleams of piercings. She's not living there at the moment, decided to lockdown with her boyfriend, who's looking after her, she said. I am pierced. Inkiness in my soul.


I used to run regularly in this wood. Walked the dog here when he was a pup, ten years ago. I so wanted a dog but when I got him, the hard work of it! I resented him. Wanted to send him back. He wasn't cute enough, with his pointy nose and rough fur. I was strict and wouldn't cuddle him when I came in unless he was settled, calm, uninterested. I trained him to be a little distant, a little detached, maybe even a little afraid. I resented him too for being himself, for countering my wishes, for not being as command-controllable as a robot. I wanted something to love that would be exactly as I wanted him to be. I wanted to feel in charge of something. I have never been in charge of anything.


I rode in these woods too - and I think I fell off here. That would not be a surprise. My horse too kept outside my control.


The horse chestnuts are just coming into bud. And I think of the big tree in Jane Eyre, split in half by lightning. She looks at the two halves, still sharing one root system and straining to grow and says of them that the time of love is over, but they are wise to share their faithful roots and be comrades for each other in their decay.


Above, a kite wheels, riding thermals, a lazy flap here and there, the subtle change of wing rotation to hold the circling pattern. I look up at its fawn and white underside, seeing the shape of the hooked head as it seeks prey, and I spin beneath, round and around, until it moves away and I look back down, dizzy and disoriented - which way now is forwards?


At each junction in the track, after a while, the dog looks expectantly homeward, and I go in the opposite direction. I cannot bear it. I cannot bear it. The quiet in these walls - although I do hear, now I think of it, the wind chimes gently ringing and the cats licking themselves clean. The tap of my fingers on the keys and the occasional car. A pigeon walking across the conservatory roof. If a squirrel skitter-scratches over the plastic, the dog leaps from his bed, barking.


Two friends yesterday told me that this is not so bad. In fact, it's pretty good, this isolation and enforced home-time. One is able to work remotely on projects she loves and she has stimulating conversations with supervisors and colleagues. She lives in a small village with a large garden, a dog, a cat and a husband. 'It's my dream!' she says. The other, who also lives in a village, has horses to care for that take her into the countryside for good long spells, a husband and children at home. 'My life has hardly changed, except that now it's better because he's here, not traveling for work, and can help me with the kids and the dog.'


I try. I say, 'Well, I have time to read!' And the voice says, 'But no reason.' I say, 'I never went out much anyway.' And the voice says, 'But you love the hustle and bustle of London and theatre and good restaurants once a fortnight. You love work and your colleagues and the occasional inspiration of unexpected conversations.' I say, 'I've essentially been living alone for 30 years.' And the voice says, 'And what does that say about you? You are too difficult to be with. Too unappealing. No one wanted you. You are a reject. This solitude is not your choice.' And I remain silent.


The windows. I must clean the windows. I must cut down these hedges. I must open these limited horizons as much as I can.

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maplekey4
2020年4月05日

You cover a lot of ground in this post. It's like hearing you face to face. Thanks for the company x

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