Bits of beauty,
moments of magic,
sights of something special,
out walking the dog.
Help me to remember,
time will be forgiving.
Remind me that life
is still worth living.
I haven’t felt much like writing recently, which isn’t good, but getting out and about enjoying Spring’s offerings can lift and inspire. I promised Angie at King Ben’s Grandma that I would share pictures of some the flowers here in the Welsh countryside as I’ve enjoyed looking at her photos of the exotic plants of SoCal.
This morning my dog woke me before light. I crept downstairs on aching limbs; hauled on my coat and wellies to take him out into the freezing air for his first business of the day. There was a hard frost; sparkling over the grass in the lamplight, as if an over-enthusiastic child had sprinkled glitter everywhere making the garden a Christmas card. The world slumbered, frozen in fantasy land, and I expected silence. Instead, the rumble and roar of a mechanical monster stalking the fields beside my home assailed my ears; its two fiery eyes like searchlights scanning the icy darkness. A fountain of stinking, putrid liquid manure gushed from its rear, coating the rock-hard ground.
Nature is not in harmony with farming in the Welsh countryside. A war rages and wildlife is losing the battle. Farmers say the slurry adds valuable nitrogen to fertilise the soil and they are simply recycling animal waste. In truth, they are caught in a cycle of growing monoculture grasses, cutting for silage and spreading muck which depletes the earth of nutrients. Winters in Wales are wet. When it is cold, the ground freezes and muck cannot soak into the earth. Rain washes slurry into streams and rivers, removing oxygen and killing plants, invertebrates and fish.
Farmers are at war with the Welsh Assembly too. New regulations to prevent muck spreading in the winter were due to come into force in January 2020 but farmers protested and the Assembly conveniently buried it under the ensuing Covid crisis. I understand that farmers are in a difficult position and they need to make a living. My farmer neighbour has recently bought up several hundred acres of land surrounding my home in order to double his herd. He has weed killed and ploughed up fields that were laying almost fallow; full of wildflowers, cut once a year for hay. He has cut down trees and hedges, thick with insects and birds. He has planted grass for silage winter feed for his many cattle. Life has become harder for local wildlife. My unruly, overgrown garden is a sanctuary. From my windows, I watch the year-long rotation of cows grazing, grass growing and silage cutting, and muck spreading. I listen for the tractors racing up and down the lanes, holding my breath as they pass while I walk my dogs, fearing for my life and for my cats tentatively crossing the road. Double the herd means double the dung. He has a lot of shit to shift.
There must be a solution. Some way for farmers to work in harmony with nature. I am biased, I know. My concern for the environment and animal welfare means I have chosen a vegan lifestyle (I won’t go into the unpleasant breeding cycle I sadly have to observe living next to a large dairy farm.) If people could cut down on milk and meat consumption that would be a start, as well as Government legislation to support farmers to work in ways that help, not harm, the countryside. Some farms are managing this but we have a long way to go.
For all our sakes, nature must win this war.
I wrote this song thinking about the various troubles we’ve experienced this year and how divided people seem to be; whether through race, religion, politics, ideology or belief.
——————
I got my eye on the mountain
I can see far ahead
The sky is clear there
No grey clouds to obscure our way
—
What we need now is to take our anger and throw it away
What we need now is to cast our fear to the wind
—
I got my mind on the next year
I can think far ahead
The days are clear there
No worries to obscure our way
—
What we need now is to sit down here and talk about it
What we need now is to find some friendship and love
—
I got my hand on your shoulder
I can reach far ahead
The path is clear there
No hatred to obscure our way
—
What we need now is to recognise we’re both the same
What we need now is to accept our differences
—
What we need now is to stand side by side and face it
What we need now is to come together and shine
—
We need to come together
And shine
In my secondary school, if you didn’t have a boyfriend by the age of 15, then you were odd. Several of the girls were mothers by that age. In one memorable sex education class, a new mum gave a full commentary while we watched a woman giving birth on video, “Oooh yes, that bit was painful.” At the end of the day, a line of bouncing babies in buggies waited for their mothers outside the school gates.
Awkwardly shy, with a reputation as a swot because I was interested in learning and hoped to study at university, I was definitely in the weird category. By the time I was 15, I still hadn’t been asked out on a date. My chances of this happening seemed unlikely; made worse by teachers who insisted on reading out my essays to the class as examples of good work, while my face grew a deep shade of beetroot. An English teacher even read one of my stories to Year 5, much to my mortification as the marvellous Marty Tender, my biggest crush at the time, was in that class. Marty was all beauty but no brains and the teacher asked him to pay particular attention to my writing skills. Everyone considered me a target for their jokes; a favourite one compared me to a tampon (both stuck up apparently). I must admit I didn’t enormously enjoy my school days.
One day in physics class, I was paired in an electricity experiment with Samantha Heacham. When she asked me whether I had ever been out with a boy and I answered in the negative, she gasped in disbelief; her eyes goggling so dramatically I thought she had received an electric shock. Samantha felt it was imperative that she fix this situation immediately and offered to set me up on a blind date. Now, Samantha was not a person I especially trusted. She had a reputation for having lots of boyfriends, always tried to get me to tell her the answers during tests and once, in second year, she challenged me to a fight after school because I disagreed with something she said. Then again, I wasn’t having any luck on my own so, somewhat desperately and completely crazily, I agreed. Samantha went to a drama group and she knew a guy called Rich who was looking for a girlfriend. Over the next few days, arrangements were finalised.
We met at The White Horse pub, a popular venue with the young folk of the town. I had spent a ridiculously long time choosing my outfit, spiking my hair and putting on eyeliner. As usual, I got there early and sat nervously peering out from a cosy corner table. After about ten minutes, Rich arrived, a blond-haired Morrissey look-alike in paisley shirt and tatty cardigan. He carried a bunch of flowers (I was surprised they weren’t tucked in his back pocket). As a massive Smiths fan, I thought perhaps this date would be okay. He spotted me, waved and navigated his way to the table.
“Hello, I’m Rich.” He smiled, revealing two missing front teeth.
I must admit I was taken aback, “Hello…”
“Sorry about these,” he said, pointing to his mouth, “I fell down the stairs yesterday, knocked them right out. Nearly cancelled but I thought…oh well. Hope that’s all right.”
My heart went out to him, “Oh, that’s awful, of course it’s all right.”
“I saw the dentist. He’s putting two new ones in next week so then I won’t look quite so hideous.”
We laughed. After that, we got on famously. I thought he was sweet and felt very sympathetic towards him. We agreed to see each other again.
I went out with Rich for several months. He played guitar and wrote me a song. We watched Live Aid together, sobbing on the sofa. I went to see him acting in a play at the theatre with my parents and felt very proud. My Dad didn’t like him as he was overly demonstrative with his affections and called me ‘babe’. Then one evening, he got a bit carried away and stuck his hand up my jumper. That was the end of it for me; I wasn’t ready for a relationship of such magnitude. I finished with him the next morning.
“Can you come out to play?” said the boy at the door.
Liv looked him over shyly. He didn’t seem threatening. He was small and pale, oddly old-fashioned in his grey school shirt, knitted tank top and shorts. His knees were muddy and his plimsoles scuffed. Mum had told her things would be different here. “In the countryside people won’t care what you look like. No one will tell you that you’re wearing the wrong trainers. They’ll probably be in wellies. We’ll be happy there.” she’d said.
“Wait a minute, I’ll ask my Mum.” Liv pushed the door to and ran up the narrow hallway calling, “Mum, there’s a boy asking if I can go out to play with him.”
“A boy…who?” Mum came to the top of the stairs with Mrs Bevan, the landlady, waddling behind.
It was Mrs Bevan’s house they were moving into. Well, not her house exactly, she was renting Mrs Thomas’s house to them. Mrs Thomas was Mrs Bevan’s Mam who had lived in the house all her life until recently. Mrs Thomas had gone into a residential home after she fell down the stairs and they hadn’t found her for two hours. Liv tried not to imagine the old lady laying on the dark wooden floor, legs twisted underneath her, a livid bruise growing across her face.
She shrugged, “He didn’t say his name. Can I Mum? I’m bored. Please…”
“I expect that’s young Dylan, your nearest neighbour. Good boy, he is. Nice family. Struggling a bit, they are, you know. Father just lost his job.” Mrs Bevan said. “She’ll be fine playing with Dylan.”
Mum thought for a moment, then sighed, “I suppose it’s all right but stay in the garden. And only for an hour tops because you’ve still got to unpack your things.”
“Thanks.” said Liv, scrambling to put on her shoes. She hurried down the hallway and flung open the door but no one was there.
“Dylan?” she called, wandering down to the front gate to see if he was in the lane. A startled blackbird flew up from the hedgerow but, other than that, it was deserted.
“You back already?” Mum said when she saw Liv sitting on the bottom stair struggling with her laces.
“He’d gone.” Liv replied.
“There’ll be plenty of chances to make friends with him, I’m sure.” Mum smiled sympathetically. “Mrs Bevan is leaving now. She’s shown me where everything is. We’ll go and have a cuppa and a sandwich then I’ll help you sort your bedroom out.”
——
Liv sipped her hot chocolate. It was strange sitting in a different kitchen, at an unfamiliar table, drinking from someone else’s mug, eating from someone else’s plate. She missed their kitchen with the shiny breakfast bar where she sat on the shiny stool swinging her feet.
“You okay, little dreamer?” Mum asked.
“Just thinking this kitchen looks very old.”
“Everything in this house is old, Liv. That’s why we got it for a good price but it’s clean and warm and furnished with the things we need.”
“It’s a shame we couldn’t bring our own things.” said Liv, then regretted it as Mum’s beautiful dark eyes clouded over.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t too…” Mum reached for Liv’s hand, “but you know Dad needs them for his new family. You have your special things. And we’ve never had a garden before and now we have an enormous one. It’ll take all day to explore that tomorrow.”
“It’s okay, it just feels weird.”
“We’ll get used to it.” Mum squeezed her hand, “Now eat up so we can get your room done before bedtime.”
——
The next morning after breakfast, there was a knock on the door.
“Can you answer it, please Liv?” Mum called from the small back room she had chosen for a study, “I’ve got to ring the solicitor.”
Liv skipped along the hall and opened the door. There was Dylan looking the same as yesterday.
“Can you come out to play?” he said.
“I’ll just tell my Mum.” Liv ran to the study, “Dylan’s here. We’re going to play in the garden.”
She tugged on her wellies and went to join Dylan outside. It was a bright day and the air felt crisp with breaths of Autumn.
“I’m Liv. Are you called Dylan?”
Dylan nodded then stood scraping at the fallen leaves with his damp shoe.
“What do you want to play?” asked Liv.
“Cowboys and Indians. You be an Indian and I’ll be a Cowboy. I’ll chase you, like this.” He trotted around as if he was riding a horse and held two fingers in the air like a gun.
Liv looked doubtful.
“You do the Indian cry.” He opened his mouth in a large o, moving his hand over it in an ululation.
“No, I don’t want to.” said Liv, “I don’t think that’s a nice game. The Native American Indians were driven off their lands by the settlers. It was horrible and sad.”
“Cops and Robbers then. You be a robber and I’ll be a cop. I’ll chase you, like this.” This time, he pretended to drive a car and held two fingers in the air like a gun.
“Another quite nasty game.” said Liv, “I’m not sure.”
“Can you hold your arms like this so it looks like a bag of swag?” Dylan mimed creeping around holding his loot over his shoulder.
Liv sighed, “I suppose I can.”
The two children chased around the garden, Liv exploring as she went, finding paths through the overgrown lawns, ducking under branches and jumping over old fallen walls. It was an amazing place to play in, left to decay and grow wild. When they grew fed up with chasing about, they kicked up piles of dead leaves gathered near the hedges and pulled moss off the crumbling stonework searching for woodlice.
“Let’s go to the stream.” Dylan said.
“I can’t. I mustn’t leave the garden.” replied Liv.
“It’s in the garden.” Dylan said, “At the bottom, then you cross the stream and you’re in the woods.”
Liv followed Dylan down a winding pathway, partially hidden with ferns turning shades of gold and brown. She could hear the stream before she could see it, a whispering, giggling sound like there were other children playing somewhere in the garden. They sat on the wet bank amongst the dying ferns and bracken, hidden from the view of anyone who might come walking, and watched the water hurry over rocks and stones.
“Sometimes I come here and hide.” Dylan said.
“Why?” asked Liv.
“When they laugh at me at school. When they point at my pumps and say we can’t afford proper shoes.”
“Mum told me it would be different here but I knew it wouldn’t. They laughed at me at my school too.” Liv said, “They didn’t like my trainers or my curly hair. And they called me dirty…because I’m mixed race.”
“Your hair is pretty.” Dylan turned his face away, “Sometimes I paddle across the stream and go into the woods and hide in the trees. When my Dad gets angry, when he shouts at me and my sister tells me to get outta the house before I get a good wallop.”
“Mrs Bevan said he lost his job.”
“My Dad don’t want me.” said Dylan.
“My Dad doesn’t want me either. That’s why we’ve moved here. He wants his skinny, blonde girlfriend and new baby. So, we’re the same, you and me.”
“We can be friends.” Dylan said.
“We are friends.” said Liv.
“Shake on it.” Dylan spat on his palm and held it out.
Liv spat on her palm and they shook.
——
At lunchtime, Liv told Mum about Dylan and what he had said down by the stream.
“That’s really sad, Liv.” Mum said, “I hope he’s all right. Perhaps we should call in and say hello to his family this afternoon when we go to post the documents for the solicitor.”
“Don’t say anything Mum, please. He’s my friend and he told me, not you.” Liv bit at her lip. She didn’t want Dylan to think she was a blabbermouth.
“I won’t Liv, but we need to check. This could be serious and we might not be able to keep this a secret. Okay?”
Liv nodded and picked at her cheese sandwich, dreading the walk to the Post Office.
——
On the way back from posting the letter, Mum stopped at the tiny cottage with the peeling front door at the corner of the lane. Their nearest neighbour. Liv stayed by the rusty iron gate.
“We’ll just say a quick hi,” Mum whispered as she rang the bell.
There were shouts and scuffles behind the door, a baby’s cry then a round, flustered face appeared at a grubby window. The face disappeared and a moment later the door opened.
“Oh hello, I thought you were the milkman come for his money. We’re a bit late paying, see.” said the round-faced woman.
“Hello, we’ve moved in next door and wanted to introduce ourselves. I’m Becca and this is Liv.” Becca smiled broadly.
“Oh, nice to meet you. I’m Sioned. I’d invite you in but you’ve caught me in a bit of a muddle, everything all over the place and the little one a bit agitated as you can hear…” she shrugged as another whining cry came from behind her.
“No, no, we wouldn’t expect that. We just wanted to say hello, and Mrs Bevan told me you’ve been having a hard time lately…with your husband losing his job. Just to let you know I work from home and I’m always around if you need anything.”
“I bet she told you, a right gossip that one!” Sioned snapped.
“No harm meant, sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it…only we all have troubles, I’m going through a divorce now, that’s why we moved, so…” Becca said.
“Oh, no…it’s very kind of you to offer. It is a struggle, with four kids, see.”
“It must be difficult. Are your children all okay?”
Liv squeezed her hands tight in the pockets of her coat.
“Well, normally yes. We always put them first, see. Go without ourselves as long as they got what they need. But, oh they have been poorly, little loves, with this stomach bug going through school.”
“Your children are ill? That’s miserable.” Becca said, “What about Dylan? He’s managed to escape it then, has he?”
“Dylan? No! He’s been the worst of the lot. Got it bad, he have. Been in bed for three days. The washing I’ve had…” Sioned shook her head and the baby wailed again, “Look I gotta go sorry, nice of you to come round. When things are calmer, you’ll have to come for a cuppa. Tara!”
She shut the door and Becca gave Liv a bemused look, “There must be another Dylan in the village.”
——
That night, Liv lay awake as a seasonal wind blustered around the house. The large tree outside her window was scratching at the panes with finger-like branches. Mum had drawn the curtains back to show her there was nothing to be scared of but she felt uneasy. She regretted telling about Dylan. After they left Sioned’s house, Mum had asked lots of questions about him, trying to work out where he came from so she could help him if he was in danger. She wanted to know everything he’d said, what he looked like, what he was wearing, whether he wore the same school uniform as the one she’d bought for Liv (he didn’t; Liv’s polo shirt was a pretty royal blue.) Next time he visited, Mum said she would have a word with him. Liv thought herself a bad friend and decided, if Dylan came again, she wouldn’t let Mum know. She sat up, switched on her bedside lamp and reached for her book.
It was difficult to concentrate with the howling of the wind and the scraping of the branches. Liv lost her place on the page many times until she bumped the book back on the table in frustration. As she did so, she heard a tap on the window. It was a different sound to the rasping tree. She sat very still, listening. The tapping sounded again, a series of sharp, urgent raps on the glass. Someone was knocking on her window. Liv went cold. She lay still, uncertain what to do. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.
Liv took a deep breath, then slowly, slid out of bed and padded across the chill floorboards on wobbly legs to the curtain. Once there, she froze, heartbeat pulsing. She took another breath and put out a shaky hand to lift the curtain. The branches scratched at the window. The wind roared. There was no one there. Liv turned the latch and opened the window. It pulled out of her hand with a crash and hung broken against the wall. She leaned out, peering into the darkness.
“Can you come out to play?” said a small voice.
“Dylan? Where are you?” Liv called.
“Here.”
Liv strained her eyes and saw his face, white in the rays from her lamp. He was sitting in the crook of a branch a little way from her window.
“What are you doing? In this wind? You’ll fall.”
“I’m a good climber.” Dylan started to shuffle along the branch towards her window.
“Dylan. No. Get down.”
“Can you come out to play?” his voice carried, clear and cold on the wind.
“It’s the middle of the night! My Mum would be angry if she knew you were here and so would yours. Go home to bed Dylan.” Liv tried to pull the window closed but it dangled on damaged hinges.
Dylan shuffled closer; his skin bruised in the shadowy light.
“Go home Dylan!” Liv shouted.
The wind tore at the broken window. Liv held on tight.
“What’s going on?” Mum shouted.
Liv turned and saw her Mum standing, hands on hips. She looked back at the tree. Dylan was gone.
“Whatever were you doing opening your window in this wind?” Mum struggled with the catch, “It won’t close properly. It’s broken. That will have to do for tonight.”
She took Liv’s hands, “What were you doing, love? I’m not cross, it’s all right…”
“I don’t know…I was scared…the tree.” Liv hugged her Mum.
“Well, you’d better come and sleep with me tonight. I’ll ring Mrs Bevan in the morning and explain about the window.”
——
Mum called Mrs Bevan early the next day. While she was on the phone, Dylan knocked on the door. Liv opened it angrily.
“Can you come out to play?” he said.
“Can I come out to play?” Liv spat. “What do you think you were doing coming round like that last night, Dylan? You could have got me in trouble. I broke the window. That’ll cost Mum money. You could have been killed.”
Dylan looked down at his plimsoles.
“I’m not sure I should play with you again.” Liv started to go inside.
“Can you come out to play?” said Dylan.
Liv sighed, “You’re hopeless…just let me tell my Mum I’m going outside.”
——
They sat by the stream. The water sparkled in the sunshine as it tripped over rocks. The air was at rest after the wild night. Liv had suggested they do something quiet after the adventures of the previous evening. She hadn’t told her Mum she was playing with Dylan and didn’t want her to hear them if she came out looking. They searched amongst the ferns for signs of insect life.
Liv pulled at a beautiful orange frond, “Where do you live, Dylan?”
“Here.” he said.
“I know you live in the village, but where?”
“Let’s go in the woods. I’ll show you my favourite tree. I’m a good climber.” said Dylan.
“I don’t think I should. Mum says to stay in the garden.”
“I’ll show you my favourite tree.”
Liv shook her head, “I don’t know…”
——
Becca put the kettle on to boil then searched in the cupboard for the bara brith. Mrs Bevan would want a cup of tea and she liked to have a little something with it. Becca hoped she wouldn’t stay too long. That woman knew how to talk. She’d been very understanding about the window though, offered to pop in on the way to the residential home. Becca didn’t know why Mrs Bevan had to see the damage; she could simply organise a carpenter, but it was her mother’s house after all.
“Hello…Becca?” Mrs Bevan called from the hall, “The front door was ajar so I came in, hope that’s all right? And I have Mam with me. She spent last night with us.”
“That’s fine.” Becca said as Mrs Bevan entered the kitchen with a small, frail old lady hanging onto her arm.
“Thought it might be nice for Mam to see her old home. There we go, Mam.” Mrs Bevan settled her mother on a chair. Then, as an aside to Becca said, “She’s getting a bit forgetful and I didn’t want to leave her in the car on her own.”
“Oh, of course.” Becca said, “Would you like some tea before we go upstairs?”
“Paned, mam? That’ll be lovely.” Mrs Bevan struggled to get her bulk out of her jacket, hung it on the back of a chair then sat next to her mother. “Where’s Liv then? I want her to know it doesn’t matter about the window, cariad.”
“She’s playing in the garden with that boy, you know, the one who came round the other day when you were here. She thinks I didn’t see them creep off.” Becca put two cups of tea on the table, making sure to use the coasters. “I’ll let you do your own milk and sugar.”
“Thanks. Dylan, is it? From down the road. Here we go Mam, two sugars for you.”
“Well, he is a Dylan but not the one from down the road. To be honest, we don’t know who he is. Do you know any other Dylans in the village?”
“I can’t say I do. It’s not like the old days, see. I used to know everyone here but we’ve had so many incomers.” Mrs Bevan looked sheepish, “Sorry, not to mean anything by it but since they built that housing estate on the edge of the village, it’s not been the same.”
“Dylan? My Dylan is here.” the old lady said.
“No, Mam. The little girl has a friend called Dylan. Your Dylan isn’t here anymore, is he Mam? That was a long time ago.”
“Oh, you knew a Dylan too, did you Mrs Thomas?” Becca smiled at the tiny, wrinkled face peering at her with confusion.
“He was her brother, wasn’t he Mam?” Mrs Bevan patted her hand.
“Ssssh, quiet Dylan.” Mrs Thomas whispered urgently, “Dad’s coming and he’s angry with you. Run, Dylan, run away quickly. Hide. Hide. He’s got his belt.”
“Oh, mam. It’s all right. Dylan’s not here. That was when you were children. Drink your tea Mam, I need to go and see this window with Becca.” Mrs Bevan got up and beckoned Becca to follow.
Outside the kitchen door, she said in an undertone, “She’s getting worse, poor thing. Dementia.”
“I’m sorry.” said Becca.
“Sad story about her brother. Died when they were children. Only nine, he was. Mam doesn’t normally talk about him. Finds it upsetting. They were very close.”
“That’s terrible. How did he die?”
“He fell from a tree. In the woods behind here. There was lots of talk at the time, nasty gossip you know, can’t stand gossip. People in the village said their father was to blame.”
“Really? How awful.”
“Yes, he was known for his drinking and his temper, my grandfather. Some said he chased the poor boy into the woods to give him a beating.” Mrs Bevan sighed, “Terrible the things people say. It nearly destroyed Mam.”
Becca said, “Is your Mum okay, do you think? We better check on her.”
They went back into the kitchen. Mrs Thomas was fumbling with her handbag.
“What are you trying to do now, Mam?”
“My photo…Dylan.” the old lady said.
“Oh yes, in your purse. She has a photo of her and Dylan. Keeps it with her.” Mrs Bevan reached into her mother’s bag, pulled out the purse and retrieved the photo, “Here you are, Mam.”
Mrs Thomas touched the photo tenderly then held it out to Becca, “My Dylan.”
Becca saw a faded black and white picture of two children, about Liv’s age. A girl in pigtails and pinafore, arms locked with a pale boy in a grey shirt, knitted tank top and shorts. They both wore plimsoles.
“Are you all right, Becca? Your hands are shaking, bach.”
“It can’t be…” Becca dropped the photo and dashed out of the kitchen.
“Becca? Wait!” Mrs Bevan shouted.
——
Outside, Becca ran on to the lawn, calling wildly, “Liv! Liv!”
The grass was slick and she slid, twisting her ankle.
“Owww…Liv, Liv!”
She heard children’s voices, laughing and whispering, but when she limped towards them, she realised it was only the stream gurgling over the rocks.
“Liv, where are you?” she shouted. Her heart was beating hard in her chest. Her stomach gripped tight with panic.
Then, she heard the scream. The piercing cry of a terrified child. It was coming from the woods.
“Liv.”
Becca slipped and splashed across the slimy rocks, chill water seeping into her trainers. She hobbled through the undergrowth, frantically searching the trees, trying to locate the screaming. Up ahead, stood a grand old oak, its lower branches almost swept the ground. Liv sat slumped over one of the branches, howling pitifully.
“Liv, Liv, it’s all right, I’m here.” Becca scrambled up the tree, grazing her elbow on the rough bark.
“He fell, Mum. He fell. He’s dead.”
Becca pulled Liv her into her arms in an embrace, “I know.”
They both looked down at the leafy floor but no one lay there.
Enjoy the days when sleep evades you, when you pace the chilly floor, a restless shadow, soothing the warm bundle in your arms. Make the most of the times when door handles are sticky, feet bruised with plastic brick imprints, a favourite jumper smeared with snot, or goodness knows what. Breathe in that special, belonging to your baby, smell. Take it deep, deep into your lungs. So, you’ll never forget.
Every trip an adventure, every moment a question, the wide-eyed why? why? why? Back breaking bag full of books, crayons, plasters, snacks and sand, always sand. Bucketfuls of shells and stones. Crinkly seaweed, stinky dead crab, bleached bones. Shiny conkers, spiky beech nuts. Bark rubbings and coin rubbings and grave rubbings. Bumps, scrapes, tears, laughter, lots of laughter. Singing in the car, in the bath, in the park. Kitchen band, walloping the pots and pans.
Later, gossip and giggles, worries shared, successes and failures. Falling outs and making ups. Lifts given, endless waiting. Meals spent around the fire, guitar playing, silly prancing. Cello screech, drum machine beat, tap, tapping of a foot keeping time on the ceiling.
The house is quiet now, stillness fills spaces where junk models stood. Silence wiped fingerprints away. Everything tidy, where it should be, in its place. The songs I sing to myself, dancing alone.
This little tale popped into my head while I was out exercising my two furry friends the other morning.
———————————————————————————
“Where do you go every day, bach?”
“What do you mean, where do I go every day? You know where I go…I take the dog for a walk.”
“But where do you go?”
“You know where I go. Down through the cemetery, into the woods, to the stream. You know Buster likes to splash around in there. Proper water baby he is…Then home the other way, through the village and up the hill.”
“But why are you gone so long?”
“What do you mean, why am I gone so long? He has to have a decent play, dun he? Sometimes, on the way back, we stop and chat to the old girl, you know, the one on the corner. She’s usually pottering about in her garden. Likes to chat she do…bit lonely I think.”
“You see why I’m worried, doctor?” Mrs Thomas pinched her lips into a small o with pale fingers.
Doctor Williams sighed, “I’m sorry Mrs Thomas, I don’t understand…”
“It’s the old girl, see. Mrs Jones. She died last year…” Mrs Thomas clenched her hands together, squeezing out any remaining blood.
Doctor Williams leaned towards Mr Thomas sympathetically, “I’m sure there must be an explanation, Mr Thomas? Perhaps you are getting this Mrs Jones confused with somebody else? Maybe the new owner of the house?”
Mr Thomas stared back blankly at the doctor.
“No one has moved in, doctor.” Mrs Thomas explained, her forehead furrowing into deep gashes, “They’ve had a muddle. The family are squabbling over everything. No will, see.”
“Oh. Well…perhaps you are getting your times confused Mr Thomas?” Doctor Williams looked at his patient hopefully, “Is that the problem? You’re thinking about conversations that happened some time ago…something you haven’t done in a while?”
Mr Thomas looked through the doctor.
Shaking her head, Mrs Thomas said, “No doctor, he told me just this last Friday he’d had a chat with her, see.”
“Mmm.” Doctor Williams leant back in his chair, pressing his palms together.
Mrs Thomas drew a deep breath, “The thing is, doctor. That’s not the biggest worry…”
“Then tell me, Mrs Thomas, what is the biggest worry?” Doctor Williams turned his chair to properly look at this small, anxious woman for the first time.
“Well doctor, the biggest worry is…we don’t have a dog.”
Time passes in fits and starts at the moment. As the lock down continues, with no easing here in Wales, hours can disappear without notice yet weeks and months seem to stretch on interminably. There is a paralysis of inspiration, focus and motivation; nothing much beyond normal routine is achieved, activities are cancelled, future prospects and plans are on hold, loved ones are missed, anxiety is buried beneath layers of mundanity.
We wait.
Nature does not wait, however, and time continues in the passing of spring into early summer. The swallows have returned and built a nest in the barn, flitting and swooping above the paddocks, finding pure joy in the hunting and catching of winged insects for their hatchlings. The hedgerows are vibrant with wildflowers, white, blue, purple, yellow and pink; bees darting among the petals, legs laden with pollen. The air is filled with amorous sounds of life; the buzz and hum of mini beasts, the chattering conversations of birds, the throaty calls of frogs, busy in their mating rituals. Less welcome, the local farmers are industrious, cutting silage and spreading muck on the fields during the dry spell. Tractors roar up and down narrow lanes all day and late into the night. The pungent perfume of manure sends us scampering inside with our lunchtime sandwiches.
Staying active in the garden, observing and enjoying small moments of this normality, keeps us grounded and content. Vegetable seedlings need planting, weeds must be cleared, brambles and bracken cut back. A poorly chicken needs care. Wood preservative is ordered ready for treating the stables, barn doors and fencing. There are jobs to do. Physical work to keep us healthy in body and mind.
There is family too. The bliss of being together with nowhere else to be. The pleasure in gathering for good food cooked with love. Sourdough bread is a success; warm, crusty and flavour-full, now yeast has become like gold dust. Pride at how well the young people are coping, with university closed, projects and dissertations to complete in difficult circumstances, unable to enjoy a night out with friends. There is zoom and social media but it is a long period of uncertainty and missing out. They are doing remarkably well.
And there is community. A group of willing and able volunteers in the nearest village. We post leaflets through doors, offer help for those alone and isolated; shopping, collecting prescriptions, posting mail. A support network, building links and hopefully lasting friendships. A chance to give something back for those of us who know how lucky we are. More people are walking; unable to go further afield in their cars, they explore the footpaths of the local countryside. We see new faces, shout welcomes over the hedge, have little chats. This gives us mixed feelings; selfishly we have enjoyed the peaceful isolation, and wonder if we will continue to have walkers once this is over.
Life is quiet and simple. We think about how it will be when lock down ends; what will we have learnt, what will remain and what will the new normal be?
We wait.
The world is at rest,
a respite from the noise, from the fumes, from the crowds.
Let us be braver,
conquer all our fears, our anxieties, our doubts.
Raise our voices in love, in friendship, in kindness.
Notice what’s important, overcome our blindness.
Remember Mother Earth, renew our connection.
Keep safe, keep strong, keep faith in our shared protection.
The world is at rest.
We can pass this test.
Relearn old ways for
future better days.
I am full of songs at the moment. I need to write and sing out my pain, my anger, my doubts and my joy. Here is one I currently have in my heart.
When I hear what you’ve been saying about me,
I don’t recognise myself.
It seems that when you look at me,
you’re really seeing someone else.
Maybe I am deluded,
maybe I am fooling myself.
But I don’t like this person you describe,
I want to be somebody else.
All my life I’ve tried to be
the kind of person who can see
through the eyes of others
but I know I’ve often failed at that.
When I hear what you’ve been thinking about me,
I don’t recognise myself.
It seems that when you listen to me,
you’re really hearing something else.
Maybe I am deluded,
maybe I am fooling myself.
But I don’t like this person you describe,
I want to be somebody else.
All my life I’ve tried to hear
both sides of stories, make things clear
through the ears of others
but I know I’ve often failed at that.
When I hear what you’ve been spreading about me,
I don’t recognise myself.
It seems that when you speak of me,
you’re really saying something else.
Maybe I am deluded,
maybe I am fooling myself.
But I don’t like this person you describe,
I want to be somebody else.
All my life I’ve tried to share
words of kindness, words of care
through the mouths of others
but I know I’ve often failed at that.
When I hear what you’ve been doing without me,
I don’t recognise you now.
It seems that when you need me most,
you’re really pretending you don’t.
Maybe I am deluded,
maybe I am fooling myself.
But I don’t like this person you describe,
I want to be somebody else.
All my life I’ve tried to feel
the pain and love that makes us real
through the hearts of others
but I know I’ve often failed at that.
I know I’ve often failed at that.
I know I’ve often failed at that.
I know I’ve often failed at that.
