Bell Ringing (excerpt)
published in Postbox, a biannual collection of new short stories (Spring 2019).
You can buy the collections here: https://www.redsquirrelpress.com/postbox-magazine
You can buy the collections here: https://www.redsquirrelpress.com/postbox-magazine
There are days when all we want to do is stay in bed. Days when the only people we want to meet are fictional.
But then I suppose everyone’s fictional to some extent.
Take Helen over there for example, sitting at the table by the fireplace. She’s talking to her audience of young women about her secret for flawless skin, “three litres of water a day,” apparently. “I’m always running to the loo,” she squeals, “but it’s worth it to have a healthy body. The skin shows everything, you know. Like a layer of your aura. If there’s anything wrong in your body and spirit, it’s right there to see, plain as the nose on your face.” Her friends nod. We’ve just had our evening meditation and the atmosphere’s mellow in the deepening twilight.
She might drink three litres of water every day, I don’t know. But there are other secrets to her flawless skin and they’re rubbing off on her collar. I’ve seen the toolbox of cosmetics she hides under her bed in the room we share.
I’d imagine it’s frowned upon, wearing make-up on Buddhist retreats. Probably the vanity thing. Indulging the ego. This is my first time coming on a retreat. My friends tricked me into coming. They said it would be like a girl’s trip away at a spa. A healthy week of vegan food, fresh air and yoga. Of course, they both cancelled. When I considered pulling-out as well, they wouldn’t let me. “On you go!” They said. “Find yourself!”
I didn’t know I was lost.
I’ve seen Helen without make up. She’s pretty, really naturally pretty.
I don’t keep secrets. Not because I’m not insecure or anything. I wish. No. I’m just incapable. I’d forget what I’ve said and what I haven’t. I don’t have the attention-span to keep track of what knots I’ve tied my life up in. Far easier to just keep things simple.
Looking up from my book, I see out of the window that it’s dark now, later than I’d thought. I don’t really want to uncurl myself from my spot on the couch, but I suppose I’d better. One thing I’ve learned here is how well meditation and fresh air can set you up for a good night’s sleep. A bunch of us went for a walk in the hills this afternoon and it was tougher than I expected. So I’m feeling the need for an early night.
There’s not much chance for a lie-in. I have to get up early for my community duty. I’m the bell-ringer. The alarm-clock. At 6.55 every morning I walk pastel-clad corridors of doorways and ring the bell. Quiet and gentle at first, till I get the force right. Not so loud that it’s obnoxious, but loud enough that people hear it and know it’s time to go to the morning meditation. It takes a bit of practice.
The kitchen door opens and Jack comes through. He’s one of the retreat leaders. A tall, broad-chested Yorkshireman. I think he’d be able to take the weight of the world on those shoulders. But there’s something feral about him. People seem to irritate him, generally.
While I huddle behind my book on the couch, right next to the dining area, Glen takes his turn at ringing the bell. He holds the well worn phallic handle and tries the weight out, reaching down at first like it’s an extension of his arm. Glen gives a practice-swing and jumps with surprise when the bell shouts. From its circular lips, its metallic curves of waist and shoulder, sound erupts loud and clear across the room. Eyes turn our way and I cringe. Glen goes a bit giddy and rattles it above his head “Time for class, children!” he cries in a tone that’d do Jean Brodie proud.
Jack comes over and takes the bell off him, setting it back down on the window ledge with a decisive clomp. Then he thumps back through the swing doors to the kitchen.
I don’t ring the bell that way. I don’t like to make much noise.
Glen sits down on the couch opposite and winks at me. He crosses one foot over the other knee and reaches his arms back behind his head.
“I’m so jealous,” he says.
“Jealous? Of what?”
“You always give off such a calm vibe. The world could be ending and it’d just be water off a duck’s back.”
“I doubt it! But thank you.” I’m hardly ever calm. But I don’t correct him.
“No worries.” He sighs and taps his knee. “I’m heading up to bed. See you in the morning. Don’t read too late,” he says, pulling the book from my hand and flicking the pages so I lose my place.
I smile at him and flip back to the page I’d been reading. “Just finishing this chapter.”
As he leaves, a clattering of plates and pots echo through from the kitchen. Jack’s getting things ready for the morning rush.
A sibilant whispering interrupts my reading. Helen and her yoga cronies. In the daily yoga sessions, they contort themselves with an ease weasels would envy.
I ignore them, hoping to finish this chapter and get up to bed before Helen comes up and starts her most unladylike snoring.
“Hey, Dawn?” one of the girls shouts over, the one that wears those fashionably heavy black-framed glasses. The lenses are suspiciously flat and I suspect she wears them more as an accessory than from any physical short-sightedness.
I take a breath. What? “Yes?” I say, politely.
“Tomorrow morning, when you’re going past room eight, do you think you could ring your bell a bit louder. You go about like such a little mouse. I nearly sleep through it.”
“Sure.”
“Sorry, could you say that again. We couldn’t hear you – you’re so quiet!” The other girl chimes in, the pear-shaped one with the Cheshire cat grin. She’s less graceful than the other two and always looks close to toppling over in yoga – like one of those big-bottomed clown figures that bounce back up no matter how hard you hit them.
“No problem.” I make sure my voice carries.
“In fact, could you maybe pop by a couple of times. Just to make sure,” Helen adds, grinning. Square-eyes and Big-bum grin back at her.
Why not set up an alarm on your phone like any normal person?
“And ring a good few times, like ten times, rather than just the couple of rings you usually give,” says Big-bum.
Jack emerges from the swinging door away and begins setting out spoons and knives. The girls quieten down.
Every spoon and knife is set down carefully just so.
Jack makes his way over to Helen’s table and while he lays out the cutlery he cuts through their silence. “I meant to say, some people were having trouble sleeping last night – apparently some folk were making a lot of noise down here. I’m sure you three wouldn’t be so inconsiderate, but just in case, would you mind keeping the noise down? Maybe go off to someone’s room, eh.”
“Of course, Jack,” Helen twinkles and stands, full of perky, flirtatious energy. “For you, anything.” Square-eyes and Big-bum slant little looks at each other and follow her. I hear Helen invite them to her room. Our room. It doesn’t look like I’ll be getting that early night.
Jack glowers at the cups they’ve left behind on the table, then at the doorway the girls have just gone through. Maybe he doesn’t like being around people either. But then why lead a retreat? Maybe he felt that he needed to learn more tolerance for people. He grits his teeth and grabs the mugs, one huge hand easily picking up all three at once, and he takes them through to the kitchen. I hear the click, whoosh, clank and slam of him putting them into the steriliser. He comes back through, holding a white cup and a cloth. He smoothes water-rings from the vinyl tablecloth and comes over to sit at the couch opposite me. Steam rises from his cup. He slurps and a waft of peppermint drifts over to where I sit.
I feel his eyes on me. “Okay?” he asks. He seems gentler now.
...
to read the rest, you can buy the collection here: https://www.redsquirrelpress.com/postbox-magazine
But then I suppose everyone’s fictional to some extent.
Take Helen over there for example, sitting at the table by the fireplace. She’s talking to her audience of young women about her secret for flawless skin, “three litres of water a day,” apparently. “I’m always running to the loo,” she squeals, “but it’s worth it to have a healthy body. The skin shows everything, you know. Like a layer of your aura. If there’s anything wrong in your body and spirit, it’s right there to see, plain as the nose on your face.” Her friends nod. We’ve just had our evening meditation and the atmosphere’s mellow in the deepening twilight.
She might drink three litres of water every day, I don’t know. But there are other secrets to her flawless skin and they’re rubbing off on her collar. I’ve seen the toolbox of cosmetics she hides under her bed in the room we share.
I’d imagine it’s frowned upon, wearing make-up on Buddhist retreats. Probably the vanity thing. Indulging the ego. This is my first time coming on a retreat. My friends tricked me into coming. They said it would be like a girl’s trip away at a spa. A healthy week of vegan food, fresh air and yoga. Of course, they both cancelled. When I considered pulling-out as well, they wouldn’t let me. “On you go!” They said. “Find yourself!”
I didn’t know I was lost.
I’ve seen Helen without make up. She’s pretty, really naturally pretty.
I don’t keep secrets. Not because I’m not insecure or anything. I wish. No. I’m just incapable. I’d forget what I’ve said and what I haven’t. I don’t have the attention-span to keep track of what knots I’ve tied my life up in. Far easier to just keep things simple.
Looking up from my book, I see out of the window that it’s dark now, later than I’d thought. I don’t really want to uncurl myself from my spot on the couch, but I suppose I’d better. One thing I’ve learned here is how well meditation and fresh air can set you up for a good night’s sleep. A bunch of us went for a walk in the hills this afternoon and it was tougher than I expected. So I’m feeling the need for an early night.
There’s not much chance for a lie-in. I have to get up early for my community duty. I’m the bell-ringer. The alarm-clock. At 6.55 every morning I walk pastel-clad corridors of doorways and ring the bell. Quiet and gentle at first, till I get the force right. Not so loud that it’s obnoxious, but loud enough that people hear it and know it’s time to go to the morning meditation. It takes a bit of practice.
The kitchen door opens and Jack comes through. He’s one of the retreat leaders. A tall, broad-chested Yorkshireman. I think he’d be able to take the weight of the world on those shoulders. But there’s something feral about him. People seem to irritate him, generally.
While I huddle behind my book on the couch, right next to the dining area, Glen takes his turn at ringing the bell. He holds the well worn phallic handle and tries the weight out, reaching down at first like it’s an extension of his arm. Glen gives a practice-swing and jumps with surprise when the bell shouts. From its circular lips, its metallic curves of waist and shoulder, sound erupts loud and clear across the room. Eyes turn our way and I cringe. Glen goes a bit giddy and rattles it above his head “Time for class, children!” he cries in a tone that’d do Jean Brodie proud.
Jack comes over and takes the bell off him, setting it back down on the window ledge with a decisive clomp. Then he thumps back through the swing doors to the kitchen.
I don’t ring the bell that way. I don’t like to make much noise.
Glen sits down on the couch opposite and winks at me. He crosses one foot over the other knee and reaches his arms back behind his head.
“I’m so jealous,” he says.
“Jealous? Of what?”
“You always give off such a calm vibe. The world could be ending and it’d just be water off a duck’s back.”
“I doubt it! But thank you.” I’m hardly ever calm. But I don’t correct him.
“No worries.” He sighs and taps his knee. “I’m heading up to bed. See you in the morning. Don’t read too late,” he says, pulling the book from my hand and flicking the pages so I lose my place.
I smile at him and flip back to the page I’d been reading. “Just finishing this chapter.”
As he leaves, a clattering of plates and pots echo through from the kitchen. Jack’s getting things ready for the morning rush.
A sibilant whispering interrupts my reading. Helen and her yoga cronies. In the daily yoga sessions, they contort themselves with an ease weasels would envy.
I ignore them, hoping to finish this chapter and get up to bed before Helen comes up and starts her most unladylike snoring.
“Hey, Dawn?” one of the girls shouts over, the one that wears those fashionably heavy black-framed glasses. The lenses are suspiciously flat and I suspect she wears them more as an accessory than from any physical short-sightedness.
I take a breath. What? “Yes?” I say, politely.
“Tomorrow morning, when you’re going past room eight, do you think you could ring your bell a bit louder. You go about like such a little mouse. I nearly sleep through it.”
“Sure.”
“Sorry, could you say that again. We couldn’t hear you – you’re so quiet!” The other girl chimes in, the pear-shaped one with the Cheshire cat grin. She’s less graceful than the other two and always looks close to toppling over in yoga – like one of those big-bottomed clown figures that bounce back up no matter how hard you hit them.
“No problem.” I make sure my voice carries.
“In fact, could you maybe pop by a couple of times. Just to make sure,” Helen adds, grinning. Square-eyes and Big-bum grin back at her.
Why not set up an alarm on your phone like any normal person?
“And ring a good few times, like ten times, rather than just the couple of rings you usually give,” says Big-bum.
Jack emerges from the swinging door away and begins setting out spoons and knives. The girls quieten down.
Every spoon and knife is set down carefully just so.
Jack makes his way over to Helen’s table and while he lays out the cutlery he cuts through their silence. “I meant to say, some people were having trouble sleeping last night – apparently some folk were making a lot of noise down here. I’m sure you three wouldn’t be so inconsiderate, but just in case, would you mind keeping the noise down? Maybe go off to someone’s room, eh.”
“Of course, Jack,” Helen twinkles and stands, full of perky, flirtatious energy. “For you, anything.” Square-eyes and Big-bum slant little looks at each other and follow her. I hear Helen invite them to her room. Our room. It doesn’t look like I’ll be getting that early night.
Jack glowers at the cups they’ve left behind on the table, then at the doorway the girls have just gone through. Maybe he doesn’t like being around people either. But then why lead a retreat? Maybe he felt that he needed to learn more tolerance for people. He grits his teeth and grabs the mugs, one huge hand easily picking up all three at once, and he takes them through to the kitchen. I hear the click, whoosh, clank and slam of him putting them into the steriliser. He comes back through, holding a white cup and a cloth. He smoothes water-rings from the vinyl tablecloth and comes over to sit at the couch opposite me. Steam rises from his cup. He slurps and a waft of peppermint drifts over to where I sit.
I feel his eyes on me. “Okay?” he asks. He seems gentler now.
...
to read the rest, you can buy the collection here: https://www.redsquirrelpress.com/postbox-magazine
Waiting for Spring
Winner of the SMHAF Festival, 2017
Waiting for Spring
‘That looks fine. All healthy,’ the nurse says.
Healthy.
She wipes my stomach, leaving the skin feeling chilled in the sterile air of the scan room. ‘You can get dressed now.’
‘Okay, thanks,’ I reply.
I shuffle through to the adjoining toilet. My pants and jeans chafe when I pull them up and my coat stifles me in the small space. I walk out alone into the chilly winter air. Two weeks ago, I swept out of this same room and grabbed my wee boy, holding him to me, my husband following quietly after.
I’ve had a fortnight to steady myself. But at that first scan, when the nurse said ‘Oh, you’ve had a lot of bleeding, haven’t you?’ I knew then.
Nobody tells you how long a miscarriage takes. You bleed for days. You cramp. You cry. You go for a scan and cry some more. You don’t want to go to bed because when you wake up, you wake up to another day of feeling like you’ve failed that innocent drop of life that was inside you. You don’t want to wake up to another day of pretending you’re okay, when you’re not alright inside, not at all. No matter what a scan says.
I open the car, and sit down gingerly. Slam the door behind me and press my hands to my face.
I’ve hid my grief. Cried in the shower. Crying in front of Matt felt selfish. He had enough to deal with.
His mum lost her ovaries the week after I miscarried. They turned on themselves. Stopped producing eggs and started growing tumours instead. When she was in hospital, he offered every night to stay at home instead of going to visit. I told him to go. ‘I’m fine. I’ll be fine.’ I cried when he was gone, in privacy, away from the questions I couldn’t answer.
‘What’s wrong?’ ‘What can I do?’ ‘What do you want to do?’
‘Nothing.’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘Nothing.’
It wasn’t something he could fix. ‘Time. It’ll just take time.’
It was bitterly cold, walking into hospital to that first scan. I didn’t want anyone to see my face. I wanted to wear something that covered the redness of my eyes and the raw, dry, pale skin exposed between my hairline and scarf. I wanted to wear a hood and be smuggled in. To be wheeled into a private room and tipped out a back door on a chute afterwards. I wanted blinkers, black like horses once wore in a line of mourners, to hide me from the eyes of round-bellied women. I didn’t want to cloud their happiness. Didn’t want their pity, well-meaning, even while they try not to wince away. My grief threw their happiness into brittle relief, and their happiness threw me into deeper shadow.
The next morning, drying myself from the shower, there was milk. A single tiny seed pearl bead. I started the shower up again.
Better phone Matt, let him know I’m okay. I tap through the phone menu and press the image of Matt with Logan. It only rings once before he picks up.
‘Hi.’ He waits.
‘I’m fine. It’s over. I’m fine though.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yeah.’ Silence.
‘Okay.’ Silence. ‘What now then?’
‘I don’t know.’ I hear Logan gabbling away happily in the background. ‘I’ll talk to you later on while he’s napping?’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. You okay with the wee man just now? I’ve got shopping to do.’
‘Of course. Take your time,’ he says.
‘Will do. Love you.’
‘Love you too.’
Deep breath. Time to go. I start up the car engine.
I’m lucky, I have a wee boy. Logan’s sturdy. I didn’t realise how sturdy, how easy. He was my cloak against the cold. My whole body was sore from clenching, trying to hold on. But she slipped away. I wanted to put her in my garden under a tree. But there was nothing left of her to place anywhere. She was gone before I knew her.
Is it more difficult, losing a baby when you know what you’re losing? Or is it more difficult when you don’t know the joy – and the hell - of motherhood? Choosing to be a mother means choosing something you can’t understand until it happens. I didn’t know love until I was a mother. A love that binds you harder than any chains.
I didn’t know fear. The kind of fear that turns a woman to stone in the middle of the night at the thought of all you might lose. That fear, though, is just a part of being a mother. I know that now, and accept it. The precariousness of loving something so precious and fragile. Of loving someone so much more than yourself that you’d burn yourself slowly to charcoal from the soles of your feet up, just to hold them out of a fire’s reach. The fear of accidents, of SIDS, of disease, of animals that might steal them away. And as they get older, the fear that they’ll hate you, or that others won’t love them as you do, as they’re meant to be loved.
But there’s joy too. The joy when they lean into you, knowing you’re their safety.
I wasn’t safe for her though. Wasn’t safe enough.
For days, my hair was itchy, every follicle on my legs my arms, even my eyelids, they all burned. I wanted to rip it all out. Everything that was implanted. Leave me smooth and bare, a scorched land lying fallow, a winter landscape waiting.
Babies everywhere. Their laughter and squeals and squalls echo around the shopping centre. Older brothers and sisters play and squabble with wee ones. I make sure to smile. I feel better as I tick each thing from my list, feel productive and organised and back in control. Then I see tiny pink baby clothes and falter for a step because suddenly, for a moment, I feel empty.
The bell above the door of my favourite coffee-shop dings in welcome when I walk in. Cakes sit ready and inviting under shining glass domes. I order a huge slice of red velvet. I sit down at the window. Condensation collects at the corners and drips. People hurry past outside, shoulders hunched, holding their coats tight against the cold. I wonder what they’re going through. You never know. You say hi in passing to people you barely know, make small-talk with acquaintances, even friends, without knowing what’s really going on in their lives. Because suffering isn’t a topic for polite conversation. What would someone see now, looking at me? Probably just a thoughtful woman, staring into space.
My phone rings, while I sip at my coffee, Lucy. The cake lies half-eaten in front of me, red sponge vivid against the cream cheese icing. Lucy’s daughter’s just had a baby. When I ask how things are, she says ‘Oh, you know how it is, that first few weeks. All that happiness.’ The cake goes dry in my mouth. I gulp down bitterness and scald my tongue. When we hang up, I stare out of the window again.
All that happiness.
I never knew it. Post-natal depression stole even its possibility. I didn’t feel joy when Logan arrived. I just felt exhaustion. My patience stretched and thinned and went brittle around the edges. I worried that sooner or later, I’d freeze over like a loch in winter and I’d walk across it and it would shatter under me and I’d drift away, cold and lost.
And here I am on that ice again.
My body’s become a battleground. Two armies of hormones are fighting it out, sending conflicting messages in my blood. It’s post-natal depression again but this time without a baby to show for it. Without that clean, soft newborn warmth, without that double cream and icing sugar smell to breathe in.
I know what’s ahead of me. I’ll go on and off meds, a kite in the wind, swirling with ideas, inspiration and enthusiasm, the verve of it all keeping me alight in the heady heights. Matt will hold on, trying to make sure I don’t fly away, and all he’ll be able to do is watch as I fly and pull away. Then when the wind dies down, I’ll dip and crash back down to earth, limp and cracked. He’ll hold me as I pull myself together.
The burbling whoosh of the coffee machine and clink of spoons against cups bring me back to the present. I sigh and heft the shopping bags. They bite into the pale skin of my hands. I leave the table, coffee and red velvet cake behind me. Time to go home.
One thing that might tempt me to motherhood again is the hope that I might feel what I missed the first time round, what depression robbed me of. I hope it might be what it should have been.
At least I can spot depression now as it lurks. I watch it as it raises its hackles. I know how to take better care of myself. Because life’s too precious not to enjoy. As I tuck in Logan into his cot in the peace of night, I wonder, how can someone not be greedy for more of this? I became a mother again, for a while at least. And I’m grateful.
One day, I might be ready to reclaim that chance to be a mother again. For now though, I’m waiting. Waiting for Spring.
‘That looks fine. All healthy,’ the nurse says.
Healthy.
She wipes my stomach, leaving the skin feeling chilled in the sterile air of the scan room. ‘You can get dressed now.’
‘Okay, thanks,’ I reply.
I shuffle through to the adjoining toilet. My pants and jeans chafe when I pull them up and my coat stifles me in the small space. I walk out alone into the chilly winter air. Two weeks ago, I swept out of this same room and grabbed my wee boy, holding him to me, my husband following quietly after.
I’ve had a fortnight to steady myself. But at that first scan, when the nurse said ‘Oh, you’ve had a lot of bleeding, haven’t you?’ I knew then.
Nobody tells you how long a miscarriage takes. You bleed for days. You cramp. You cry. You go for a scan and cry some more. You don’t want to go to bed because when you wake up, you wake up to another day of feeling like you’ve failed that innocent drop of life that was inside you. You don’t want to wake up to another day of pretending you’re okay, when you’re not alright inside, not at all. No matter what a scan says.
I open the car, and sit down gingerly. Slam the door behind me and press my hands to my face.
I’ve hid my grief. Cried in the shower. Crying in front of Matt felt selfish. He had enough to deal with.
His mum lost her ovaries the week after I miscarried. They turned on themselves. Stopped producing eggs and started growing tumours instead. When she was in hospital, he offered every night to stay at home instead of going to visit. I told him to go. ‘I’m fine. I’ll be fine.’ I cried when he was gone, in privacy, away from the questions I couldn’t answer.
‘What’s wrong?’ ‘What can I do?’ ‘What do you want to do?’
‘Nothing.’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘Nothing.’
It wasn’t something he could fix. ‘Time. It’ll just take time.’
It was bitterly cold, walking into hospital to that first scan. I didn’t want anyone to see my face. I wanted to wear something that covered the redness of my eyes and the raw, dry, pale skin exposed between my hairline and scarf. I wanted to wear a hood and be smuggled in. To be wheeled into a private room and tipped out a back door on a chute afterwards. I wanted blinkers, black like horses once wore in a line of mourners, to hide me from the eyes of round-bellied women. I didn’t want to cloud their happiness. Didn’t want their pity, well-meaning, even while they try not to wince away. My grief threw their happiness into brittle relief, and their happiness threw me into deeper shadow.
The next morning, drying myself from the shower, there was milk. A single tiny seed pearl bead. I started the shower up again.
Better phone Matt, let him know I’m okay. I tap through the phone menu and press the image of Matt with Logan. It only rings once before he picks up.
‘Hi.’ He waits.
‘I’m fine. It’s over. I’m fine though.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yeah.’ Silence.
‘Okay.’ Silence. ‘What now then?’
‘I don’t know.’ I hear Logan gabbling away happily in the background. ‘I’ll talk to you later on while he’s napping?’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. You okay with the wee man just now? I’ve got shopping to do.’
‘Of course. Take your time,’ he says.
‘Will do. Love you.’
‘Love you too.’
Deep breath. Time to go. I start up the car engine.
I’m lucky, I have a wee boy. Logan’s sturdy. I didn’t realise how sturdy, how easy. He was my cloak against the cold. My whole body was sore from clenching, trying to hold on. But she slipped away. I wanted to put her in my garden under a tree. But there was nothing left of her to place anywhere. She was gone before I knew her.
Is it more difficult, losing a baby when you know what you’re losing? Or is it more difficult when you don’t know the joy – and the hell - of motherhood? Choosing to be a mother means choosing something you can’t understand until it happens. I didn’t know love until I was a mother. A love that binds you harder than any chains.
I didn’t know fear. The kind of fear that turns a woman to stone in the middle of the night at the thought of all you might lose. That fear, though, is just a part of being a mother. I know that now, and accept it. The precariousness of loving something so precious and fragile. Of loving someone so much more than yourself that you’d burn yourself slowly to charcoal from the soles of your feet up, just to hold them out of a fire’s reach. The fear of accidents, of SIDS, of disease, of animals that might steal them away. And as they get older, the fear that they’ll hate you, or that others won’t love them as you do, as they’re meant to be loved.
But there’s joy too. The joy when they lean into you, knowing you’re their safety.
I wasn’t safe for her though. Wasn’t safe enough.
For days, my hair was itchy, every follicle on my legs my arms, even my eyelids, they all burned. I wanted to rip it all out. Everything that was implanted. Leave me smooth and bare, a scorched land lying fallow, a winter landscape waiting.
Babies everywhere. Their laughter and squeals and squalls echo around the shopping centre. Older brothers and sisters play and squabble with wee ones. I make sure to smile. I feel better as I tick each thing from my list, feel productive and organised and back in control. Then I see tiny pink baby clothes and falter for a step because suddenly, for a moment, I feel empty.
The bell above the door of my favourite coffee-shop dings in welcome when I walk in. Cakes sit ready and inviting under shining glass domes. I order a huge slice of red velvet. I sit down at the window. Condensation collects at the corners and drips. People hurry past outside, shoulders hunched, holding their coats tight against the cold. I wonder what they’re going through. You never know. You say hi in passing to people you barely know, make small-talk with acquaintances, even friends, without knowing what’s really going on in their lives. Because suffering isn’t a topic for polite conversation. What would someone see now, looking at me? Probably just a thoughtful woman, staring into space.
My phone rings, while I sip at my coffee, Lucy. The cake lies half-eaten in front of me, red sponge vivid against the cream cheese icing. Lucy’s daughter’s just had a baby. When I ask how things are, she says ‘Oh, you know how it is, that first few weeks. All that happiness.’ The cake goes dry in my mouth. I gulp down bitterness and scald my tongue. When we hang up, I stare out of the window again.
All that happiness.
I never knew it. Post-natal depression stole even its possibility. I didn’t feel joy when Logan arrived. I just felt exhaustion. My patience stretched and thinned and went brittle around the edges. I worried that sooner or later, I’d freeze over like a loch in winter and I’d walk across it and it would shatter under me and I’d drift away, cold and lost.
And here I am on that ice again.
My body’s become a battleground. Two armies of hormones are fighting it out, sending conflicting messages in my blood. It’s post-natal depression again but this time without a baby to show for it. Without that clean, soft newborn warmth, without that double cream and icing sugar smell to breathe in.
I know what’s ahead of me. I’ll go on and off meds, a kite in the wind, swirling with ideas, inspiration and enthusiasm, the verve of it all keeping me alight in the heady heights. Matt will hold on, trying to make sure I don’t fly away, and all he’ll be able to do is watch as I fly and pull away. Then when the wind dies down, I’ll dip and crash back down to earth, limp and cracked. He’ll hold me as I pull myself together.
The burbling whoosh of the coffee machine and clink of spoons against cups bring me back to the present. I sigh and heft the shopping bags. They bite into the pale skin of my hands. I leave the table, coffee and red velvet cake behind me. Time to go home.
One thing that might tempt me to motherhood again is the hope that I might feel what I missed the first time round, what depression robbed me of. I hope it might be what it should have been.
At least I can spot depression now as it lurks. I watch it as it raises its hackles. I know how to take better care of myself. Because life’s too precious not to enjoy. As I tuck in Logan into his cot in the peace of night, I wonder, how can someone not be greedy for more of this? I became a mother again, for a while at least. And I’m grateful.
One day, I might be ready to reclaim that chance to be a mother again. For now though, I’m waiting. Waiting for Spring.
As the River Flows
Published in NorthWords Now, Spring 2016
As the River Flows
'Come on out for a walk.'
'I don’t feel like it.'
'It’ll do you good, a bit of fresh air.'
She sits there on the couch, hair slumped around her face. Why should she go out? She's comfortable here. It’s warm, she has a good book to lose herself in and she doesn’t have to face anyone, anything. The living room is littered with debris from her day. Open books half read, empty crisp packets, smeared plates. The laptop beside her is on standby, one amber light blinking, its cable snaking into a shadowed corner.
He stands waiting at the door. 'It’ll make me feel better. I’m a bit worried about you.'
'I told you, I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I just need a little peace and quiet.' She looks at him looking at her, undaunted. His eyes are lost in shadow, dark from sleepless nights. She sighs and pushes herself up from the indentation she’s made on the couch.
'I’ll just splash some water on my face and put my hair up.'
He stands aside as she walks past, watches her disappear from view, listens to her feet thud softly up the stairs.
When she reaches the bathroom, she looks for a moment in the mirror before opening it up. She’s pale. Thinner than before. Her dark hair forms a straggling frame around the harsh lines of her face. She leans in and pulls down one eyelid. Sticks out her tongue. Winces. Maybe she should brush her teeth. She pulls her hair back into a ponytail. The bristles leave furrows. When was the last time she washed it? Yesterday? The day before?
She looks at her reflection again.
Her joints ache by the time she's descended the stairs to her husband, who’s waiting, holding her jacket open. Too long sitting around. Maybe, though she hates to admit it, he’s right. A stretch of the legs wouldn’t be a bad thing.
They stand at the fork in the path. Upriver or down?
'Which way do you want to go?' he asks.
She tugs at his hand silently and he follows. Downriver.
She wonders straight away if she made a mistake. They’re face on into the wind. It’s March but winter is still clinging on, nipping at the air. Harsh currents snatch at her hair, pulling it out of its binding. Her cheeks begin to tingle and her breath catches. The clouds above them roll on by, quicker than you’d expect.
They walk hand in hand, following the river. Here, the path is bone dry, stripped of moisture by the wind. It drags across the Forth, ripping the water up into little jagged peaks.
The path dips down a little and follows the curve of the flowing water around a bend. There’s a trampled down patch of earth there with a couple of benches. In a few weeks, fishermen will start to use them. Maybe families too on picnics. They sit down on one and look around, still holding hands. Above them pussy willows are sprouting, their soft protective fur disrupted by yellow tendrils reaching up towards the sun. The wind gusts. Rough winds do shake...
The long grass lies flat to the ground and branches and sticks are strewn across the earth. The ground here is still wet and muddy from recent flooding. That’s life for you, she thinks. Ebb and flow, flood and drought.
Full and empty.
They stand again and walk on around the corner and the wind’s at their back now, pushing them along. She pulls her jacket down against a sneaking eddy of cold air and her husband puts his hand there, holding it place. The abiding chill at the hollow of her back is warmed by his hand. She huddles in closer to him.
The tall reeds of grass look like autumn wheat from a distance, golden yellow, their blades like full sheaves of corn. But in the clarity of the harsh early spring sunlight, close up, she can see their bareness. They’re not golden, just yellowed. Dry and lifeless.
Something black ripples up from the grass in the distance. Just a quick flash. Either a black bag or a crow’s wing. As they turn the corner, they see a few birds waddle to and fro conversing in a low, green curve of land.
'Know what the collective noun is for a group of crows?' she asks him.
'Nope.'
'A murder.'
'A murder of crows?'
'Yip.'
'Jesus.' He sighs.
She knows she’s being hard work.
'And a group of starlings?'
'No idea.'
'A murmuration.'
'Murmuration...' He tries out the sound of it. 'I think I like that one better.'
The river flows beside them.
An ice cream van, plinks and plunks from across the river.
'Fancy a ninety-nine?' he asks.
'You going to swim across the river to get me one?'
He watches as children run up to the van, jump up and down in the queue, stand on tiptoe to see what they’ll choose. Squeals drift over the river, caught up and distorted in the wind. 'I would, you know.' He bumps her shoulder gently with his.
'I know.' She smiles. She tiptoes around a muddy patch. 'Go on then.'
'What - now?'
'You said you would.'
He stops and looks at the water. His mouth twists a little to the side as he thinks about it. 'Hmm... got a wetsuit on you?'
'Hold on, I’ll check my pockets.'
They smile. She offers her cheek and he kisses it before they continue. She leans down and snatches up a few blades of flattened grass. At their base, hidden by the weather-stripped yellow stalks, are tiny shoots of green. She draws them along the ground after them for a few steps before letting them float off in the drift of air around them.
'Glass of wine when we get in?' he asks her.
'Could do, I think there’s a wee glass left in the bottle?'
'Don’t know why you didn’t finish it last night.'
'I got sleepy. It's been a while since I’ve had a drink.'
'Want me to go get another bottle for you?'
'No, it’s okay. Best not.'
'Why not take a rest for a while? Give yourself a chance to recover.'
'Maybe.'
They round the last bend and return to the main road that leads back home. They walk down straight streets and past neat gardens.
He opens the door for her and pulls off her jacket. He holds his hands to her reddened face. 'Toasty?' he asks.
'Toasty,' she nods, and smiles.
'Glass of wine?'
'No, I’m fine. I’ll just go up and have a bath.'
He kisses her forehead and takes their jackets to hang up. Alone, she pulls one shoe off, then the other and walks up the stairs. She pauses by the door of one bedroom and looks in at the furniture laid out there, half made and abandoned.
Framed in the bedroom window, beyond the tree-lined path, the river flows on.
'Come on out for a walk.'
'I don’t feel like it.'
'It’ll do you good, a bit of fresh air.'
She sits there on the couch, hair slumped around her face. Why should she go out? She's comfortable here. It’s warm, she has a good book to lose herself in and she doesn’t have to face anyone, anything. The living room is littered with debris from her day. Open books half read, empty crisp packets, smeared plates. The laptop beside her is on standby, one amber light blinking, its cable snaking into a shadowed corner.
He stands waiting at the door. 'It’ll make me feel better. I’m a bit worried about you.'
'I told you, I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I just need a little peace and quiet.' She looks at him looking at her, undaunted. His eyes are lost in shadow, dark from sleepless nights. She sighs and pushes herself up from the indentation she’s made on the couch.
'I’ll just splash some water on my face and put my hair up.'
He stands aside as she walks past, watches her disappear from view, listens to her feet thud softly up the stairs.
When she reaches the bathroom, she looks for a moment in the mirror before opening it up. She’s pale. Thinner than before. Her dark hair forms a straggling frame around the harsh lines of her face. She leans in and pulls down one eyelid. Sticks out her tongue. Winces. Maybe she should brush her teeth. She pulls her hair back into a ponytail. The bristles leave furrows. When was the last time she washed it? Yesterday? The day before?
She looks at her reflection again.
Her joints ache by the time she's descended the stairs to her husband, who’s waiting, holding her jacket open. Too long sitting around. Maybe, though she hates to admit it, he’s right. A stretch of the legs wouldn’t be a bad thing.
They stand at the fork in the path. Upriver or down?
'Which way do you want to go?' he asks.
She tugs at his hand silently and he follows. Downriver.
She wonders straight away if she made a mistake. They’re face on into the wind. It’s March but winter is still clinging on, nipping at the air. Harsh currents snatch at her hair, pulling it out of its binding. Her cheeks begin to tingle and her breath catches. The clouds above them roll on by, quicker than you’d expect.
They walk hand in hand, following the river. Here, the path is bone dry, stripped of moisture by the wind. It drags across the Forth, ripping the water up into little jagged peaks.
The path dips down a little and follows the curve of the flowing water around a bend. There’s a trampled down patch of earth there with a couple of benches. In a few weeks, fishermen will start to use them. Maybe families too on picnics. They sit down on one and look around, still holding hands. Above them pussy willows are sprouting, their soft protective fur disrupted by yellow tendrils reaching up towards the sun. The wind gusts. Rough winds do shake...
The long grass lies flat to the ground and branches and sticks are strewn across the earth. The ground here is still wet and muddy from recent flooding. That’s life for you, she thinks. Ebb and flow, flood and drought.
Full and empty.
They stand again and walk on around the corner and the wind’s at their back now, pushing them along. She pulls her jacket down against a sneaking eddy of cold air and her husband puts his hand there, holding it place. The abiding chill at the hollow of her back is warmed by his hand. She huddles in closer to him.
The tall reeds of grass look like autumn wheat from a distance, golden yellow, their blades like full sheaves of corn. But in the clarity of the harsh early spring sunlight, close up, she can see their bareness. They’re not golden, just yellowed. Dry and lifeless.
Something black ripples up from the grass in the distance. Just a quick flash. Either a black bag or a crow’s wing. As they turn the corner, they see a few birds waddle to and fro conversing in a low, green curve of land.
'Know what the collective noun is for a group of crows?' she asks him.
'Nope.'
'A murder.'
'A murder of crows?'
'Yip.'
'Jesus.' He sighs.
She knows she’s being hard work.
'And a group of starlings?'
'No idea.'
'A murmuration.'
'Murmuration...' He tries out the sound of it. 'I think I like that one better.'
The river flows beside them.
An ice cream van, plinks and plunks from across the river.
'Fancy a ninety-nine?' he asks.
'You going to swim across the river to get me one?'
He watches as children run up to the van, jump up and down in the queue, stand on tiptoe to see what they’ll choose. Squeals drift over the river, caught up and distorted in the wind. 'I would, you know.' He bumps her shoulder gently with his.
'I know.' She smiles. She tiptoes around a muddy patch. 'Go on then.'
'What - now?'
'You said you would.'
He stops and looks at the water. His mouth twists a little to the side as he thinks about it. 'Hmm... got a wetsuit on you?'
'Hold on, I’ll check my pockets.'
They smile. She offers her cheek and he kisses it before they continue. She leans down and snatches up a few blades of flattened grass. At their base, hidden by the weather-stripped yellow stalks, are tiny shoots of green. She draws them along the ground after them for a few steps before letting them float off in the drift of air around them.
'Glass of wine when we get in?' he asks her.
'Could do, I think there’s a wee glass left in the bottle?'
'Don’t know why you didn’t finish it last night.'
'I got sleepy. It's been a while since I’ve had a drink.'
'Want me to go get another bottle for you?'
'No, it’s okay. Best not.'
'Why not take a rest for a while? Give yourself a chance to recover.'
'Maybe.'
They round the last bend and return to the main road that leads back home. They walk down straight streets and past neat gardens.
He opens the door for her and pulls off her jacket. He holds his hands to her reddened face. 'Toasty?' he asks.
'Toasty,' she nods, and smiles.
'Glass of wine?'
'No, I’m fine. I’ll just go up and have a bath.'
He kisses her forehead and takes their jackets to hang up. Alone, she pulls one shoe off, then the other and walks up the stairs. She pauses by the door of one bedroom and looks in at the furniture laid out there, half made and abandoned.
Framed in the bedroom window, beyond the tree-lined path, the river flows on.
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