When my bottom slides forward on the sofa and sleep opens wide and moves to swallow, one thought collapses into another and I feel the rat arrive at my waist. He clings to me, nestles in the pit of my side. His greasy warm fur brushes up against my forearm and elbow.
He comforts me.
When I drift off, he drifts off with me, breathing in and out and in and out - he in my time, I in his. I never look; even when the energy remains, I never turn to see. Although I know he's there, I might jump up, out of instinct, as I would in the day, rear back and scare him off. I don't want that. I want to lie here together, snuggled up, and float away on our sofa-raft, lullabied into dreams by the end of News at Ten.
Monday 25 June 2012
Thursday 21 June 2012
The Furthest Point
"So this is it then, is it?" Julia asked, when the road had reached its end and only sea lay out ahead.
"Yes."
Edward coaxed the car up onto the the little verge and parked it, deliberately. The windscreen was split - sky in the top half, sea in the bottom - two slightly different shades of grey.
"Why isn't it more famous?"
"It is famous."
"Not where I'm from." She opened the passenger-side door and tried to get out, but was pinned back in her seat by the violence of the wind. She closed the door and giggled. Edward didn't join in.
"There's not much in it, but Dunnet Head is a mile or two further north."
His tone was a little defensive, Julia thought, so she leant across and kissed him reassuringly, on the cheek. He felt his chest swell.
"I'm not sure we're going to get outside," she said.
"Of course we will."
Edward zipped up his coat, pulled his scarf tight and reached for the handle of the door. He levered it open and stepped carefully out. He was almost blown over but managed to stay just about upright.
Having slammed his door, he worked his way carefully around the front of the car to hers, with two hands on the bonnet all the way. He opened her door and waited for her to disembark. She crossed her arms and laughed and shook her head.
Edward felt a creeping awkwardness, so he did what he always did when he felt a creeping awkwardness and kissed her. He bent over, leant into the car and pushed his lips keenly and clumsily against hers. She put her warm hand on the back of his neck and pulled gently at his hair. He smiled and the kiss broke off.
"You're a real man."
"I know." He unclipped the buckle of her belt and pulled her up and from the car. When she was fully out, they fell back, propelled by the wind, into the door, slamming it shut. He pinned her against the car and they kissed again, her hands wriggling blindly and blithely into his pockets and jangling his keys.
"Can we get back in now?" she whispered, her cold cheek against his.
"We haven't come all the way up here to sit in the car."
"This is silly."
"No, it isn't." He turned around and led her slowly across to the edge, the wind whipping against their faces as they walked.
"It's a shame it's not clearer," he shouted. "On a sunny day you can see Orkney from here."
"How far away is it?"
"About fifteen miles."
"Right."
They stood in silence for a minute or two, he now behind her, arms around her waist, while they both stared out into the great grey mass. Two blueish greys, but greys nonetheless. When a little time had passed, she swivelled and stared up at him. He looked back: pink face, green eyes.
"It isn't silly," he whispered, and saw that she knew he was right.
"Yes."
Edward coaxed the car up onto the the little verge and parked it, deliberately. The windscreen was split - sky in the top half, sea in the bottom - two slightly different shades of grey.
"Why isn't it more famous?"
"It is famous."
"Not where I'm from." She opened the passenger-side door and tried to get out, but was pinned back in her seat by the violence of the wind. She closed the door and giggled. Edward didn't join in.
"There's not much in it, but Dunnet Head is a mile or two further north."
His tone was a little defensive, Julia thought, so she leant across and kissed him reassuringly, on the cheek. He felt his chest swell.
"I'm not sure we're going to get outside," she said.
"Of course we will."
Edward zipped up his coat, pulled his scarf tight and reached for the handle of the door. He levered it open and stepped carefully out. He was almost blown over but managed to stay just about upright.
Having slammed his door, he worked his way carefully around the front of the car to hers, with two hands on the bonnet all the way. He opened her door and waited for her to disembark. She crossed her arms and laughed and shook her head.
Edward felt a creeping awkwardness, so he did what he always did when he felt a creeping awkwardness and kissed her. He bent over, leant into the car and pushed his lips keenly and clumsily against hers. She put her warm hand on the back of his neck and pulled gently at his hair. He smiled and the kiss broke off.
"You're a real man."
"I know." He unclipped the buckle of her belt and pulled her up and from the car. When she was fully out, they fell back, propelled by the wind, into the door, slamming it shut. He pinned her against the car and they kissed again, her hands wriggling blindly and blithely into his pockets and jangling his keys.
"Can we get back in now?" she whispered, her cold cheek against his.
"We haven't come all the way up here to sit in the car."
"This is silly."
"No, it isn't." He turned around and led her slowly across to the edge, the wind whipping against their faces as they walked.
"It's a shame it's not clearer," he shouted. "On a sunny day you can see Orkney from here."
"How far away is it?"
"About fifteen miles."
"Right."
They stood in silence for a minute or two, he now behind her, arms around her waist, while they both stared out into the great grey mass. Two blueish greys, but greys nonetheless. When a little time had passed, she swivelled and stared up at him. He looked back: pink face, green eyes.
"It isn't silly," he whispered, and saw that she knew he was right.
Friday 17 February 2012
Packing Up
Julia kept three things from her brother's flat for herself - a newly and tearfully compiled album of old photos, a pair of spectacles, which were somehow far too intimate to throw away, and a big purple thesaurus, which she could remember seeing in the bookcase in the living room (but never using) as a child. These all went into her suitcase - they were not for others' eyes.
Most things she had burnt or taken to tips and tossed into skips. She had been to a number of different dumps, afraid that someone might scavenge the whole lot in one go, rebuild his life somewhere in a street she didn't know.
She arranged for one box of belongings to be shipped for Michael and Gracie to sort through, and lined up the remaining six to be collected as planned. And that was it. It was time to go home.
She slept through the flight.
Michael and Gracie were at JFK to meet her. Gracie grabbed her leg and Michael took the luggage. She kissed her stepdaughter on the head and her husband on the cheek and walked with them though the airport to the car park. Michael reached for her hand on the way, but she kept it in her pocket.
She got Gracie onto the back seat, buckled up her belt and went to sit in the front, whilst Michael arranged and rearranged the boot. She watched him in the mirror, trying and failing to make it shut. As he at last squeezed down the lid, she sighed and rocked her head back against its rest. It was all packed in.
"Are you alright?" the little girl asked from the back. Julia reached around for her hand and squeezed it.
It took them two hours to get back. She stared out of the window all the way, trying to remember what she had been like as a child.
Most things she had burnt or taken to tips and tossed into skips. She had been to a number of different dumps, afraid that someone might scavenge the whole lot in one go, rebuild his life somewhere in a street she didn't know.
She arranged for one box of belongings to be shipped for Michael and Gracie to sort through, and lined up the remaining six to be collected as planned. And that was it. It was time to go home.
She slept through the flight.
Michael and Gracie were at JFK to meet her. Gracie grabbed her leg and Michael took the luggage. She kissed her stepdaughter on the head and her husband on the cheek and walked with them though the airport to the car park. Michael reached for her hand on the way, but she kept it in her pocket.
She got Gracie onto the back seat, buckled up her belt and went to sit in the front, whilst Michael arranged and rearranged the boot. She watched him in the mirror, trying and failing to make it shut. As he at last squeezed down the lid, she sighed and rocked her head back against its rest. It was all packed in.
"Are you alright?" the little girl asked from the back. Julia reached around for her hand and squeezed it.
It took them two hours to get back. She stared out of the window all the way, trying to remember what she had been like as a child.
Wednesday 11 January 2012
Why the Chaplain Chose Me
"It's hard to deny God in death," said the chaplain, as we stood around outside the service and waited for the parents to leave.
He said it quietly and only to me. I was at once both flattered and offended, pleased to be chosen for his aside, that he trusted my discretion and understanding, but upset he thought me safe, too witless to respond, to challenge the statement as another man might.
I half-smiled.
The parents appeared, went straight into the car and away.
The party began to break up. Some were leaving now, uncommitted, but their presence, I suspected, meant the most; others would remain, swollen and unable to speak. If you could talk, your grief was less. Perhaps that's why the chaplain chose me.
He said it quietly and only to me. I was at once both flattered and offended, pleased to be chosen for his aside, that he trusted my discretion and understanding, but upset he thought me safe, too witless to respond, to challenge the statement as another man might.
I half-smiled.
The parents appeared, went straight into the car and away.
The party began to break up. Some were leaving now, uncommitted, but their presence, I suspected, meant the most; others would remain, swollen and unable to speak. If you could talk, your grief was less. Perhaps that's why the chaplain chose me.
Monday 9 January 2012
The Annexe
We played Ludo on the landing when we were little. There were other games - a big box full of stuff - snakes and ladders, a fancy old chess set - you had to look hard at the pieces to tell which was which - but the game that's really stuck with me was Ludo.
There were two floors in the annexe, now I think about it, with a couple of bedrooms (and maybe a bathroom) on each, which I don't think anyone ever used. Maybe a kitchen - I can't remember. But there was this big landing space where we used to play. I'm sure about that.
Mrs Holdsworth would take us back there after supper, every night from June right through to September, and we'd mess about for an hour or two before bedtime. She would sit on the box and watch us. I don't think she ever left us back there on our own.
Once she caught us running through, Molly and me chasing each other, cackling as we careered from unknown room to unknown room. She was sitting on one of the beds, looking out without expression at the door. When we burst in, she took us back to the landing and beat us.
I don't know where the door was exactly... Somewhere around here, between these beds to the left of the cupboard. There are no marks on the wall and it's so long ago that it's hard to know for sure. The memories are there, but I was young and can't trust them.
Maybe they bricked the annexe up and it's back here, intact and untouched.
But I can't help thinking that I might have made it up.
There were two floors in the annexe, now I think about it, with a couple of bedrooms (and maybe a bathroom) on each, which I don't think anyone ever used. Maybe a kitchen - I can't remember. But there was this big landing space where we used to play. I'm sure about that.
Mrs Holdsworth would take us back there after supper, every night from June right through to September, and we'd mess about for an hour or two before bedtime. She would sit on the box and watch us. I don't think she ever left us back there on our own.
Once she caught us running through, Molly and me chasing each other, cackling as we careered from unknown room to unknown room. She was sitting on one of the beds, looking out without expression at the door. When we burst in, she took us back to the landing and beat us.
I don't know where the door was exactly... Somewhere around here, between these beds to the left of the cupboard. There are no marks on the wall and it's so long ago that it's hard to know for sure. The memories are there, but I was young and can't trust them.
Maybe they bricked the annexe up and it's back here, intact and untouched.
But I can't help thinking that I might have made it up.
Tuesday 3 January 2012
Caucus
There's been no hot water all morning. Tom shrieked when he stepped into the shower, called out like a little kid that it was cold. It wasn't very presidential.
I phoned down to reception. They told me that they knew, that they were sorry but that, even at five-thirty, I hadn't been the first person to complain and there wasn't too much they could do.
They'll be a man in this afternoon, they said. Too late for us. We'll be gone. Not to New Hampshire, but home. There's still work to do, of course: photos, handshakes, a speech to polish, I guess, though they could have had it written for weeks.
We've known since Saturday, officially, but most of the staff realised a couple of months ago I'm sure. Apart from Carlton, who maintains that 3% is "something to work with", they've all let it go. It's fine. I understand. But I feel for Tom. He won't have missed it.
I held him last night, when we got back to the room after meeting with Nat and Andy and the others. Before he could sit down and deny it, before there was any bravado, I held him in the doorway and we hugged.
He crumpled and told me he was sorry, again. He didn't have to. He said he was sorry fourteen years ago and that was enough for me, at least.
One more day then and we'll be away. One more day and I can get my husband home.
I phoned down to reception. They told me that they knew, that they were sorry but that, even at five-thirty, I hadn't been the first person to complain and there wasn't too much they could do.
They'll be a man in this afternoon, they said. Too late for us. We'll be gone. Not to New Hampshire, but home. There's still work to do, of course: photos, handshakes, a speech to polish, I guess, though they could have had it written for weeks.
We've known since Saturday, officially, but most of the staff realised a couple of months ago I'm sure. Apart from Carlton, who maintains that 3% is "something to work with", they've all let it go. It's fine. I understand. But I feel for Tom. He won't have missed it.
I held him last night, when we got back to the room after meeting with Nat and Andy and the others. Before he could sit down and deny it, before there was any bravado, I held him in the doorway and we hugged.
He crumpled and told me he was sorry, again. He didn't have to. He said he was sorry fourteen years ago and that was enough for me, at least.
One more day then and we'll be away. One more day and I can get my husband home.
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