The Coming of Spring - Nov '06 entry
I wasn't aiming to post this, but I shared it with someone and then thought, well, it does relate to Endings. So I decided to put it forward.
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She picked up her mug and realised it was empty. She frowned into it and started to get up to make another cup. But half way up, she suddenly flopped herself back down again and pushed the mug away impatiently.
“I don’t want any more tea.” She glowered out of the window.
Outside, everything was soggy, a wet brown autumnal sludge with blurred edges. The hedges, roofs, sky and trees merged into one unidentifiable slimy mess.
For several minutes she continued to sit staring out, allowing the faint background noise of wind, rain and over-flowing gutters to fill the cavity that was her mind. A shudder suddenly shook her, so intense that she could feel it’s after effects travelling along her arms and down her legs like an electric shock. She straightened herself up and looked around the room purposefully. There was bound to be something useful to do. Washing-up. Tidying. The word ironing tried to push itself forward, but she shoved it firmly back. She didn’t, after all, actually want to do anything useful. She just wanted to do something – else. Since that wasn’t likely, she would at least limit usefulness to tasks she could bear.
This took up half-an-hour. Then she found herself standing in front of the sofa pummelling a cushion, and realised that her mind had again wandered off to a blank place. She had no idea how long she’d been standing there pummelling, but she was suddenly frightened by the emptiness that her brain had found.
“I’m going to disappear altogether,” she thought, and in sudden panic rushed to the hi-fi. She flipped through the meagre collection of CDs desperately. Bach, that was what she needed. There wasn’t any. How could she not have any Bach. In the car, of course. On cassette. Just for her, he didn’t like it. He’d never liked anything she liked. No, that wasn’t fair. Or maybe it was. She didn’t know any more.
“Right, bugger it, then, I’m going out. I’ll just go out and see what happens.”
After all, why not? There was nothing to stop her, absolutely nothing. Nothing to stop her doing anything. Nothing at all.
She clattered the CDs onto the side and fled around the house, grabbing her handbag, shoving on some low shoes, pushing her arms into a vaguely waterproof jacket. She rushed out and locked the door firmly behind her, feeling a sense of triumph at the sudden burst of decisiveness she had shown. But also teetering on the edge, almost but not quite allowing herself to – no. No, no, it was alright, she was alright. She just needed a change, see some people, hear a bit of noise. That would bring her out of it.
She drove towards town, realising on the way down that she had no idea what she looked like, probably a fright, she’d completely forgotten to look in the mirror. God, she hadn’t even brushed her hair today. Or her teeth. Yuk. She’d have to buy some mints before she spoke to anyone. This train of thought at least made her laugh, helped her to feel back in touch with reality. Her breathing started to get back to normal, and it was only as it was slowing that she realised she had been hyper-ventilating.
“You shouldn’t drive,” she berated herself; “You just shouldn’t drive when you’re in a state. Oh, but what in hell’s name am I supposed to do? I’ve got to go somewhere, I have to do something, oh, shit!”
She’d started crying, and had to pull over abruptly. She hated crying in public. But she hated crying on her own as well. When she was alone, when her control finally went, it hurt so much more. Because when she was alone, then she would truly give in to despair. This great black hole would come and overwhelm her whole being, taking her into a pit of darkness, confusion and utter hopelessness such as she had never realised could exist. At such times, she would lose consciousness. Not physically, but the darkness into which she fell was devoid of any sense of time or place or physical environment. It was simply a rage, a fury, a black gulf of utter, empty grief.
She would come to eventually completely drained, all her ability to express or describe any emotion sucked out of her by this tempest of despair. But the emotion was still there. And that was the dangerous time. That was when she had to look out. Because then this rustling, faded husk of a human knew that all that was good was gone, and that only emptiness remained.
She thrust her knuckles hard into her eyes and banged her head against the car window. Don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it you’ll make yourself feel like it don’t don’t don’t. Look, people are going to think you’re mad or ill or something (oh, you are, you are, whispered the little voice). Then some bloody do-gooder will come along and want to talk to you, and that’ll just make it worse. They always get so embarrassed; no-one in this damn country knows how to deal with it. So pull yourself together, get a grip, go shopping, for God’s sake.
Finally, she managed to get angry enough with herself to get sufficiently back under control at least to drive as far as the car-park. After the effort of getting herself out of the house and the emotions of the drive, she felt she deserved a treat. She wandered into the main street, knowing that people were looking askance at her, wondering what drama lay behind her tear-stained face and unkempt appearance. She ignored the curiosity or sympathy she saw, she was not strong enough to deal with their emotions as well as her own. Once, though, she was invigorated by a look of fulsome disapproval. Oh yes, you think I’m a drunk and an addict and a bad mother don’t you, you stupid old cow. This made her laugh, which drew more curious glances.
She ducked into the newsagent’s, buying some mints, a newspaper with a decent crossword, and a small packet of tissues. She waited until she was back in the street before blowing her nose properly. Then she popped into the little café opposite for a tea and a Danish pastry. She took her time, enjoying the warmth and the chat going on around her, drawing in strength from the normality.
“Finished, dear?” The plump, motherly, elderly lady who cleared the tables made her jump, suddenly thrusting her hand out to take the empty cup.
“Oh – I was going to have another, actually.”
“I’ll get it for you, love, we havn’t got many people in, so I don’t mind, I might as well.” She shuffled off.
We should wear black, so that people will know to cross the street and avoid us. We should be allowed to wear ashes in our hair and to walk the streets wailing and rending our garments. We should be allowed to stand on corners and scream and scream and scream. We should be given our time of grief.
“There you are, dear. Horrible day, isn’t it? I don’t know, we havn’t seen the sun for weeks, have we.”
“Thankyou, that’s lovely. No, it’s foul, isn’t it.”
“Yes. I always find it so depressing, you know, autumn. And winter. I like a bit of sunshine myself. Cheers you up. I get so down sometimes, don’t know what to do with myself.”
“Yes. I do too.” She had to look away, out of the window, blinking fiercely, grey eyes echoing the grey, raining world.
“Still, at least we’ve got spring to look forward to. There’s always spring time to come.”
Spring always comes again.
