knew…
Trip down memory lane
Last year, Sunday in April, blustery and cold. I was visiting Mum’s grave. Perched on little kerb, talking to her, telling how job was going, how Dad was – just a general catch-up, really. Funnily enough was in middle of telling her that still hadn’t a boyfriend, not since gave Malachy the elbow for wanting me to be thinner (photographer, spent too much time hanging around with models), when noticed someone a few rows over, looking at me. A man. Not my type. Too grown-up. Tall. Sober, single-breasted, navy overcoat, cashmere/wool mix (at quick glance), holding armload of technicolour-yellow daffodils. Dark hair, a bit bouffed (although that could have been by-product of windy day).
Instantly felt touchy. I mean, was graveyard . If you couldn’t talk to your dead mother there, where could you talk to her?
‘Mum,’ I said, ‘there’s some bloke over there watching me talking to you. Rude!’
In my head her voice said, ‘Maybe he isn’t looking at you. Maybe he’s staring into space. Give people a chance.’
I looked again. He was definitely watching me and I got sudden flash of his hair slick and flat with sweat, as result of having sex with me.
Sacrilegious! In graveyard. But suppose it makes sense – sex and death.
‘Well?’ Mum asked.
‘Er… is fine…’
Eventually said goodbye to Mum and walked towards exit. Had to pass Overcoat Man to get to main path and although not normally the type who challenges people, was defensive over dead mother. When I reached him, I stopped and said, ‘I’m only talking to a marbleheadstone because I have no choice. I’d prefer it if she was alive, you know.’
‘Your mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Me too.’
Suddenly didn’t feel touchy any longer, but sad. Sad for both of us.
‘Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,’ he said.
‘Well you did.’
He had strewn his mother’s grave with daffodils and don’t know why, but it touched me. Man like him could have (judging from quality of overcoat) bought big exotic bouquet, orchids and lilies and similar, but daffodils humble flower.
He said, ‘I thought it was… good… you could talk so freely…’ He paused, looked down, then looked up again, causing maximum impact with blue eyes. He said, ‘I envied you.’
11.08
I opened front door and took deep inhale of fresh country air. Smelt of cow-shite. Five red and white cows in nearby field lazily flicking tails at me. Culprits.
Walked round to back of house and there was wild Atlantic. Waves and swelling and white bits and sun glinting. Smell of ozone and salt and all that. Gazed upon nature and beauty and everything and thought, I miss shops.
Was no good. Mistake coming here. Had no one to talk to, no telly to watch. Too much time on my hands to think about Paddy.
Should have done bunk to exciting, lively place, like New York, with its many distractions. But New York hotels expensive. Uncle Tom’s cabin is free.
Texted Bridie:
Lonely. Mght cum hme.
Reply:
Frst day alwys hrdest. Stik wth it!
11.40
Ringing clients all morning, explaining ‘out of circulation’ for couple of weeks. Leaving them ‘in capable hands’ of Nkechi. Some happy enough with it. But others not. Afraid of Nkechi. SarahJane Hutchinson point-blank refuses to have any dealings with her.
Made self walk into town. Could have driven, but only five minutes’ walk. Shameful to drive. Also remember what shrink used to say after Mum died. Best way to keep depression at bay is to get out and about and take short walk. Quite funny really when you think about it. Because when you’re depressed, the last thing you want to do is get out and about and take short walk. Tablets far better.
11.42
Strangest thing. Beautiful really. Tramping into town in pastel wellingtons, nearing next-door-neighbour’s cottage, when through small window in the side of house, high up under the roof, caught a glimpse of sparkles and shine.
Stopped. Twisted head. Something
Trip down memory lane
Last year, Sunday in April, blustery and cold. I was visiting Mum’s grave. Perched on little kerb, talking to her, telling how job was going, how Dad was – just a general catch-up, really. Funnily enough was in middle of telling her that still hadn’t a boyfriend, not since gave Malachy the elbow for wanting me to be thinner (photographer, spent too much time hanging around with models), when noticed someone a few rows over, looking at me. A man. Not my type. Too grown-up. Tall. Sober, single-breasted, navy overcoat, cashmere/wool mix (at quick glance), holding armload of technicolour-yellow daffodils. Dark hair, a bit bouffed (although that could have been by-product of windy day).
Instantly felt touchy. I mean, was graveyard . If you couldn’t talk to your dead mother there, where could you talk to her?
‘Mum,’ I said, ‘there’s some bloke over there watching me talking to you. Rude!’
In my head her voice said, ‘Maybe he isn’t looking at you. Maybe he’s staring into space. Give people a chance.’
I looked again. He was definitely watching me and I got sudden flash of his hair slick and flat with sweat, as result of having sex with me.
Sacrilegious! In graveyard. But suppose it makes sense – sex and death.
‘Well?’ Mum asked.
‘Er… is fine…’
Eventually said goodbye to Mum and walked towards exit. Had to pass Overcoat Man to get to main path and although not normally the type who challenges people, was defensive over dead mother. When I reached him, I stopped and said, ‘I’m only talking to a marbleheadstone because I have no choice. I’d prefer it if she was alive, you know.’
‘Your mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Me too.’
Suddenly didn’t feel touchy any longer, but sad. Sad for both of us.
‘Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,’ he said.
‘Well you did.’
He had strewn his mother’s grave with daffodils and don’t know why, but it touched me. Man like him could have (judging from quality of overcoat) bought big exotic bouquet, orchids and lilies and similar, but daffodils humble flower.
He said, ‘I thought it was… good… you could talk so freely…’ He paused, looked down, then looked up again, causing maximum impact with blue eyes. He said, ‘I envied you.’
11.08
I opened front door and took deep inhale of fresh country air. Smelt of cow-shite. Five red and white cows in nearby field lazily flicking tails at me. Culprits.
Walked round to back of house and there was wild Atlantic. Waves and swelling and white bits and sun glinting. Smell of ozone and salt and all that. Gazed upon nature and beauty and everything and thought, I miss shops.
Was no good. Mistake coming here. Had no one to talk to, no telly to watch. Too much time on my hands to think about Paddy.
Should have done bunk to exciting, lively place, like New York, with its many distractions. But New York hotels expensive. Uncle Tom’s cabin is free.
Texted Bridie:
Lonely. Mght cum hme.
Reply:
Frst day alwys hrdest. Stik wth it!
11.40
Ringing clients all morning, explaining ‘out of circulation’ for couple of weeks. Leaving them ‘in capable hands’ of Nkechi. Some happy enough with it. But others not. Afraid of Nkechi. SarahJane Hutchinson point-blank refuses to have any dealings with her.
Made self walk into town. Could have driven, but only five minutes’ walk. Shameful to drive. Also remember what shrink used to say after Mum died. Best way to keep depression at bay is to get out and about and take short walk. Quite funny really when you think about it. Because when you’re depressed, the last thing you want to do is get out and about and take short walk. Tablets far better.
11.42
Strangest thing. Beautiful really. Tramping into town in pastel wellingtons, nearing next-door-neighbour’s cottage, when through small window in the side of house, high up under the roof, caught a glimpse of sparkles and shine.
Stopped. Twisted head. Something
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