I had been forced awake by a deep, venomous pain in my right shoulder which moved, snake-like down through my arm until it reached my hand, arching and twisting it into a claw. The pain ebbed and flowed, in and out of broken dreams. I had felt so close to despair. Who was it who said, ‘When I am in pain, I know that I am alive.’ I should celebrate! I had felt instantly better. A trick of the mind and soon I was up and off to the lavatory with the determination of a survivor. On the way I had coughed, wet myself, and returned to bed, a short while later, smelling of pee, the damp pants slung in the bathroom sink.
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Much later, sitting in an armchair, looking out on to the garden, I heard the front door open then close. Quickly, I reached for my hat. Kate strode in, tall, long-legged with thick, brown hair which she tucked one side behind an ear. She wore bright colored t-shirts, shorts with ankle boots left untied. There was a wild gracefulness about her as she walked, head held high, towards an armchair where she sat, leaning back, one foot resting on her knee.
‘How’s it going gran?’ she asked.
Kate, home from university for the summer had agreed to look after me while her mother was on holiday. I was afraid to be a burden.
‘You don’t have to visit every day,’ I said.
She left saying she would be back later ‘to see how you are.’
I sat down and took a sip of whisky. The French windows were open, the curtain ends flapping in a gentle breeze. The air was warm, heady with the smell of deep- scented roses. I tugged at the drapes, pulling them back to take in the view, then sat down, switched on the radio. Music was playing; the sound of flutes and whistles and, somewhere, the dulcet tones of a Celtic man. I closed my eyes.
It was late summer. We left the city on a motorbike, me riding pillion, the wind in my face as we rode towards the hills. He parked the bike and led the way. I followed in silence. I had thought about saying something but was nervous, afraid to spoil anything. It was quiet except for birdsong and a faint rustling of leaves. It was unusually warm, the ground parched dry. We walked, hand in hand, occasionally looking to the other. A tightening of the hand, the big, gentle all- encompassing hand. We walked for more than an hour through fields and up a hillside where we sat, side by side, in a small copse of trees. Later, we lay on the ground in a world all alone.
I woke up feeling a sense of disquiet and longing. The curtains were still open. The full, white moon cast shadows in the room. Gradually, familiar pieces of furniture emerged from the half darkness. I pulled the shawl from the back of my armchair, letting it fall loosely across my shoulders then sat looking out at the moon-shadow garden, the black silhouette of trees alive with night insects weaving up and down, in and out of roses and sleeping dahlias.
We were by the sea, thirty feet or more above the shoreline. We had lit a small fire, baked potatoes and ate them with butter and tinned sardines. He played the guitar, singing and humming while I twirled and danced under the full light of a northern summer moon. We stayed awake all night then slept half the day in a cave overlooking the sea. Later, we boiled water for tea, sat back and watched seals play while we ate stale bread with marmalade. We stayed there for more than an hour and then bathed in the sea before starting the long walk back to the cottage tucked away into the hillside of a broad highland glen.
‘Gran.’
A touch on my shoulder.
‘Are you awake?’
I opened my eyes. Kate stood, looking down, pale-faced and anxious.
‘Are you alright?’ she asked.
I was stiff with cold. She helped me to the bathroom then tucked me into bed. I woke up to daylight, facing the wall. Birds were singing and a gentle tapping, strangely comforting. I turned towards the sound and saw Kate sitting cross-legged in the armchair, laptop resting on her thighs, concentrating on her typing. As she turned to pick up a book she caught my eye. She stopped what she was doing and smiled.
‘You alright Gran?’ she asked placing her laptop to one side.
I nodded. Then, without provocation or warning, I started to cry.
She walked over to the bed, took hold of my hand.
‘It’s alright Gran, it’s alright.’
She cooed and stroked, tucked a blanket around my shoulders, gently resting my head against her chest. I could hear her heart beating while she stroked my back.
‘Everything will be fine,’ she said.
I pushed into the feel of her warm hand.
Over the next couple of days Kate called in several times and would sit playing with her phone, smiling and tapping, talking, half-listening. I enjoyed watching her. So full of life, all bangles and beads clattering and jangling each time she moved an arm or tossed her hair back from her face.
‘I had a card from mum yesterday. She seems to be having a good time,’ said Kate leaning back in her chair, legs stretched out in front.
‘Your mother has never been very good in the heat,’ I said.
‘Gran,’ Kate said leaning towards me,’ have you ever considered how illness can affect the mind?’
I didn’t speak.
I’ve been thinking, I think you may be depressed.’
I didn’t move.
‘I’ve been watching you. It’s nothing to worry about. Depression can be treated,’ she said.
‘I’m not sure,’ I mumbled.
‘Is it the scar?’
I remained still.
‘Your face, do you worry about what people will say?’
Instinctively I ran my finger along the welt that runs from forehead to chin on the right side of my face.
‘Because it isn’t really noticeable, not when you’re wearing a hat, your wig and it’s a nice wig and the hats, they’re nice too.’
I had been conscious the whole time, listening to the groans of three people lying, contorted, in a car flung over on its side. My head, smashed through a window, was pinned to the ground by a sharp, steel rod that had pierced my cheekbone. When they cut me free part of my scalp was left behind. They had no choice. It took weeks to piece me back together. I had to learn to speak. I couldn’t use my mouth, my lips.
‘Make-up! Have you tried make-up?’
I have read somewhere that a person can adapt to anything, illness, the death of a loved one. Two weeks after the accident, slowly, very slowly, I began to disappear.
‘The thing is Gran, these days people aren’t old, not really old, until they’re about eighty, eighty-five even. You could be out doing all sorts of things. How old are you? Seventy-eight?’
‘Seventy-nine.’
‘Seventy-nine. Not old Gran. You’re not old.’
Then off she went to make tea all flowing hair, long legs and healthy, beautiful, so full of life. I watched as she stepped through the French windows, into the cool shadow, and disappeared. I hope she feels passion, for something or someone, I thought, as I pushed down with my hands on the arms of the chair, raised myself slowly, and began the short, slow walk towards the bathroom.
The following day it was raining, intermittent showers followed by warm sunshine. The garden thrived. I sat looking out of the French windows on to the raised flowers beds and rose garden. On a round, mahogany table to the left of the French windows Kate had placed a vase of flowers. An intoxicating scent of roses and lavender filtered through the room.
We were standing by the kitchen window overlooking the sea. I was wearing a burgundy paisley dressing gown. Or was he? The dressing gown, the touch. He stood behind me, arms wrapped around my waist, his chin leaning on my shoulder. He said something, I can’t remember what. It was as though life had stopped and I was so afraid it would go or, if I moved, I would burst. I couldn’t look at him. I ached and hurt overwhelmed by an all-encompassing vulnerability that had strength, a life of its own. As the summer months passed we lived as though cocooned from the rest of the world.
I woke up later and decided to have my malt whisky early. To hell with it, I thought, and poured a good measure, a good Scottish measure.
I sat back and sniffed deep the peat smoke air, the sea whipping and thrashing. I stood, precariously, on a grey-green rock, fifteen feet out, searching the horizon for the fishing boat. When he and the others returned there was whisky, music and singing. Children stayed up late and watched as their mothers and fathers danced through the night, stopping only to tuck them in to makeshift beds then start all over again, all hair and skirts flowing, drinking and playing, this pipe or that, the fiddle and singing and everyone dancing, inside and out, on the edge of the sea. We danced until our feet ached then we lay, where we had stood, for what remained of the night.
I woke up to a still silence broken only by whispers and the obscure mutterings of night creatures. It was still light, a half-lit dusk that smoothed sharp edges. The French windows were open to the luminosity of a full moon that floodlit the lawn, a stage cut into the round. I wanted to dance. I swayed a bit when I stood and began to walk. Three steps at dusk feels like one in broad daylight. I could hear the fiddle, the whistle and pipes. I wanted to dance. I shuffled slowly towards the French windows, and pulled open the door.
The warm, damp air lifted the scent of wet grass and night-scented stock. I wanted to dance. I took my time, concentrating hard, careful not to slip. I looked down at my slippers, the tartan bootees with red bobbles and little bows. I leaned on the stick and reached out, with my free hand, for the wall of the house while I edged slowly towards the steps leading down onto the limestone paving that circled the lawn. Only four steps but I stood, frozen, afraid to move. I wanted to dance. I walked down the steps holding on to the rail with one hand and my stick with the other. When I stepped down the last step I was elated with joy.
It was glorious to be on the flat, stone, still warm and shiny with wet. The grass glistened with damp. I wanted to feel the roughness of it. I kicked off one slipper then fought with the other until it flew off and away. I started to walk slowly on to the grass, warm, wet, beautiful grass. I reached the middle of my lawn theatre. The fiddle and penny whistle played and somewhere there were drums, while I swayed this way and that, singing and round and round humming and drumming trees spinning and dancing, on and on.
I lay where I fell and looked up at the moon. Dancing and singing. My love, long gone, was still there stirring somewhere far below in the blood and veins, the secret, precious place behind the locked, heavy door. We were all there, smiling, laughing, while they played fiddles, whistles and flutes, soft, so sweet, so sweet and the sea whispered to the shore.
Age 55, I have been a social worker for 23 years. Retired from my job as manager of a children and families team about 18 months ago and am now self-employed as an independent social worker. Have just completed first year of two year MA writing course with John Moores University in Liverpool. I started writing as a child then stopped when I had two children and began a career in community then social work. I currently live alone and am in a relationship.