I have just received a brief letter from my daughters, Gillian and Josephine, telling me of their decision to carrying on backpacking across Europe for a year. My heart sunk at the news. Life has been so barren without their curious wisecracks, their grubby laundry and constant borrowing of money, which I always handed out thinking, when are these girls going to manage to budget themselves. They are off, harvesting adventures like raspberry pickers, savouring the sun, the wind and the rain, and capturing it all on film for future retired days.
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Our house has all the trimmings of a well-to-do lifestyle, but it has lost the warmth of a sanctuary. Lately, I have been walking from room to room making little adjustments here and there to ward off the lingering boredom. This place, for me, has become a cave, a dark hole with circling shadows. Ghostly hands are forever pushing me down, down; soon I will not be able to stand in the thickness of darkness. My right shoulder feels like a wedge of cheese that is slightly lopsided. The neck twitches. Pains creep down the lower spine to shoot spasms into the knees.
Felix, my husband of twenty-one years, told me a week ago that the beeswax candles, set in the middle of our dinning room table, are robbing the oxygen. He is right, even my favourite flowers, the poppies are depleting our strength, sapping the very air right out of our lungs. The crisp, Irish linen on our four-poster bed seems to give off a stale unfamiliar smell; the lavender oil is not helping to curb any deficit. What is this? What is happening within our carefully made-up space? This place reeks of a drunken complacency and if I am not careful, I too will become empty and tardy, limp like an old dishcloth, never surrendering its loose ropey threads.
I passed the fish and chip shop last week; it smelt the same as it did when I was a teenager. The property has been handed-down for three generations. In the old days, Belinda and I used to run from the school gates at lunchtime to be the first in the queue. I used to love hearing the batter on the fish, sizzling to a golden-brown state. The chips were perfect; they had the shape of a ship’s hull. My tastes have changed since then and now I only press my nose against the outside of a greasy windowpane where my eyes feast upon hundreds of golden hulls. Right there, a vision hooked me body and soul. I was sailing on a luxury liner to Hawaii where black sands, tropical vegetation and the sun raise a dull spirit to bloom. I must have loss all track of time as Mrs. Jenkins, the veterinarian, asked if I would like to join her in Wally’s for a cup of tea and a cucumber and cream cheese sandwich. I was not at all tempted. We walked for sometime together; she complained about a trapped nerve in her lower back and then our paths separated. Mrs. Jenkins limped off to the forty-year old teahouse and I walked briskly to the town’s only travel agent.
The holiday brochures were alive with colour; I could almost feel the warm air and smell the scent of lilac orchids. As I left with a batch of travel brochures tucked under my arm, it started to drizzle. By the time I reached home, I was soaked to the skin. My feet, I eased into a calming footbath with mint oil while my mind meandered through the pages of tropical splendour. Felix came home, and I quickly deposited the prospectus under the moss-green velvet cushion, I was sitting on.
“I’ll start dinner in a minute, dear.” I said.
“What, you haven’t even started yet? I’m starving.”
Felix slammed his study door. I pampered my feet with a soft white towel that snuggled the toes. Then I hurried to the kitchen. Within an hour, I had prepared a good, hearty meal for the both of us. Felix smiled across the table and all was forgiven. The only sounds during the meal were the sporadic scraping of knives against porcelain and the light swallowing of wine white.
After dinner, Felix went to his study as usual. He thinks I am not aware of the bottle of brandy and the pictures of scantily clad women in colourful magazines, pushed to the back of a draw. To be honest, I used to care, but nowadays I am thankful he has some kind of release, as I feel so exhausted these days. I know it is a sad state of affairs to be in and if he has an affair, friends will say, it serves me right; I have been neglectful.
The staircase, I am sure, is higher this evening. My calves have cramps shooting up them and my head throbs. Once in my room, I get ready for bed and switch on the side lamp while crawling over the mattress. My head hits the pillow with a muted thud. Eyelids drop. I am pulled down to the core of my mind where a grey derelict house stands. I enter; mice scatter from the light. There is a rickety staircase descending into a basement. All of a sudden, I am carrying tons luggage down the steps. A handbag slips from my hand and tumbles downwards. I look around, shadows are stirring in corners; they are stealing towards me. I run and keep running further down, down into the void. My footsteps break up a long rug of dust; grey clouds swirl about me. A sneezing fit seizes me, but I still soldier on. The handbag houses all my keys, I need them otherwise I will find myself locked out of everything. Finally, I see the bag in front of me; the strap is hooked on a protruding nail from a step, swinging over an abyss. I pick it up and sling it over my right shoulder; it is heavy. I turn around; there is only a thin strip of light glowing at top of the stairs. The ascent is torture. The banister sways, I feel giddy. Finally, I reach the top of the staircase where light fixes itself to my feet; I feel a tug around the ankles. The pull brings me passed the creaking front door into a beautiful unkempt paradise where the sound of the waves crash and break on a shore. Hawaii. I buckle face down on a beach and snatch handfuls of sand.
This morning my face looks more than bloated; it is a scary sight in the bathroom mirror. Wrinkles are deepening by the day. Are those hanging jowls, I see, quivering while brushing my teeth? Looking somewhat decent, I go downstairs to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Felix is fastidiously arranging the inners of his briefcase. He ties a Windsor knot in a silk paisley tie. The blue one his secretary gave him last year for Christmas.
Felix looks exceptionally well turned out today. Gone are the days when he used to ask me if I liked what he is wearing.
“Breakfast is ready! Come and eat, dear.”
Felix enters the kitchen and takes a seat without looking at me. Do I look so ugly?
“The eggs are very fine,” says Felix.
“I’m glad you like them.”
I clear my throat with a sip of Earl Grey tea.
“Felix, I want to go alone on a short trip to Hawaii at the end of the month, do you mind?” I say words quickly before biting into a triangle-shaped piece of toast.
“Why do you want to go? You have every comfort here. Some women would die for such a house.”
“Yes, I know, dear. But I just feel so jaded these days. It has been years since I have had some quiet time for myself. The girls are away and you’ll manage just fine. I’ll show you how to use the washing machine and the coffee maker before I leave.”
“Don’t you love me anymore? Is that it?”
“Please don’t come with that now. I just want a little break, that’s all. Is it too much to ask? I have to get reacquainted with myself again. Do some yoga and read some books.”
“I know, I’ve been head deep in work recently, but I promise to take you for meal. Perhaps we can catch a show on the weekend, okay, darling? That should liven up your spirits. You’ll forget you ever wanted to take a break as soon as we enter a taxi.”
Felix gets up, scraping his chair on the terracotta tiles. He walks into the hallway where a coat-stand is anchored; he reaches for his mackintosh, umbrella and hat. He opens the door saying,
“Bye, darling, see you later.”
“Bye.”
He hasn’t called me darling for years, why should he start now. Is it just out of fear that he may lose his live-in house cleaner? I know that is what I have become. My birthday presents this year were fine enough, everything for the kitchen pantry, but not a single touch of something personal among the many cardboard boxes. My role is to provide a comfortable service that is all. I felt compelled to do it, but it is all so grim.
I spend the next couple of hours, hugging my knees to my chest on the sofa and watching sheets of rain break across the windowpanes. One question spins loops in my mind, does he really need me, love me? The flowerpots decorating the veranda are waterlogged, mud bubbles as stems droop. These are my tears; I think, they have been swelling for many years and now they do not stop falling. Away, I have to get away, for not only a short break, but also forever. This house is mocking me and it will eventually maim if I do not escape its grip today. Pen and paper, I need pen and paper. In Felix’s study, there are many fine writing materials. I make a wild dash to the study where I begin to write while sipping orange brandy. A saucy magazine lends itself as a great support for the champagne-coloured, fine-grained, letter-headed paper. How the words flow easily out. The silver fountain pen is smooth. There are no regrets. I feel excited to enter another phase in life, my phase where I will be solely at my own leisure.
Dear Felix,
I know it is over. There is no more to do or to say. You can keep the house. I will leave exactly half of our money in the bank account. Instructions on how to use all the household appliances and the egg timer, you will find on top the fridge. The girls, I’ll contact in a year or so when they are back in university. I will write to our lawyer file for a divorce. By the way, I am going to live in Hawaii. Marion
The ship is beautiful and the sky’s inviting. All my senses are highly tuned. The new carefree clothes together with the bouncy haircut suit me. My perfume is flowery with a hint of lemon; it graces the air. I tingle all over thinking about the new life awaiting me on the beautiful island. I have heard that the essence of living and being truly exists for all on Hawaii.
Short biography:
Maroula Blades is an Afro-British poet/writer living in Berlin. She was the outright winner of the Erbacce-Prize 2012 (UK). Her poetry collection is scheduled to be published by Erbacce Press in January 2013. Cornelsen Verlag, Kaleidoscope #65 (US), Trespass Magazine (UK), Word with Jam (UK), The Latin Heritage Foundation (US), Caribbean Writer and Peepal Tree have published her work. She has received awards for poetry. Her Poetry/Music Programme has been presented on several stages in Berlin. Maroula's first poetry/music single "Meta Stasis" released by Havavision Records (UK) on the 2.04.2012 is now available as a download from I-tunes and Amazon.