Darkness and Light

Sometimes it comes insidiously, a quiet mist which moving from a cloud to a shroud, encompasses me, swallowing my emotions, removing my pain and my pleasure, my sadness and my joy. There is almost a reward, the sense of self-pity, a temptation to swim in the pool of despair.

At first it is a little innocuous itch which comes and goes, but growing it becomes the black dog snapping at your heels. Less easy to ignore and requiring a great deal of effort to shake off. It drags you into tiredness, a worry about where it has come from, what route it is going to take this time? Will I survive? I have been here before. I am already beginning to plan strategies to change the direction.

I have found the initial step in the journey back is the acceptance that it is fighting to take me over again. Sometimes it’s okay to wallow a little in it, lull it into sense of winning. I feed myself in sad pieces for the cello that bring me to tears, uncontrollable tears that allow my otherwise flat self to have an emotion of some sort. A starting point.

A hint of recovery.  The return of the sudden fleeting warmth in a thought quickly lost like the sun disappearing behind the clouds. But cloudiness will become less, the coldness is defeated sporadically by those little moments of warmth that increase until they again take the upper hand.

My mind is moving worlds. It is not now the feel of the cold wind and the sound of lashing of rain on the window. It is the feel of the warm room, cosy in the chair protected from the fearfulness of outside. Harshness, soothed by the soaring of a bird, the gentle billowing of the breeze, the beauty and innocence of my grandchild, the unworried way he appears to handle his young life. This is the positivity. I realise having been at the bottom and that I am climbing again.

My energies return, I am getting stronger. I have reached the spring of my recovery, but it is not yet summer and the first edges of spring are closer to winter.  I am careful. I can be weakened and recognition can be tougher than denial. But it is recognition that has given me strength, a label, a path to follow to get out. The power to recover and the knowledge of having that power.

The power to survive!

 

Don Russell

Sunday Morning Reflection

 

There was a loud scraping on the pavement and a continuous tuneless whistle. I glanced to the bedside. Six thirty. The morning was bright through the thin floral curtains. Other mornings the disturbance would have been swallowed by the busyness of the day. Today it echoed in the emptiness of the street.

The bedcovers moved gently as Tina slept on. Sometimes she looked ugly, especially if she was lying on her back, open mouthed and snoring. This morning, breathing peacefully, hair sprawled, her mouth twitched a smile, possibly in some dream she would never remember. She looked beautiful.

I slipped on my dressing gown and quietly left the bedroom.

The rear gardens in Bartholomew Street reflected an era where scarcity of space to build was not an issue. Eighteen Ninety-Five in Roman numerals etched in the stone above our front door confirmed it. The four letter boxes also confirmed that like most houses in the street it had been converted into flats.

The bedroom lay to the front of the house so shared an outlook with the living room. Both received the sun early. Being on the first floor we tended not to close the window fully nor the curtains at all so the armchair was beginning to benefit from the morning’s warmth as I relaxed into it with a coffee.

I watched and listened in my silence to the sound and sights of his actions. What is it about our nature that attracts us to watch the workings of others?

Voyeurism?

The scraping was the result of moving numerous empty plastic milk crates topside down to construct a temporary extension to the shop front. Being situated on a corner allowed him to use a substantial area. The owner of the tuneless whistle wore a flat cap and a brown work coat that always made me think of Arkwright in “Open All Hours”. He was of similar build.

He worked steadily, completing the framework and disappearing into the shop returning with a large wooden board which appeared, to the untrained eye, too big to exit the door, but experience conquered. I smiled remembering the skill of the removers getting our sofa up the stairs. Further boards covered the rest of the extension. Finally, he dressed it all with rolls of artificial grass a Subbuteo aficionados dream.

Stopping for a rest, hands on hips he shared an exchange with two lycra clad women, directing his glance to their path as they ran around the corner into Bartholomew Street. He lifted his cap wiped his brow and disappeared back into the shop.

He returned a large brown bag, Wilja’s emblazoned across the middle, hoisted on his shoulder. The top must have burst, and with his body blocking the view potatoes suddenly appeared to be escaping from beneath the hem of his work coat  and bouncing erratically towards the kerb.

Tina voiced her loneliness from the bedroom. Tempted but declining, I returned to my coffee,the man, his unruly potatoes and the comfort of the sun.

 

 

Thoughts From A House Move

This morning, I was aware, in the quietness of a waking day that I was rousing the old wood in the cottage, and of its lazy creaking responding to my steps, welcoming strange feet. I wondered if the old new house we had left was as welcoming to its tenants.

The location of unfamiliar light switches to be learnt. Fumbling in the dark to find the toilet short lived by the miracle of memory.

A co-existence with nature the early morning birdsong accompanies the rhythmic rainfall on the conservatory roof. A relationship the old new place never allowed.

As I sit, the mountains that may have needed to be climbed yesterday seemed a non event, in fact they never appeared but we were protected. The precious magnificence of the preparing mind having already built unused foundations to cope if needed. We feed the dreams of a thousand situations. If we could but feed only these that really happen how much easier it would be.

The theatre of life moves on. A new act in the production, characters scarcely known to us dip in doing huge things in our lives and we trust them with the preciousness as they carry the table unaware of what’s behind the cup stains upon it.  The removers removed themselves. We gave them thanks. Our roles in each other’s play short by necessity. Closing the door on them leaving the crossroad of our time together begins to distance.

Loved faces joined later. Those who also understood the meanings of cup stains, and the rest of the plot. Safe, we’d gathered and shared fish and chips and heavily buttered thick sliced bread. But this was not until their work was done and they knew they had made us comfortable for the night.

So what of the days ahead, what love of life will be found here?  What has been carried from whence we came to be used in the new old place.  Our minds, our faith have moved with us as an ever present. But childlike we meet the unexplored, leading us to new things and mixing them with our experience and wisdom gives them our shape. The aroma of salt and vinegar and the red sauce stain remain reminding me again of last night’s communion at the breakfast bar. We have already produced an event to begin our history in this place. The first “do you remember when” moment?

The days of comparison will disappear. There will come with time, a moment of grounding, the concrete realisation we are not going back. The acceptance that there is loss of what we had be it bad or good, it is still loss. Our world will never seem quite the same again.

Don Russell

I Give You

 

I give you your stimulation,

But not my mind.

 

I give you your meal,

But not my labour.

 

I give you your wants,

But not my love.

 

I give you your way,

But not my truth.

 

I give you your importance,

But not my agreement.

 

I give you your visions,

But not my visions.

 

I give you your memories,

But not my dreams.

 

I give you your keys,

But not to my door.

 

Don Russell

Lest We Forget

The pained howl of a dog caused me to turn. The howl the result it appeared to be of dog paw meeting pushchair wheel. The father raised a hand of apology, his children already trying to soothe the animal by stroking it. The dog appeared none the worse and a shoulder shrugged smile from its owner reflected an acceptance, accidents happen. It was as I turned that I caught sight of it nestled amongst the clutter underneath the pasting table come stall.

I pulled it out, with its tired wrinkled brown leather top and crushed corners. It interested me. Intentionally I began slowly returning the item aware the seller was watching.  I casually made eye contact and with a degree of mock disinterest queried.

“How much for the old case mate?”

“Fiver!”

“I’ll give you two quid.”

“Three.”

I contemplated pushing for two pound fifty. Nah!

“Okay three. “

I was convinced it would match. If not, I was sure I could find some other use for it.

I already had two leather brown cases of similar style and wear. This smaller one was would complete what I needed for the display at the local travel agent’s window.

Getting home I checked inside for insects. It was lined in a lighter brown coloured material than the outside and there was a long cloth pocket of the same colour and material attached to the front interior edge. Instinctively I slipped my hand beneath the elasticated top of the pocket and slid it along. I felt something in the corner. My heart fluttered as I retrieved it. It was a small flat bag made from a piece of coarse tarpaulin which was folded across the top and sealed like an envelope.

I gently pulled the overlap and whatever was sealing it came away easily and lifting the flap I explored. Inside there were a few pages of writing, removing them I found them dated 21st March 1941.  The left hand side was ragged suggesting they’d been torn from some notebook or jotter.    The writing was immaculate.

It began –

Back at camp, safe for the moment. I am not sure how long a man is expected to suffer this way of living. Sometimes I envy those who have fallen. There is a peace for them, then I reprimand myself for such thoughts. They may have peace, I do not know, but like me they have families back home and I am sure their aim would have been to survive all this and be with to them again.

Today it was a long hard return march despite the initial elation of victory. The adrenalin had drained and we were men again. Dirty, muddy, tired, walking dreamlike, eyes battling to be allowed to close. Just men again. God had numbed our minds for protection. We would have gone mad if we’d to carry all the mental luggage. He’d sent it to rest in some back locker in our mind for another day, whilst we fought the more immediate battle of physically getting ourselves home.

We were sober drunk, our paths weaving with an over indulgence of tiredness. There was an unspoken conversation here. A silent love acted out in physical compassionate actions, the placing of our waning strength beneath the arms of flopping men who can go no further. The weight of war.

The road squelches as we journey. The roar from behind. We split going to our chosen side. No one rushes to clamber on board. Those who can don’t, those who can’t are gently lifted into the back of the truck.

No speech from the remaining, only an acknowledged glance to each other. This is a good thing to do despite the sacrifice. They are our brothers, love they neighbour, we have fought with them, we have the faith they would do for us as we do for them.

As we regroup back at the camp the gaps provide the reality of those whom we have lost. They are but memories, that is all we have left off them,this and sometimes the blood stains on our tunics  as we comforted them briefly in their dying moments before returning to the business of war. 

I carry his stain, he was from my street, we played together as we grew through times of laughter, pain, youth to man, just about men before we were called.

How I long for the greying smoking skies of home, smoke of production, not destruction. I am so tired I don’t know how much more I can take. I cry. An unseen voice mutters beside me, is it prayers to God for himself, or for me in my sobbing or does he mumble unaware in dreams from some back locker.

Continuing I realised I was now reading a rough draft of what I already read in the earlier pages but with scoring out and mistakes. I paused with an aching admiration at the resilience of this unknown man to strive for perfection in the midst of chaos. I was seventy years removed from all this but tonight I had been taken back to the 1940’s by this man’s poignant painful experiences and had shared an image of war I was unlikely ever to forget.

I carefully slipped the letter back into the tarpaulin envelope and placed it safely in the post rack by the front door for now. I picked the case up to put it with the others and I noticed a very faded name rank and service number stencilled on the leather base. Frank Doyle I had to find you a home……

 

Don Russell    19/03/17

 

 

 

 

 

Archie’s Gone.

Bones idly drew a line with the heel of his battered boot in the dust of the floor in the derelict. He sighed. Looking over at his companion he broke their silence.

“The kid could never keep his tin lid Bert.”

“He don’t deserve this Bones.”

“I don’t think the cop had a choice. The kid had been on the sniff and juice all the day before Bert. “

“Bones ah seen him afore, that cop. He’s a big bruisy bastard, keen with the baton. I tried to get the kid away. Get the fuck here Archie I shouted! No use he was on fire. Dent on the back of his head you could have rested an egg in. I went down to see him. Morgue on 27th and 5th.  I walks in. There’s a princess sitting in the waiting room. I say’s to the guy at the counter I’ve come to see Archie, I started to fill. I don’t know his second name.”

“Rogers, says this princess from behind. Archie’s mouth, sister or mother, quite tasty. Hooking up crossed ma mind but I threw it out before it settled Bones. Ye know, dignity and that.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time it happened Bert.”

“Na Bones, this princess had class. Outta place down our end.”

“Archie never said much about anything really Bert. Did you ask her who she was?”

“Nuh!”

“Did ya get to see him?”

“Ye Bones I seen him. I seen Archie, just lying there peaceful man, shaved, in a white robe, looked like Gabriel, washed long golden curly hair. The man at the counter told me the funeral was Monday over on the Jersey side. I’m not sure how we’d get there.”

“We knew the kid over this side, best leave it at that Bert.”

“She was still sitting there, the princess, when I came back. She looked at me kinda, sad. Ah remembered ah still had his cap, it fell off in the struggle and ah’d picked it up. Ah fiddled with it a while in ma pocket not sure, but ah took it out. Ah turned and handed it to her, I told her it was Archie’s and that he was a nice kid. She took it, kinda smiled, but said nothing.””

“That was a good thing to do Bert, have a slug of ma juice, calm the nerves.”

“Ta Bones. To Archie!”

“Steady with the bottle Bert you snake, you’re not that nervous!”

Welcome to my new website!

I’ve been writing short stories for a number of years and have finally taken the plunge to share some of them with the world. Over time I will publish a number of my stories here on this website and invite you to read and hopefully enjoy them. To see some older stories, please click the My Work option on the menu at the top of this page.