Ten Journeys Read online

  The morning after, things felt clearer and more settled. She was staying. With me. That was all the distance I thought I needed from the interloper. Warning: items viewed in this mirror may be closer than they appear. Within a month, a home test said she was pregnant. The doctor confirmed it.

  Things are simmering nicely so I take a break and look around the cabin while they serve meal number two. Grandma's awake but making a point of ignoring me by facing the window as she puts away her knitting. Suits me fine. Little Jack Porno across the way seems to have got bored of staring at nude girls and sharing the view with the woman sitting next to him. She still looks like she'd wants to kill him, though. I hope for his sake that the plastic cutlery is blunt. I'm not sure why she doesn't change seat, there're plenty of empty ones. Pride probably: why should she move, he's the one doing something offensive and socially unacceptable. True, but that only works in a fair and just world, this is not that world. It's always surprising to me the energy people put into pretending that it is.

  Ah well, the illusions and delusions of others. To return to my own pretences, the mental cookery is keeping me nicely occupied and distracted. But I suppose it's not just the chilli that I'm stirring up.

  I made winter chilli a lot during her pregnancy. It was something she craved. Some women want banana pizza, some peanut butter and Marmite on toast, the ex wanted my winter chilli. I think it brought us closer together. Sometimes the craving was so great that I had to make up batches especially for her.

  Of course, one of the many side effects or signs of pregnancy is that the taste of familiar foods can change. She loved the chilli but would sometimes complain that it tasted 'different'. Nothing she could put her finger on, just not quite usual. That's the thing about using fresh ingredients, there'll always be variations in the flavour; and in a dish, which combines so many different flavours, the end result will always vary from batch to batch. That's what I told her.

  On the whole, it wasn't too hard a first pregnancy. She said the morning sickness was manageable and the food cravings weren't too strange (like I say, I was happy to make her as much chilli as she wanted) and although she felt exhausted all the time, I was only too happy for her to rely on me for whatever she might need. Yes, it all went well until a routine checkup at the two to three month mark.

  From what the doctor said, the baby had died. He couldn't tell how or why. And what we thought were signs of the pregnancy proceeding (less nausea, less fatigue, etc.) were actually signs that the pregnancy was over. Given how little enthusiasm she'd shown for motherhood in the past, you might be surprised to learn how distraught the ex was upon receiving this news. Mind you, the dilation and curettage procedure that followed is apparently quite unpleasant and would, I suppose, upset anybody.

  And so my role changed subtly from that of carer for mother and growing baby to carer for bereaved parent-to-be. At first, she refused to believe that it had happened; she wanted so badly to believe that she was still pregnant. I genuinely believe that the irony was lost on her. But the d&c made that sort of denial difficult to maintain and she rapidly progressed to feeling depressed.

  Most days she didn't want to even get out of bed and it was all I could do to get her up and out for a walk in a nearby park. Mixed up with all the grief and sense of loss and the mourning was her belief that she'd let everyone down by losing the baby.

  On more than one occasion, she said that I should feel let down by her. After all, I was the one who'd wanted children; she was having the baby for me. To make me a father.

  She thought that I should let my feelings show; express them, mourn with her. But, do you know, I could never quite bring myself to one hundred percent believe that it had been my child. There was always a nagging doubt, a slight statistical possibility. I suppose there are tests to decide one way or the other, but if it had been his child then she would have had to leave me. My preference is to be certain about things and as long as doubt remains, well, that doubt prevents me from feeling too much one way or the other.

  Finely chop the chocolate and stir into the chilli with the lime juice. Bend low over the pan and let the smell remind you of chocolate limes, the green boiled sweets from childhood with the chocolate centres. Simmer some more.

  So I held her hand through it all. I comforted and I soothed. And after a year or so, things began to return to something approaching normality. There was always a slight shadow, naturally, but the events of the past year or two were behind us. I really don't think she would have got through that difficult time without me and I'm sure that in her own way she was grateful. We were moving on. Together.

  Time to get up and move again. Crashing isn't the only scary thing about flying. Deep vein thrombosis is an equal albeit less dramatic danger. I get up and go for a walk up and down the aisle. After all this trouble, the last thing I want is to arrive at my destination and die of a blood clot. That said, I like to think that in my last moments I might appreciate the ironic symmetry of it all – given the events that have led me to be here.

  Back in my seat, I lift my legs in turn and point my toes. Feels good. Economy class seats seem to be built for midgets. I rotate my shoulders and then lift and stretch each arm. Grandma grunts, annoyed. I'm not encroaching on her space, but by now I could shower her with compliments on the artistry of her jumper and she'd want nothing more than to shove a knitting needle up my nose. Ah well, there are risks to every course of action.

  The ex never asked me to make winter chilli again and I only cooked it with her one more time. Life continued but we never talked about children again. Whenever I tried to raise the subject she refused to talk about it; it was 'too soon'. When would 'soon enough' be? I didn't know and she wasn't giving any clues. Surely the most sensible thing to do would be to try again as soon as she was physically fit? Sort of getting back on the horse after you've been thrown off. Or getting a new puppy after your dog has died; it's not a replacement – of course it isn't – but you love it and it helps you deal with the gap left by the old dog. Obviously, I was careful about expressing this reasoning to the ex. She was quite sensitive about anything to do with pregnancy and children and I didn't want her to misinterpret my point.

  The chilli should be a dark reddish-brown colour by now and have a thick, rich consistency. Taste and add a little salt and pepper if necessary.

  Funnily enough, although I never actually mentioned the dog and puppy analogy to her, we did get a dog. It was her idea, she found some tatty mongrel that needed a home and gave it one. She also gave it a name: William. No consultation with me on any of this, but I was just pleased that she was showing signs of interest in life again.

  At first, I worried that William might be some sort of baby substitute and would delay our second attempt at parenthood, but I told myself that it was early days and besides, any sort of connection was a good thing; for now. Then I wondered if perhaps William was meant to be my baby substitute. If she was hoping that in focussing our affection on a dog I might forget about wanting children. It seemed unlikely that she could be so subtle but from then on I kept my distance from William. Our relations were polite and friendly, but not too warm, just in case my position was misconstrued.

  A possibility that worried me more lay in the choice of William's name. It wasn't a name we'd considered for the baby but I knew it would be in our book of baby names. William means 'protector' or 'protection'. The ex maintained that it was simply that his scruffiness reminded her of Just William from the Richmal Crompton stories she'd read as a child, but I remained concerned that she unconsciously felt the need to be protected from something or someone. I have to admit to a touch of jealousy towards William on this point. After all, I was the husband; surely I should be the protector. What need could there be for a william as long as I was there?

  The seatbelt sign has just come on, accompanied by that irritating chime. Grandma and I buckle up. I try not to let it strike too much terror into me. It's probably just my imagination, but the stewa
rdess has just rushed past and she looked worried about something. Two of the cabin crew are huddled in the kitchen area, whispering. I tell myself that it's only the possibility of a little turbulence and return to the chilli. It's almost finished.

  She died in the autumn. In her sleep. It would be alot more pleasant to say that faithful William woke me, with his pining and whining for his mistress who'd passed away during the night. But actually, it was the smell that roused me.

  Our society is very coy about death. Preferring to ignore it whenever possible and when it can't ignore it, romanticise it. We're sold a nice, reassuring image of dying in one's sleep, peaceful, easy, with dignity. The physical realities are glossed over, including the fact that once the brain dies it ceases all those automatic little functions that we take for granted. Like bowel control. She didn't appear to have much dignity, lying in a pool of her own urine and excrement. To be fair, she also didn't appear to care very much.

  William was nowhere to be seen and I was in bed with my dead, messy wife. I got up and had a shower. While I was in the bathroom, I thought about how my life had changed overnight while I slept. Our time together was over. I was alone again, no chance of children. William was irrelevant, he wasn’t my dog and he had failed to protect her. I could already feel that hershaped gap opening up. All the time and effort expended in making room for her and now she was gone. The unfairness of the situation was not lost on me. The practical issues began to become apparent: the call to a doctor, the death certificate, possibly an inquest, embalming, a funeral service, then cremation or burial. I imagined the fake sympathy of the other mourners as they mourned themselves. The platitudes: “At least it was peaceful.” … “She'll always be with you.” …

  The more I thought about it, the less right it seemed. She should stay with me. She could stay with me. I didn't have to let her go. Nobody knew yet and I was still in control. She would always be with me. If I acted quickly.

  Serve with plain corn nachos, rice, tortillas, soured cream, jalapeño chillies and freshly made guacamole and salsa. Best enjoyed with either a robust Cabernet Sauvignon or one of the darker Mexican beers, such as Negra Modelo or Dos Equis Amber.

  Funeral rites and customs vary greatly between cultures. Look widely enough and you'll find a precedent for anything. Someone else has always set the example. Ritual ingestion is one way of respectfully honouring the loved one, making them a part of you and your life both symbolically and literally. And cannibalism is a word with such ugly and inappropriate connotations.

  To spare the details, let's just say that by the end of the day the rites, so to speak, were done. William took a keen interest in everything and I saw no reason why he shouldn't share the honours as her faithful, if incapable, protector.

  So that was the last time I cooked the winter chilli. And if it was a special dish before, it really had significance now. I may eat it again one day, but it will have to be a very special occasion and, to tell the truth, I think I may have had a bit too much that last time. A surfeit. I can't quite get the taste out of my mouth.

  Looking at the time, we should be starting our descent soon; coming in for that blessed landing. Grandma's asleep again and will probably only wake up when her ears hurt enough for a barley sugar. The sad pervert across the aisle has got his porn out again (much to his neighbour's disgust) and the cabin crew look relaxed. Perhaps it was all in my imagination.

  The one thing about my journey for which I am truly grateful is that it's a one-way trip. There's no reason to go back. And besides, to wish to return always implies some sort of regret. Don't you think?

  Serves two.

  3

  The Willows

  Guy Mankowski

  Author

  Guy Mankowski was raised on the Isle of Wight before being taught by monks at Ampleforth College, York. After graduating with a Masters from Newcastle University and a Psychology degree from Durham, Guy formed ‘a Dickensian pop band’ called Alba Nova, releasing an EP. Guy now works as a psychologist in Newcastle. Guy’s writing also featured in Legend Press’ 2009 short story collection 8 Rooms. Guy’s story The Willows is about an elderly man’s recollection of a summer in which he first experienced love, jealousy and the transience of life.

  As I am drawn back to that summer, my mind is enveloped within a sleepy, silky web of memories, interwoven like waves breaking crisp on a shore. I sleepwalk through these memories, some so vivid and clear set to the backdrop of a rolling sea, the sound of innocence. Every sadness and melancholy still return to me when I set foot on the sand and hear that watery procession that chants and chants, seducing me into a slumber.

  The Willows is there as it used to be, paled slightly with the crime of time. It still resonates with a glacial beauty that is ominous and cool. Its aged palm trees, tired and golden green still sway, wrapped in the cold autumn wind. When I was thirteen the white pillars and slate porch that looked out onto the blue mass seemed menacing to me. Now they are all a part of that web, shrouded in beautiful sorrow and ghosts.

  Some barrier, written in ink or printed, tells me now that I can’t walk into that garden and skirt around the pond or look out at the sea from the comfort of that green canopy of leaves. It’s unattainable, lost, irretrievable in the silver, but still clear and shimmering like shards of glass in my mind.

  The ghosts come alive in the seaweed, driftwood and stones; the pale, hard sensations under my feet. I had never met Aunt Bella before my parents sent me to The Willows, only heard her name tossed into the tumult of a conversation. But when my mother, concerned with how thin I’d become and convinced that a summer by the sea would revive me, said that she was eccentric but wonderful, I knew I’d love her.

  I’ll have to tell you about her, as soon as I’ve whirled with my memories a little longer, as soon as they’ve settled down. Those mere words ‘the summer holidays’ still bring a certain chill to me, like a heady gulp of wine on a still evening. They send shivers first, phantoms second. It’s the soft ride of the words, ripe and warm. It’s the beauty of those spectres that chime around the trees, the clefts, the sandy gorges, that wrap their shroud around the bodies, that hang over the paint-flecked boats clinking in the wind under the aroma of sea air, forming a crystalline ‘o’ in the wind which breathes its voice around me, sighing and drawing endlessly, like the sea.

  I’d spent the first part of my life naked and blonde in warm rock pools fishing for cockles and sculpting sandcastles, which to me were as strong as the imaginative figures that swept around them in limitless adventures. But when dusk fell and I was taken inside I never realised that the lapping of the sea eroded those castles and their characters into a gold wet sludge, before heaving it slowly into its body, to be washed up further along the shore.

  That summer represented two months away from my parents and the faceless cruelty of boarding school, which crushed my spirit and tucked it away in desks and pencil cases, endless corridors, cold mirrors, and continual silences. Besides the sea, which was the backdrop and my first love of the summer, there was another who was just as eternal and crazily poised. Aunt Bella was my mother for July and August. Bella lived by the sea all year round, and swam only in the sea even in the dead cold of winter, where she suspended herself frail and trembling in the waves.

  I remember the first time I watched her step into the ocean, the waves washing mercilessly against her body, slim and downy in a chequered swimsuit that damply clung to her. The sky yawned over her and she looked brave and lost. Submitting herself, she rose in paroxysm of bliss, the corners of her mad old mouth tugged into a sheepish smile as if she was almost ashamed of the pleasure the water gave her. She was as much a child of the sea as any driftwood or rope.

  The Willows was filled with canvases of her impulsive paintings of the water; smashed and scattered with paints, portraying movements and rhythms that showed she had been watching it for years. In the summer her paintings were lively with webs of gold and white, and in the winter they were still
with silver and green.

  When I skirted The Willows for the first time, its emptiness vaulted me. My room looked over the sea and the expanse of pale sand, and I remember the faces that passed in front of it, busy with their own thoughts. Somehow the sea brought a fresh honesty into everyone who passed it; glazed bodies broke free just as the air broke out of its winter shroud. To that sea I owe my first flirtation, because silhouetted against it girls in pale dresses passed, slim and calm, with infinite mysteries. All I knew was that women, like Aunt Bella, could be eternally comforting and yet also silently, mercilessly cold. In the first lights of summer I fell in love with every apparition that slid past my window, delicately rounded and full of exotic dreams. Every single one broke my heart. Each imaginary affair moved as a series of intense, glistening emotions with a veiled promise never to betray, and every one did, every one slid across the horizon and disappeared. Their minds were as desperate and frightened as my own. It seemed they all had secrets that could make me recklessly happy; but that could only happen when I knew myself, and I did not then.

  Even in early summer, with bright sky and transparent water, the sea was too cool to slip right into. I had to become intimate with it, bring my heat down to its level and then ease myself in. I learnt to swim, plunge, twist and float underwater and I saw through the sandy fug to weeds suspended under the surface. I would touch the ground, and kick up sand storms, which I dared myself to swim through, and I rise to a blast of white sky, which stretched over my head.