Rider

Rider

sometimes I don’t know
what to think
and
so
I don’t…
…better that way.


Sometimes a day passes gently, easily, like gossamer silk in a gentle breeze and sometimes it stops and starts in single moments, not joined up and unrelated… staccato.

Each different moment of that day is like a reminder to something or a reminder of something, only I don’t know quite what. It could be to show it’s best to be in a single moment and no more, no past, no future, just the now…the only moment that is real.

Real to the cyclist was the pain he felt, the shock and real his scream when the car hit him. He had not ever heard himself scream or was it the brakes of the car? And what of his bike? His beautiful bike he rode on this beautiful day…it lay crumpled now by the roadside. The ambulance flashing blue lights, police cars, people gathering, people staring, craning their necks out of cars passing, slowly, painfully and inside the ambulance they were working. And all there was, was the moment and the broken man the men were working on to save…

Lethal, roundabouts for cyclists…even if you wore your helmet and your gloves…less than the blinking of an eye, the moment from cycling, being to not being…a moment’s all, and that was all you had.

‘Would you like a cuppa duck’? is what she asked me every morning reaching for the teapot. Table set nice every day with a little flower in the little vase from Dartington Glass she’d found in the ‘seconds’. None of your teabag in the cup with a quick stir and a splash for her! The pot had to be warmed first and one of loose leaf for every cup and not forget one for the pot an’ all. She’d pour in just a little water on the leaves so the tea would mash and the fragrance was released. Five minutes and no more and then she’d fill the teapot with water still so hot it was still spitting! Mum knew exactly what she liked and she also knew the secrets of the brewing. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’… I soak you your prunes every night duck but I forgot last night, you’ll just have to have them as they are. Anyroad, they are quite soft, they are and they are pitted, so it’s alright really for you, in’t it… she nodded her approval to herself…they would be fine and do their daily trick. Not that they didn’t taste nice neither… ‘Toast and Marmite after’? Be all set then, won’t you. Tea’s a bit milky, next cup will be better duck…awright? Her smile embraced him and all the world, her hair was grey now, a little coarse but curlier than ever, long and quite thick still and hung about her shoulders in sleepytime ringlets, her face was lined, her bue eyes not as blue as they once were but when she smiled the sun rose…he loved her more with every day that passed and he dreaded the day when he would be alone…


…they worked hard to save him…
…sometimes I don’t know
what
to
think
and
so
I don’t…

boas and bows

Ethel was not quite the same as other people.
Ethel had ideas of her own…
she knew what she wanted
and
she still had dreams.

It’s a good job our world is not a perfect world she said one day, where would we be? Right here is good enough for me. Would she want to go away? Me? Go away? Whatever for? Would she not like a holiday? Holiday? Och, she said, they were for cissies, they were to make up for all that was not right in yer life and what didn’t suit and all that, it would be right there and waiting when you got back…running away of a sort holidays were and there was no point in that! At least not for Ethel. That which was not perfect in life was what really was! She had a mind of her own and she had a huge smile that etched the wrinkles in her face ever deeper. She stood old and as proud as her bent back would let her, in her eyes a twinkle still that told you she’d forgotten just how old she was now. Her hair was as grey as her coat and the pallor of her face the colour of asphalt. She smoked Sobranies and she drew her cigarette holder, made of black bone and engraved silver, to her lips in a gesture so commanding and with an elegance that spoke of jewelled dresses of the twenties that you thought smoking was just the thing to do and not in the least bit bad for you… she sucked the breath in deeply so the end glowed bright red and then she called her black lab to walk on, as slow and as ancient as she was. They walked together down the lane, Punch heavy with his left leg giving way on every other step, Ethel’s thick coat flapping as she went , little clouds billowing behind her, her left hand in her baggy pocket where she kept dog biscuits for Punch and anyone they might meet on their way and tulip bulbs to plant in any little patch of soil she could dig into with stiff, bony fingers…to make the place look good when the year was turned and spring would come…something to look forward to now she had only Punch…

…Ethel never went away. She dreamed of things that she might do but for now Punch slowed her down and that was quite alright as well. She knew about herbs and the salts as she called them, all lined up in a cherry wood box with a golden clasp and a key and she knew when to take what for what and what teas to brew…everything could be made better, said she, everything could be cured. You just had to put your mind to it….

…they had danced the Gay Gordon, and they had danced the Charleston till the small hours and watched the sun rise. They drank Champagne till the bubbles bubbled and their laughter rang. Their shoes glittered with rhinestones, their headdresses shone, bags stitched with sequins and pearls, each party in a red fringed or a black one with sequins, tassled and ruched and the boobies made flat…pale yellow was in …dresses with bows and with their boas they swirled and they swung and they glittered and shone and the music throbbed, the players bobbed, their bodies were laughter and yearning and song…. and that is where she fell in love with Angus. And Angus fell in love with her, Angus, so handsome and tall, as attentive to her as he ever could be. He made her feel like a queen and she knew only him, knew just this one man and they were married soon after in Aberdeen, her hometown.

A grey town she said, but their dresses made up for all that in those days, made up for all the rain and the fog. They were the bright young things of the age, with their hair cut short and glossy lips…on the arms of the ‘handsomes’ in tartans, young and strong like her Angus.. what else did you need? They’d lived here now in their cottage away from the grey but content with what was, at the end of the lane, and they had raised just one son, grown away, who lived in North Britain…

…Ethel walked down her lane with her dog just behind, all she had left now from Angus, they kept up with each other and stopped once in a while for a rest or to listen or look and remember maybe…of days gone by when all was aglitter, and a war stopped all that and they’d gone without for a time but they always got through…through hard times. There was no point running away…she had never had a holiday…Angus didn’t want one and neither did she…for cissies said he and Ethel agreed.

but

Ethel still dreamed…
had ideas of her own
and
she put colour where there was none
Ethel was not quite the same as other people…