As was he. He didn’t walk out any more than she threw him. In the end he could only stagger away, whimpering excuses back at her, his feet kicking up more snow. It took him a few minutes to collect what he could in his arms and navigate his way up Station Road towards the alley and the footbridge over the railway, and after he had gone, all that remained besides the marks of the brawl-the dropped belongings, the broken glass, and the wrecked parcels-were the ragged, despoiling traces of his zigzag progress up the street, a hundred slips and skids and falls imprinted on the snow. That’s my memory of it.
I watched all this standing in my pyjamas on the settee, peering over the back of it through the window with my chin resting on my crossed arms, the coal fire dying and the room dark behind me. I watched until long after he was gone and the silence told me that my mother must have got herself as far as her bedroom and passed out. She would be still in her clothes, grunting softly and curled up across the bed; I pictured her with the eiderdown up around her ears against the draughts. I knew that if the noise had woken her up, my grandmother would simply have turned over in bed, smiled into the dark, and gone back to sleep. I felt like the last person left. I knew I ought to be in bed and because I wasn’t I was deservedly guilty and forsaken, responsible both for the mess out on the street and for my own solitude. I had already let go of any idea that Santa Claus would be coming now-how could he come near a household like ours?-but I scanned the crossroads and the tops of buildings, clinging to a hope for some kind of timely, redemptive magic; I prayed for some power to appear and make everything all right. Then I started to cry.
Snow came. There was no wind so it floated out of the sky like weightless, frozen rags of wispy white cloth. Some of the school Nativity play propaganda must still have been fresh in my mind; if ever a place was crying out for Peace on Earth Goodwill To All Men it was here, so I wiped my nose on my sleeve and trusted that someone-if not Santa, then the Baby Jesus or Mary and Joseph or the shepherds, maybe the whole holy caboodle-was watching me from up in the sky, ripping up white tissue paper and dropping the shreds down to cover up the chaos. The amassing snow covered the scars of our disgrace like bandages. The disintegrating red paper and pink ribbons, the dark bulks of my great-uncle’s abandoned things, the glinting javelins of glass lost their edges and grew round and safe. The snow went on falling until the tracks of his exit were swabbed away and I could tell myself that he may not have gone because there was no sign that he had ever been. All the bright broken relics, now vanished under a wrapping of whiteness, began to seem as dreamy as a memory that I held of him reaching out, just once, and stroking my hair.
As I watched the snow, my loneliness began to feel like safety. Nobody could see me, so I must be invisible. And nobody knew what I had seen so I could make that invisible, too. Not by forgetting, but by keeping it for myself, mine to rehearse in my mind until familiarity rendered its violence innocuous, I would make it disappear. The shock of the fight and my uncle’s desertion would lap its way over and over through my memory until in time its last waves spent themselves and died in the corners and my mother and uncle as they had appeared to me this night would recede, pulling shadows around themselves, the sounds of their departure faint and ghostly, merely sighs and whispers and a faraway door closing.
And I understood suddenly that I would be able to pretend, and forever if need be, that this night was simply another night separating any two days: neither holy nor enchanted, nor the night my poor uncle left, nor even, necessarily, Christmas Bloody Eve. Another night and then another would come, and another, and each time my memory of this one would lose a little sharpness, and each new night would be its own reliable little spell of quiet between dangers. For a brief time before I fell asleep on the settee, that was nearly enough, to know the glaring colours of our strife were obliterated and to hold in my mind a picture of the street transformed under the black sky and the dense, cleansing whiteness of the snow.
No, there’s no similarity at all, none to speak of. Jeremy went quietly. And I was very little then, and frightened.
27 Cardigan Avenue
Dear Ruth
Time passes. We’re almost into June. I suppose it’s warmed up a bit but by no stretch of the imagination could it be mistaken for warm à la Madeira, which is where we’d be now.
Apologies for silence. Been busy. Getting myself organized you’ll be pleased to hear! You’re not hearing, of course, but Carole says I shouldn’t dwell on that if writing these letters is to be at all useful.
So the upturn in the weather put me in the mood for leafing through the cruise and Australia paperwork. I turned up the brochure and itinerary and that inspired me to check what date we’re at today. I lose track of the days, sleep through them when I can. I get more done at night, without the interruptions.
Which is why I know we’d be in Madeira, jewel of the Mediterranean. You always wanted to go.
You were keen to see the mimosa for which Madeira is famed throughout the world. So here’s some photos of it from the brochure, sorry they’re a bit ragged, I couldn’t put my hand on the scissors so I tore them out. Butterflies, too, according to the literature, a feature of the place, some species thought to be unique to the island.
I was looking forward more to the bird spotting, I admit-I had them in the luggage, binoculars, reliable field guide of Mediterranean species, and RSPB spotters’ notebook. My motto-never leave home without a notebook! Does that sound familiar or does that sound familiar!?
This notebook still blank, needless to say.
Was walking around most of the night with it in my hands, plus remains of cruise brochure. It’s ruined now, but I won’t need it again.
Also found this to go with photos. Came across the tape so I’m sticking it all in.
MADEIRA: JEWEL OF THE MEDITERRANEAN
Two carefree days of sampling the delights of seafaring life aboard the Belle Aurore Atlantis and then “Land Ho!” What a wonderful land is your first port of call-Madeira, beautiful isle of pure blue skies, warm seas, and floral abundance.
From your very first step on the soil of Madeira the delighted visitor understands why it is known as the Garden Island, as the place is simply awash with colour.
Day 1: Stroll at your leisure through the large and colourful flower markets that are one of the most arresting features of Funchal, Madeira’s capital. Relax over lunch at one of the quaint bodegas, and while you’re at it, why not sample some of the famous Madeira wine? In the afternoon, rendezvous dockside to travel by luxury air-conditioned coach to Camacha to marvel at the local wicker furniture weavers at work, and then on to the island’s blissful Botanical Gardens for a breathtaking display of subtropical plants and flowers, most strikingly the luscious golden yellow of the famous mimosa groves.
Day 2: Morning free for shopping in the famous lace- and tapestry-making quarter. After a lunch of traditional Mediterranean fare using the finest local ingredients, we again rendezvous dockside to travel by luxury air-conditioned coach to the enchanting fishing village of Camara de Lobos, where Churchill went to paint. Continue on to the celebrated Levada walks, part of the island’s ancient irrigation system, before returning to Funchal for a sumptuous afternoon tea at the worldfamous Reid’s Hotel.
Can you imagine it? I can’t
Arthur
PS Am unearthing all kinds of things. Seems to me you got a bit carried away with that writing group of yours. Poetry that doesn’t rhyme and stories that don’t begin or end properly. OK as a hobby I suppose, but the more I try to sort through it all the more there is. I’m tripping over loose pages, folders in every cupboard and drawer I open. I can’t make head nor tail. There’s reams of it.