Dear Ruth
I’m angry, if you want to know.
You might have replied. Just a few words would have done. What’s the matter, run out of words?
Bloody words. That woman Della from your writing group. She brought the tribute. Her eyebrows shoot up and down a lot, don’t they? She says the whole bunch of them contributed but she came on her own in case presence of the others was too much. They don’t want to overwhelm me.
She’s had it written out in fancy writing and framed. Stayed ages pretending the visit was for my sake not hers, for example did I want to ‘“talk about dear Ruth”? There’s no reply to that, I said nothing, just cracked my knuckles. So just to kick us off she brings down her eyebrows and says, “Oh! Didn’t Ruth have such a sensitivity for words?!’”
They stick around, don’t they, words. They’re all over the place, only not a one from you to me.
I told her, And well she might’ve, she was still an English teacher this time two years ago. And very highly regarded, did I have to remind her how many former pupils turned up at the funeral?
At which she said “Awwwww, Arthur. Awwww, I know…”
Imbecile. I said, Mr. Mitchell to you, thank you very much, Della, but she ignored me.
She said she was glad I was managing to talk about you “a little,” “at last,” and she’d “hardly dared hope” the group’s tribute would help me “make the breakthrough” but she was thrilled it had. What on earth is she talking about? If I have something to say I say it, and if I don’t I don’t. Why should it bother anyone that I haven’t got things to say to the people who turn up here?
I honestly think they show up for entertainment. And I shan’t oblige.
Nobody including Della wants to hear about what’s important, ie what the driver of that car’s got coming to him.
She insisted on reading the tribute out loud, because she said it was quite powerful and she didn’t want me to be alone the first time I read it, after she’d gone. Also poetry can be such a comfort at a time like this, etc etc.
Well, prepare to be amazed, here it is:
Tribute to Ruth
Friend, knocked off your bike:
Cut down
And who’s to say not in your prime?
For sixty-one is only the counting of the years
The measuring of Time,
Time allotted by a Higher Power
That dispenses Life’s green springs and verdant summers,
Its mellow autumns and fading winters.
Friend, your gifts were many
And freely given: spread around
For the benefit of friends and family
And members of the wider community.
Neighbour, teacher, wife, friend.
Your generosity was without end.
Ruth, your name’s meaning is obscure
But your life was crystal clear, like pure
Running water.
Wise proud warrior!
Woman! Of flesh and spirit, earth and sky!
A Writer, and in this a Mother to boot-
For your poems and short stories
Are your children: the fruit
Of your creativity, given birth through
Life’s long labour in the orchard of womanhood.
As roses ramble upward through a tree, hold fast to the trunk
And blossom, so your work holds, clings to the memory of you.
Ruth, cut down like a reed,
We whom you leave behind
Can only hope it was quick, a swift
Release without pain.
Your poems and short stories full of humour and wisdom
You leave them behind, a legacy to keep
For those who stand by the grave and weep.
We will do our best without you.
And it will be hard, for friendship
Is precious, your loss so sudden.
All Death
Is cruel but Ruth, yours more than most.
So long, Writer, Woman, Friend.
Our love for you will never end.
Your inspiration will not cease.
Ruth, may you rest in peace.
From Della, Pam, Maggie, Kate, Linda, and Trish
Monkswell & District Women Writers Group
I don’t think the Poet Laureate needs to be looking over his shoulder just yet, do you? Who is the Poet Laureate these days, anyway? You’d know.
When she’d read it Della hung around waiting for me to tell her I thought they were all geniuses, eyebrows on the move again and eyes brimming.
It only rhymes, I said, here and there. We didn’t think that mattered, she says. We just wanted to express something about Ruth. After some discussion we agreed that being restricted to any particular rhyme scheme might stifle creativity.
I’m trying to get her to go when she produces the hammer.
Next she fishes in her bag and brings out a picture hook. She didn’t want to trouble me to go looking for mine, easier to bring hers from home, she says, and where would I like it? Didn’t reply, so then she says, Never mind, I expect you’d like me to decide. Most men don’t know a suitable wall from the side of an elephant when it comes to getting the right hang, most men wouldn’t notice if the Mona Lisa was upside down!
I let her stick it up under the clock on the wall behind the TV. It won’t catch my eye there, as I’m not watching TV anymore.
Arthur.
PS Fucking tribute, pardon my French.
It got to me, just knowing it was there. I took it down, couldn’t find claw hammer so pulled out hook with kitchen scissors, tore wallpaper, and left a hole. Tore a bit more paper off to see state of plaster generally, was wondering if that wall could do with a once-over. It could now. Plaster came with it. May get round to it, I like to have a job or two in the offing. Keeping it in the pipeline for now-there’s enough going on.
PPS If I hadn’t let the bloody woman in there wouldn’t be all this mess and need for redecoration, not an inconsiderable task at my age.
PPPS She said (parting shot)-Now don’t hesitate if there’s a single thing I can do. So I’m going to ask her for a contribution towards materials.
THE COLD AND THE BEAUTY AND THE DARK
Chapter 9: One Last Look
All over the hillside people were packing up and heading down to the path to file through the sheep gate. Evelyn watched the line of walkers. She couldn’t make them out clearly but she gazed at them as they went on into the distance, thinking that they looked liked a long dark snake sliding ahead along the path. She could see well enough the side of the hill against the sky where it suddenly steepened above the path, and soon enough the snake of people slithered away completely, leaving Evelyn alone, aware of no other living thing except the birds. Those must be skylarks, she thought, though she could also hear familiar town birds, crows and gulls and some other sort, too, making a cry of “sweek-sweek” that mixed with the wailing of the wind.
As Evelyn was gazing into the distance, the sun broke unexpectedly through the clouds, turning the surface of the reservoir into a flat mirror, like a sheet of steel. Then a squall of wind blew across it and broke the sheet into sparkling, brittle splinters. Evelyn shivered and settled herself for a rest. She used Paul’s sweater as a pillow and was glad of a couple of cardigans to tuck around her legs. She found herself another biscuit to nibble, just to keep the chill away, and then she lay back, looking up at the sky and thinking how beautiful it all was. Then she fell asleep.