A funny meeting

During our trip to Kilmartin I headed off, alone, to the banks of Loch Awe. I took a bouquet of wild flowers with me, for Deirdre. I threw it into the loch and prayed with all my soul for her safety, in that realm after death. We lost her one day in those waters, and we never really knew exactly what had happened. She was seventeen, beautiful and sombre. The police ruled accidental drowning, but I wasn’t totally convinced. I knew Deirdre well, her whimsical character that could see her go from laughter to tears in the blink of an eye. She carried an existential wound that led me to think that she let herself slip into the icy waters without any resistance. Maybe like Virginia Woolf she had filled her pockets with little stones, dragging her downwards to be swallowed up by the waters.When I lifted up my head and opened my eyes, I thought I was seeing things. A ray of sunlight was disproportionately lighting up the loch, and it was shimmering in its glow. I blinked my eyes, shielding them with my hand to see better. It wasn’t a hallucination, nor was it a mirage: a man stood a few metres from me, separated by a bit of the loch. He must have seen me easily, as there was no sun in his eyes, but he didn’t seem to be paying any attention to me. I was surprised to see someone here, as the tourists come later in the season, and even then in more compact, noisy groups. He didn’t seem like a tourist, but he obviously wasn’t a local. His weather-beaten face gave him away: the rest of us Scots are more peely-wally, with the climate, with only the warmth of the whisky and our ales colouring our faces. He was tall, thin and elegantly dressed. He was staring at the loch, and was crouched down at the side of the water. He took a fistful of earth and brought it up to his face, just like he was inhaling the land of his birth, his eyes closed. Then he let it slip into the water, and got up again. This time he saw me, looked at me in surprise, and moved slowly away, his arms moving in the breeze. It was like he was taking possession of each element: water, earth, air…A sudden impulsion seized me, and I held my hand out to him. I could have grabbed hold of him but I couldn’t move, as if I was nailed to the ground. What would I have said to him anyway? I went back to my own side, a little troubled.

A winning return

We came back late last night, exhausted by our long walks. I collapsed into bed and have just woken up, with my head still full of the images and soft emotions that I gathered while I was there. I don’t know if it’s Mum’s company or the fact of not being alone, but I really feel like I’ve been revived. The memories are less bitter, the places we revisited lit up by a warm, peaceful light. I went back to the ruins of the old kirk and found the laughing echoes of my childhood, as well as those of my walks with Alasdair. His image is alive in me, and smiles from the depths of my soul.

Leaving

We’re off in a bit to Kilmartin. We’ll be back in three days. We’ll stay on the Argyll coast, with friends of Mum’s. I want to be there already, and I loaded our stuff in the car yesterday. Mum takes her time shutting up the house, and I turn around, nibbling on a muffin. She calls me at last – everything’s set. I run off to join her.

A clear morning

It’s almost nice today. We finished putting away our winter stuff, Mum and I. She asked me to go back to Kilmartin with her the day after tomorrow. It’s a good idea, and I’d be happy to go on the trip with her. The weather is looking up, and the spring is here at last. Over there the light will be beautiful, and I already have a host of walks planned in my head. I feel better, and I think I’ll get more out of this trip than the last one. The dregs of my memories clog up my spirit even more.

Pastoral crown

I listened to an old Tracy Chapman album, her first. Her almost masculine voice brings together sadness and revolution. I like the tone that runs through simple melodies and texts with no pretension. Her voice tells me stories of lost or deceased love, and evokes other things that touch me equally: the desire to flee, the absence of forsaking, the will to fight with poetry and music as our only unstoppable arms.I opened my Pandora’s box again, the one I had slid under my bed. I took out a crown of leaves that Alasdair had braided for me when we were in Kilmartin. I wanted to show him the place where I had grown up. He made that sprite crown for me, and placed it solemnly on my head. It has become all dry and fragile. I didn’t dare put it back on my head, for fear of breaking it. Besides, I’m no longer the fairy queen, even if I still speak their language. I went out into the garden to take a photo of it.

At home

I stayed at home, and didn’t go out today. We’re going to meet this evening, Harry sent me an e-mail to confirm. Mum told me that she thought I looked tired, and that I should get some rest. In any case, I don’t have any work on at the moment. The Pykes are waiting for their work to get on a bit before they allow me to re-do their garden. Mrs. Pyke phones me to ask me over for a cup of tea, but the idea of putting up with a conversation with her gives me an unpleasant feeling of drunkenness. I turned her down as politely as possible, saying that Mum needed me to tidy up at home, which was true. We spent the day putting away the winter things, picking over quite a few things. I obviously came across objects that brought back memories, without really lingering over them. I put everything I wanted to keep in a box, and I put it under my bed. I’ll have a look later.

Birth

It rained almost all day. The rain is obsessive and banal where we’re from…I spent the day finishing things at the Pykes’. In just a few days my peony has become a flowering burst of laughter, with all its petals opened. I stayed a while to look at it, wide-eyed with changing pinks. It will soon be lifted and brought back to the bed that gave it life. I’m in awe and sad at the same time. I’ll have to find another witness, my road to me is far from finished… Mrs Pyke has paid me the amount we agreed upon. I never like these moments, but they are necessary. She told me that she’d be in touch for gardening work, once the renovations were all finished. I came back home and put the money in the box that I use as a piggy bank. Mum also gave me a bit of money from Dad’s pension, and I do the normal shopping.

Friendship

I went to see Florence. She was on her own, with her son Paul. I love that bairn – he’s got a spark that lights up everything around him. It’s said that people feed off each other, that subtle flows circle between people. Paul’s presence is a rare element of life. You can almost palpably feel this flow of intimate exchanges between him and his mother, that links them, creating their own private equilibrium.

Internal fever

I’m getting better, coughing less and able to stand up strongly. I have a strange feeling of an internal swarming, just like the echo of an unconscious fever that agitates my body and my mind. At the Pykes’ today I managed to get away from the hollow chat of the lady of the house. She had things to do, and left me, kind of sadly. I could work and finish painting that old basement, whose arches made me think of Plato’s cave. The place’s destitution and simplicity reflected back at me: I wanted to purify my conscience in its scoria. I sat down for a long while to contemplate those white walls that enclose a story that I can hear murmuring behind. Here, the Templars are never far away…It’s almost as if it were a mirror, in which I was looking for familiar symbols. They were written in the secret part of my memory, and I could make out their shadows, hearing the questions that they asked me. I could have stayed there until nightfall, but my two dripping paint pots brought me back to work of another nature. Speaking of painting, I discovered the new acquisitions in Edinburgh’s National Gallery the last time I was in the city, on my way back from Kilmartin. A picture from the Frenchman Girodet held my gaze for a long time.The scene was entitled “Malvina Lamenting the Death of her Fiancé Oscar”. I’m pretty sure there’s something of Malvina in me.

Sick

I’ve been coughing for two days, and have a fever today. I must have caught it at the Pykes’, while repainting their damp, cold basement. I had the idea of going in sick and working mechanically, very peacefully. Big mistake… Mrs. Pyke was visibly scunnered and followed me around with attention, offering me bland cups of tea and wee home-made biscuits with a strange stoory aftertaste . All this attention had one aim: opening up a “little chat”. Happily she had this with herself, yapping away on lots of different subjects, none of which interested me at all. My participation was limited to some cleverly thrown-in noises : an “oh” here, a “really?” there, as well as a few “aye, of course” - all very convincing. I heard about the recent installation of those famous « intelligent lamp-posts » in Dundee, operating with solar energy and also serving for WiFi relay. Mrs. Pyke was indignant about the eventual replacement of our good old public lighting, and already saw our modest wee village invaded by awful pylons, bringing those new technologies for which she had a certain defiance that almost bordered on repulsion. Of course I didn’t tell her that I was in favour – I didn’t want to hurt her, or to run headfirst into a sterile debate. All the same, she made me lose valuable time, and I’ll have to go back to finish it. Today I don’t have the necessary courage or strength. I’ll call her, cough down the phone and make my excuses – I’m sure she’ll understand. I don’t think I’ll feel guilty…

Sunny Sunday

It wasn’t easy getting up this morning. I heard Mum come and go in the house, but I didn’t really fancy facing her over the breakfast table. I closed my eyes again. Just like every other morning she was making her jasmine tea, its flowery scent wafting up to my bedroom. Half-asleep, half-awake I let myself drift away with that Oriental perfume, opening my senses and my imagination. I shared a cup of scalding hot tea with Sorhavardi, whose teachings are dear to me, and our looks crossed, like two accomplices. Our gestures had the peaceful slowness of a light ceremony celebrating the peace of the present moment.I told myself that this dream was a good omen, and finally got up. There was a surprise waiting for me in the kitchen: Mum’s smile, with a look that was less distant that enveloped me in a tender silence. She had made scones, and taken out the Sunday china. She hadn’t done that in ages. I enjoyed the moment without asking any questions, cuddling her softly so as to not break the spell.This morning I had some tea with Sorhavardi and Mum.I headed off to the Pykes’ with a light heart.

Reading

I used to read a lot, right from when I came back here. To furnish the dry silence with the written word, and to dissolve the pain and the absence. I read like others drink, with greed, swallowing pages upon pages endlessly, rolling my soul in the ink of the hypnotic, black and dense characters. Even now I feel this almost compulsive desire. I have less time to read now, and my body is exhausted now. Florence says that it’s normal, that the spring is a season of renewal, when you need to literally push your energy to the very depths of your body. She experiences it every year, and sees it clearly with the bairns.I’m not reading anything deep at the minute, just a few pages from an Ian Rankin detective novel, when I have the time and the energy. The book is set in Edinburgh, at festival time. It’s distracting, and it is full of imagery for me : neighbourhoods, pubs, characters with familiar expressions…

Little jobs

The Pykes have offered me an inside job. They have some painting work to do in their house and have asked me if I’d be willing to take it on. They know my situation – I’m part of that big marginalised section of Scots without a job, always on the scrounge for little jobs and dole money. The Pykes are old family friends – they knew my parents well, and saw me growing up. They also know of more recent events in my life, and sometimes look at me with sorry faces…I can almost hear them think “What a shame! She was really brilliant, and could have done so well for herself...” They’re right, in a sense. Common sense, I suppose. But my reason is another one entirely: I chose to come back here and to make do here and there. Paradoxically it’s a guarantee of liberty, even if I don’t get much material benefit from it. A piece of my soul finds its home there.My peony continues on its route, even though it has veered off after some bad weather and the lack of care on the part of the workmen, and despite the indignant injunctions of Mrs. Pyke. On this point, I am totally in agreement with her.