Jun 2024 – Fiction Can Be Fun

Eavesdropping had become a habit that winter

Evan had preferred pubs in the days before, sadly the bank accounts of too many hadn’t made it through the dark days of lockdown. There was still The Crown, but it being a sports pub meant there were too many occasions when it was crammed to bursting point, the excess of testosterone pungent in his nostrils.

Being a big man with a good line in glowering, he’d been left to his own devices. But since being ill, it seemed that his newfound weakness was worryingly apparent to those with an aggressive nature, so he’d taken to cafes and coffee houses, drinking tea or coffee instead of beer. It was probably good for him, and he didn’t miss the beer… well, not t00 much.

But the side effect of having lost a lot of weight was how badly he felt the cold. Perhaps it was karma for his past impatience with those similarly afflicted. Heating being as expensive as it had become, he’d taken to spending time away from home where he could piggyback on some else’s spend. It was surprising how little he could get away with spending, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to cooked.

There was a friendly Irish lady in one of the local charity shops, and she put aside anything suitable for a man of his height. He’d been able to buy a new wardrobe for an absolute pittance due to her kindness, and all it took was his willingness to pass the time of day with her. She even made him a brew or two when she was on her own in the shop.

He’d given up on the TV a while back. The licence fee was crazy expensive for the rubbish you could watch now, and of course he wasn’t going to pay for all those streaming services. He made do with the radio – Radio 4 or the BBC Overseas service droned away in the background any time he was at home.

After the day when the friendly Irish lady gave up her job in the charity shop, he realised the only words he exchanged were about items off the menu. But then, he wasn’t sure what he’d talk about anymore. She’d made it easy for him, chatting away or asking gentle questions. So he decided it was time to broaden his horizons and visit the library. After all, signing up cost nothing, and it was another place to sit in the warmth.

Soon his daily practice was to read the papers, before heading to a cafe with a library in hand. There he’d take his time over a pot of tea and some sort of breakfast. Sometimes he’d read, but most of the time, he sat with a book open, and just listened to the conversations going on around him.

He began to recognise some of the other regulars, and even had his favourites. From his eavesdropping, he came to know their names, the names of the people in their lives, their trials and tribulations, their joys and successes.

What Evan liked to do best was walk, so with the onset of the lighter and warmer months, he eschewed his eavesdropping in the cafe and heading to the seaside, to woods and parks – anywhere free that he could find a bench for when he was tired to take a load off, to pull the flask out of his backpack, enjoy a cuppa and a read. As a bonus, Evan was surprised at the number of walkers who joined him on the bench and engaged him in conversation about the book he was reading.

But when the cold and wet months came round again, no matter how far he walked or how warmly he dressed, he found it hard to shake the cold and damp out of his bones. So in winter, he stuck to the warmth indoors – the library and the cafe – and he dipped once more into the lives of his fellow customers. It helped him while away time as he waited patiently for the arrival of lighter, warmer and dryer days; days when he’d get to talk about more than items on the menu.

There once was a girl…

There once was a girl who had a little curl,
right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good, she was very very good,
but when she was bad she was horrid.

Or so went the rhyme she was told when little, for yes, she’d had a little curl in the middle of her forehead.

From the photos she brought with her, she looked angelic – rather like Shirley Temple in truth – and while no doubt in any way perfect, she struggled to believe she’d been horrid. And yet… she wondered why they kept repeating that rhyme to her. What had she done?

Her younger sister was born when she was just a year old, but all the photographic evidence is of her being a proud and loving big sister. Indeed, there are no family tales of her being anything other… and yet, there it is, that rhyme.

Of course, switching to the adult point of view, we know about first children whose noses are put out of joint when they discover they are no longer the centre of their parent’s universe, especially when there’s another cute little baby whose needs are greater than theirs. And yes, sometimes that can spill into less than ideal behaviour – dependant upon either the way it is handled or the nature of the child.

And that’s why she had come to me. Could she be hypnotised and taken back to those years, to see if there was anything…?

The memories came quickly. They were close the sisters, doing everything together, dressing the same, even treated the same. Well, except for when they got into trouble – that’s when she was told, over and over, in that serious grown-up parent voice, that she was expected to be better…. being older.

All that was clear from the memories is they were the fixed person, one to the other, in a life spent travelling. So on we progressed.

When they got older, the bickering of childhood changed into fighting – not physically, but fierce – for they were so different. Yet still they had each other’s backs; even when they fell out, she remembered that no other person was allowed to upset her little sister – and those that did, got their eye blacked.

For yes, she had a temper. And she was punished for it, being told it wasn’t ladylike, and it wasn’t nice, and that she had to learn to control it. But when what you’re experiencing is red mist… how do you control it? ‘Cos no-one made any practical suggestions about how… and she was only 11 or 12, with hormones going crazy.

As they got older, she remembered taking care her sister, especially when they were travelling alone – all the arranging, the organising, making stuff happen. Surely this was her being a good elder sister? Especially as, even now being mature adults, her sister still turns to her for help.

The recalling of memories complete, we commenced reviewing them from an adult point of view. What was clear is while that rhyme had got stuck in her memory from when she was very little, the knowledge of her temper had caused her to believe there must’ve been something – something dark and horrid that she’d done. But eventually came the acknowledgement that in a family which didn’t hold back in telling you off when you’d done wrong, while never praising what you did right, how could that something dark and horrid not be spoken about?

What we’re left with is the image of that little girl, the one with the curly hair, believing so readily that the words of that rhyme were being said about her. Now all I have to do is help her believe it is long overdue that she put down that burden.

Insomnia

The noise of people returning home drifts in through the closed windows and drawn curtains; the slam of a car door, the murmur of a TV, a radio, or voices from the surrounding flats until, as darkness falls, those voices can be heard calling loved pets back indoors for the night.

With darkness, the only sound is that of the trains passing by, changing from toots to alert the idiots playing chicken on the uncontrolled crossing to simply the whine of a diesel engine as it passes by.

At almost the midnight hour comes the final whine till the morning. From then on, the only sounds will be those of foxes procreating and nocturnal cats fighting over territory.

One joy of living in a cul-de-sac backing onto fields is that it’s rarely loud, indeed it can get really quiet at night. But when you can’t sleep and the night stretches out ahead of you, it starts to feel decidedly lonely – so the reliable regularity of that diesel whine becomes surprisingly welcome.

To fill the gap between midnight and when sounds of life return once more with the morning, it’s become my habit to get out of bed. Something about overhead lights feel too harsh now, so it’s just the lamps and the kitchen downlighter I reach for to switch on.

Some nights I’ll boil the kettle, but tonight it’s a pan of milk put on the hob to warm. Taking a milky hot chocolate to the sofa, I assemble everything for the next few hours. Tonight it’s the basics – a blanket for my lap and a cosy wrap for my neck and shoulders. On colder nights I exchange my slippers for furry socks, and on bitingly cold nights, I add an old woollen cardigan which belonged to be my father’s – partly for the warmth, but also as it made me feel held and safe.

Next, as part of generating that feeling of being held and safe, I’ll refill my diffuser with water, before adding a few drops of whatever oils my nose tell me are right for me tonight.

Having tried most the suggested sleep inducing snacks, a banana has proven the only one which doesn’t sit uncomfortably on my chest… so one will get peeled and eaten while my drink cools enough for me not to burn my mouth. For yes, I’ve done that before, only to spend the rest of the night fussing over the state of my burned tongue. I suppose you could say it gave me something to occupy my mind, but come on… that’s scratching the bottom of the finding the positives barrel.

For sleepless nights have become my regular bed fellows. Meditation, sleep stories, audible books instead of reading, warm baths with relaxing oils, I’ve even fiddled with the temperature of my bedroom and experimented with different bed linens…. all to no avail. Whatever it is that’s going on in my mind has not let itself be known to me. But it will… of that I am certain.

In the past, reading in bed was guaranteed to do the trick, and I’d regularly get hit in the face as I lost the grip on my kindle, or wake up with a book clutched to my chest. But not anymore. Now I can read an entire book without the slightest eyelid droop. I’ve tried every genre of book I can think of, but there’s no apparent difference, so now I read whatever I want to, ‘cos at least that way I get to spend the long hours doing something I enjoy.

Eventually, I’ll hear the sound of the early workers departing quietly, but I’ll wait until the return of the trains as morning service commences. I don’t start going about my day until I hear the 6am whine of the diesel. Then it’s shower, breakfast and get dressed – I am functioning, if not at the top of my game – but it’ll still be time to leave for another working day.