Mulled Vine

I loved the girl next door, and watched her daily as she frolicked amidst the summer daisies in the field behind our houses. She danced with delightful, childish exhuberance, waving her dandelion wand like the faeries of old. She knew I watched her from my dark curtained prison, and frequently cast a wave or sunlit smile my way, beckoning me to come and join her.

Oh, how I longed to, but Mama said it wasn’t right to mix with white folk. I tried to tell her this was the 21st century and racism was a thing of the past, but she just beat me with the rod and told me to grow up. Papa looked over at me and shook his head in shame before returning to his Financial Times.

“This way … mind your step.”

I trod carefully, the thrill of being led blindfold to a birthday surprise almost overwhelming in it’s intensity.

“Here we go”, spoke the gentle voice of my lifelong friend Jose, soon to be best man at my wedding; I was surprised that he had accepted so graciously since I knew he secretly loved Michaela, but he had, and now this!

“Ready?” he shouted.

I nodded, jumping a little at the sound of his cry.

“Aim!”

The chill wind swept across the wild, heathery glen, tugging at our inadequate clothing like ghostly fingers of long dead kilted warriors.

“Surely this is not the place, Sean,” she pleaded, “so desolate?”

I squeezed her hand tightly, “Up there on the rise, my uncle’s shepherd hut. I know tis not much to look at, Mare, but it will be our new home, I promise.”

She rested her other hand on the little bump that could no longer be hidden and sighed, “Ah well, come on then, we’ll catch our death out in this cold.”

I wrapped my arm around her and kissed her forehead, looking back for just a moment at the little village in the distance where the evening fires were being lit, sending fine whisps of smoke swirling into the lonely, frosty heights.

Wrinkles wound deep furrows along his face, itself a crumpled memory of handsomer years – his eyes had however not lost their bright luster and twinkled at me now with good humour. “Don’t mind me, me boy. I’m just messin’ witcha.”

I smiled tentatively in response, my young ego more than a little bruised at his insightful mirth. “You’re right of course, Grandpa. She is a pretty fine lass with broad, child-bearing hips, but tis her mind that entrances me.”

The old man laughed out loud: “A young man who loves a woman’s mind more than her hips? Well now I’ve seen everything.”

My Love is like a wild, Irish rose, her hair red like the ancient sunsets, her eyes the colour of forbidden emeralds, and her skin, ah her skin: lovely to the touch, soft as down and flecked with gold.

She stands in the doorway, looking at me, her man, and I remember the first time we met, how our hands touched, and then our lips – it were truly love at first sight. There is fire in her eyes and it makes my heart want to leap and do a little  jig.

“Jimmy O’Connell!” she says, “ye feckin’ useless man. Will ya not get up off yer arse and take out the garbage like I told yous? Why did I not listen to me old ma?”

Her name was Susan and she was my first love – at least, what passes for love at the tender age of seven.

We were inseparable as friends, and impish to the core, like the time we decided to make a real spider web in her room with 2 balls of wool and a pot of honey; I was banned for a while after that, but Susan’s tears soon sorted that out.

Then one fateful day the spelling test came. I did well as usual, but came second, having misspelled ‘honour’, however she did better and won the coveted lollipop prize. I was so proud of her, genuinely, and only a little jealous.

But then I found out she had cheated; I did not speak to her again, ever.

We stood before the priest below the altar of our Lord Hunahpu, the wind tugging at our white robes; she turned to me, “Do you love me?”
I returned her gaze and smiled, taking her hand in mine, “You know I do, my love, and I would go to the ends of the earth just for one smile from your lips.”
She looked down, but did not smile; then said, “But would you die for me?”
I fell to my knees and raised up my hands to her in imploring supplication, “Anapu, my life is yours. you know it is – why do you need to ask?”
She sobbed, tears flowing from her eyes, and turned to the priest nodding.
He raised his arm in blessing, the knife glinting in the golden Mayan sun.

She was sitting alone at the table, wearing a red rose in her lapel – the agreed sign. I kept my rose in my pocket, waiting. I wanted to scout the scene first, see what Ellie123 looked like. After all, I didn’t want to spend the evening with a complete minger. No, life was too short, and my image too fragile.
To my delight she looked fairly attractive. Petite, blonde, soft eyes – she would do. The glasses were a bit of a turn off, though. I hoped she wasn’t the bookish type.
In the end I decided to risk it. Putting my rose in my lapel, I sauntered over and smiled, flashing my new white smile.
“Ellie123?”
She looked up startled, no doubt at my good looks, then regaining her composure, looked me up and down appraisingly. I felt violated, I tell you, but waited. I was worth the wait.
Then she smiled and said, “No, I think you must have the wrong person. I’m waiting for someone else.”

She rested her head against my shoulder.
“I am so tired.”
I stroked her hair, my heart heavy with sorrow.
“I know, my love. Just try to rest, ok?”
She sighed, then suddenly sat bold upright and looked intently at the print on the wall opposite. A child’s drawing, filled with flowers, people, sun, moon and stars around a blue-green earth. I looked at her, dreading the next moment. She got up, went to the picture, peering at it closely, tracing around the earth with her hand.
“I see it,” she said, “I get it.” Then she turned to me wild-eyed.
“Do you see?”
I wished I did, but I didn’t, and shook my head.
“You never do,” she said, disappointed.
But I did. I saw everything; the gradual descent of the woman I loved most in all the world, into this.
It was her, but at the same time not her.
“Why don’t you come and sit down?”
She looked at me, her eyebrows furrowed as if struggling with some immense internal conflict.
“I can trust you.” It was at the same time a question as a statement. Then she sat down again, resting her head as before.
“I’m so tired.”
My heart wanted to break into a thousand bitter pieces but I didn’t let it. I had to remain in control.

Where was that doctor?

~~~~

“We’ll take good care of her,” the nurse said.
My eyes filled with tears as they walked her away, past the double doors, to the inpatient psychiatric ward. I had visions of white, padded cells, screaming, mutilated madmen, and leering, rapist guards with brutal hands. Tears in my eyes, I turned to the nurse. I was losing control.
“She will be Ok?”
She looked at me, a kindly old woman, and touched my arm.
“She will be fine, you’ll see.”
But I didn’t. How could this be made better? How could the God we both loved and served allow this to happen? An age old question to which I knew all the hollow intellectual answers, but now it was mine, cutting brutally through my heart.
I walked out of the hospital into the chilly night. The stars twinkled brightly overhead around a kindly moon, but I found no comfort. Great sobs escaped from deep inside me, and I looked up at the hand of the Creator, and cursed Him.

~~~~

She was playing Scrabble with some of the other patients. I hadn’t slept a wink and hurried back to the hospital as soon as visiting hours permitted. I approached cautiously, watching, waiting. She looked up, her face pale and wan, her eyes unrecognising. I said hello, but she looked away.
“The medication is quite strong in the beginning”, said the nurse at my side. “Give her time.”
I left, never before feeling so alone, but suppressed my anguish. The kids needed picking up from school.

~~~~

She stood at the top of the stairs, just woken from a nap, and pointed accusingly at my mother who had been tidying up.
“I don’t want you in my house.”
My mother looked at me, her eyes full of hurt, looking for comfort, but I had none to give. I shrugged.

~~~~

The dream now seems over, the nightmare nothing but a painful memory. Thanks to the marvel of medicine I have her back, or least someone like her. I feared her at first, expecting IT to pounce at any minute and wreck our lives like it did before. How I hated that illness that toyed with her mind. But then I learned to love her, to really love her, not the soppy romantic promises of a young fool who vows for better or for worse but knows not what he’s saying.
But I haven’t quite forgiven God, I don’t think, but He’s big enough to take that, and if not, well fuck it – I reckon I’ve been prepared for hell.

She had a small, angular face, dark eyebrows and bright, piercing blue eyes. She held her hands together in front of her, looking at me anxiously.
“You want … how you say .. sexy?”
Sexy? At my age? I most certainly didn’t, well at least not with a complete stranger, pretty or not.
I shook my head and made to pass on, but she reached out and grabbed my arm.
“Please. I give … good time. Little money.”
I turned to her, looked into her hungry, imploring eyes, and smiled.
“How much?”
Her anxious expression returned.
“Tventy punds.”
I reached into my wallet, pulled out a £20 note, and gave it to her.
She looked at me expectantly, then took hold of my coat lapel.
“You see … I do nice.”
I took her hand gently and lowered it, shaking my head.
“No. You take the money and go home.”
She looked at me quizzically.
“Go home,” I repeated.