does anybody ever read this blog?

Forty one days before the Germans went into Poland my family went to Margate, and Father passed so briefly through my life. Back home in East Ham, the summer was close and muggy. There was a sugar bakery near our house and the fumes had gotten unbearable, seeping and reeking with clammy sweetness sticking to the very air we breathed. There were times when you felt you were inhaling syrup and it set your throat on fire, so you can imagine how we welcomed our escape to the coast. In her quieter moments, Mother would soothe me with talk of how ‘Father’s skin had a glow smooth as them gold canes stacked by the wall’ as we walked along by the bakers. ‘Beautiful Nettie, he was. Just beautiful.’ And that was all she’d ever say, lifting her eyes to the clouds and making me feel impolite to probe any further. And so I never did. Somehow this brought me relief, as well as a funny kind of consolation.

Margate’s sea air was meant to blow away the heat, but looking back I wonder if it fanned a different kind of fire for me. One that never did go out. When I asked Mother why my skin was darker than most or why Father had gone away or what it meant when the girls on the corner sneered ‘my golly’ and pulled at my cardi for no good reason I could see, Mother told me that ‘all kinds of misfortune could befall a man with his background’ and that it wasn’t for me ‘to be querying the mysteries of God’s creation.’ Sometimes she said X and sometimes she said Y but basically she said that that was that, that I should be grateful for small mercies, and that he wasn’t coming back. Was gone for good, in fact. He could be dead for all she knew (sign of the cross). And how was she to know that there was someone watching him so closely and so ready to tell me all that they knew, even though I’d never asked them for it?

*
Isle of Wight, Ramsgate, Southend, Cliftonville, Shoeburyness – we went to all the greats, the fun-filled resorts and pleasure beaches of the day. Though we were far from what you might call flush, our merry outings were a matter of custom to the family and we put savings aside all year round, like alms intended for the Church collection box.

That summer of 1939 I plunged my toes into the cool yellow sand of Margate and watched hoof-prints loom and fade at the shoreline as my cousins rode on donkeys down the bay. We were staying in the Granville Lodgings near the beach and Mother and I shared a room overlooking nothing but a white brick wall that plunged to a damp court-yard below. I did so cherish the open skies and long horizons of the coast when they were laid out before me. And I loved to swim in those dear dear English waters. I slept in my bathing costume some nights and each morning, before the others woke, I slipped from my bed and stole barefoot down the stairs. I ran across the Prom to the pool on the foreshore, inhaling great gulps of the day’s bright beginning, just to make sure I got enough of that clean air into my lungs to see me right til next time, just like Mother said I should.

Some mornings groups of fishermen would be on the front, fixing the nets they had draped on the railings and I wanted to ask if they had ever seen mermaids (though I must admit I never did). I longed to swim in the open sea but I was alone then, and I couldn’t bear the thought of seaweed grasping at my ankles or fish-hooks stabbing through my skin, never mind disappearing down the quicksand in Walpole Bay, so I stuck to the saltwater pool in the Lido. If truth be told, when you ducked and squinted your eyes at the water level you could imagine you were floating on the deep blue sea anyway, paddling and tumbling and basking just like the seals and porpoises in the Great Atlantic Ocean.

As a family we were accustomed to the water – seafarers and stevedores for generations, we’d been. Even Auntie Ellen who didn’t like to get her hair wet had won First Prize in the 1929 swim season and Uncle Jack was said never to be happier than when tied to a mast in high seas. Later, their son John would swim across the Channel smothered in goose fat while we all waited on the docks at Calais to cheer him over the finish line. At the waterside Auntie Annie whispered lewd jokes about how his woollen trunks’d probably shrunk in the sea and we stared right through our shame as he heaved himself onto the jetty. I say ‘we,’ as if we were united, but really that was only the half of it. We were and we weren’t, but there was so much I didn’t know. There was so much I would never really understand.

When I arrived at the Lido on that Sunday, July 24th 1939, the only other people at the pool were an old man in an old bathing suit and the Lifeguard on a high-chair at the side who had the look of Laurence Olivier about him: same amorous eyes and dimpled chin. I liked the way he smiled and nodded me good morning. In the cubicle at the poolside, I chucked off my clothes and sandles, not even bothering to hang them on the hook, and then dived straight in to the water and started practising front-crawl. No warm-up that morning since it was what you might call bracing, but I loved it all the same. I remember I could do five strokes without taking a breath and then when I did it was only from the side of my mouth and my face went straight back down in the water and my arms propelled me onwards as if I were a torpedo. I was hoping to compete next season, though I hadn’t said as much to anyone.

Up and down, up and down the lengths of the pool I went. I’d done 16 already – nearly a quarter of a mile – before I noticed a small group of boys had gathered at the waterside to stare. The Lifeguard was crouching down and beckoning me to the side. The boys were in a huddle, looking my way, exchanging words and glances. The Lifeguard seemed very aggravated, and blew his whistle til his face grew stern.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to get out miss,’ his cheeks were red and his mouth had become awkward. The muscles of his jaw were pulsating. ‘These boys need the pool for training miss. Out you get.’ He stood up. ‘Come on now.’
‘What, now? Straight away?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Now. Out.’
Those boys didn’t look like they were in training, I must say. They looked podgy with puppy fat and grey about the gills to me. But the Lifeguard’s manner had taken such a turn that I was startled from the pool. The boy with the blunt cut hair had stepped forward to glare at me with a look that seemed so full of hatred that I didn’t much want to hang around.

I hauled myself up the aluminium steps at the side of the pool and dressed quickly, slinging the damp towel across my shoulder and tasting the salt upon my lips. As I walked past one of the boys gave me a hard little kick and a sneering smile – surreptitious like, so’s not to be noticed. He muttered something that I couldn’t catch beneath his breath. I winced at the kick and his pals let out a quiet cheer, so I didn’t bother rub the welt that I could feel was rising on my shin. A crisp breeze skimmed across my forehead and I looked down at my unbuckled sandals, nonplussed by what it was that made me feel such shame. In all honesty, I sensed the fire rising up inside and wanted so to hit them in the face for cutting short my swim and kicking me just like a bleedin’ mule would kick a dog. But instead I was just frightened, as if there were a whole crowd of glares and not these boys’ strange eyes boring into me. I knew right there and then that I had to cut my losses, beat a swift retreat and make my way back on these legs and feet that didn’t seem like mine no more.

*

When I arrived at the Granville Lodgings, breakfast had already started and I could hear the clink of spoons on china and Uncle Frank’s Capstan Navy laugh as I reached the bottom step. I felt so out of sorts, like I’d been set adrift. Mother was in the window with Aunt Kate. They waved me in ‘before you catch your death,’ and stood up to fuss and cluck and scrub me with the towel. Auntie Ellen was in curlers and Rose was in the corner trying to make sense of her ruffles with the Premier Laundwell iron while everyone else ate bread and jam and bacon and hoped no one’d notice if they supped their tea from saucers.
‘You mind you get clear of all that salt young lady before you enter church this morning,’ commanded Aunt Kate.
‘Never mind church our Nettie,’ said Uncle Frank grabbing me round the shoulder, ‘we’re all washing for posterity this morning aren’t we, Annie, eh?!’
‘That’s right,’ Auntie Annie grinned, ‘it ain’t a holiday without snaps! The Sunbeam man’ll be over here before long my girl. Now you get yourself upstairs and ready for the snap of the century. I want everyone outside and looking nice by 10 o’clock sharp.’ And so Mother shoved me gently up the stairs.

Auntie Annie and Uncle Frank always insisted on doing photos, whenever we went away. Even now I’ve got a battered case full of printed post cards, negatives, receipts and faded albums filled with the faces of people I don’t even know. When I look back at the snapshots of that July morning, it makes me glad to see that some of us spared time to crack a smile and put aside all thoughts of what we had waiting for us around that corner. They put me in the second row to hide my un-pressed slacks and I must say my shoulders do look rather broad in those puffy short white sleeves. Everyone seems so full of sunshine and so laid back, though I myself can see the trouble on my face. I often think of them as the very last of our clear moments before Father passed by me and the war came through and took it all away: Uncle Jack’s legs, Frank’s life, Ellen’s joy and the little ones until they returned, orphaned by the Blitz.

The man from the Sunbeam Studio turned up prompt so’s to catch everyone in their Sunday best – except that the boys Stan and Richie were still running around in trunks and pumps like little ballerinas and Cynthia was refusing to put on her frock. We were 22 women that day, as opposed to just 9 of the men. The older boys were already away, three months in to their military training – Royal Navy – what with war being in the offing and them wishing they could follow in their fathers’ footsteps. Those of ours that hadn’t gone were only spared on the basis of being dockers, a ‘reserved occupation’ essential to the war effort. And then there was Bernard who wasn’t able-bodied anyway. You can see him in the back row next to Frank and Jack, looking all wan and weedy.

*

After the photographs, I went upstairs, told to change into a skirt and take off that daft turban because what did I think I looked like, Lady Muck, or some third rate starlet from the movies. We weren’t in America, you know, Mother and Aunt Kate said before they left the Sunbeam Man behind and got on their way to church. I was in our bedroom rushing to fix up my hair when there was a knock upon the bedroom door.
‘Miss Cates?’
‘Yes?’
‘Call for Mrs Cates. Says its urgent.’
‘Right. Coming!’
I put my brush down, thrilled at the thought of a telephone call. I leapt up and out of the door, almost knocking down the messenger as I flew down the stairs two at a time to the hallway. We still didn’t have a phone at home.

Mrs Johnson was standing by the dresser, holding the receiver in one hand and a bundle of washing beneath the other arm. I smiled, and pointlessly ran the flats of my hands over my fresh skirt, and took the phone from her.
‘Yes? … Hello?’ I said, hoping I would sound just like Bette Davis in Jezebel. Mrs Johnson looked puzzled and walked away down the hall.
‘Olive Cates?’ the man said.
‘I’m afraid she’s not here. This is Miss Cates. Miss Nettie Cates.’
‘Right, well,’ he cleared his throat, ‘you don’t know me I’m afraid love, but I have some information that’ll see you right.’ The man spoke with an accent that came from home, make no mistake. ‘You can tell your mother that she will find one Harold McKay to the West of the pier this afternoon if she goes looking. He’ll be there with a group. Be sure to go and find him. He’ll be getting his deserts.’
‘I say, now look here … ‘
The line burred in my ear and the caller had gone. I replaced the receiver carefully and slowly returned to my room.

I set the photo back down on my mothers mantelpiece, I positioned it askkued now, it appeared out of place in-between the neatly arranged crystal vase and the marble clock. As I counted the bodies inside the photo again, I pressed down on the glass leaving my fingerprints behind.

Five people; my mum, my dad, my twin sister Kimberly, my brother Jonathan and me. The Campbell family . I allowed my fingers to traced the red oak frame , it’s still shiny, almost brand new. This wasn’t the sort of photo that had been proudly displayed in the hall in like the other family photos or passed around at family get together’s , BBQs, Sunday roast or christening.

This particular photo had its place on the mantel in the far corner , virtually hidden behind other objects. This was the type of photo to only be glanced at in passing, never touched or spoken about. If I think about it, I can honestly say this is the one and only full family photo that had ever been taken with the all five of the Campbell’s in it.

As I fix my eyes on my twin sister Kimberly, I wondered if the number would have stayed at five if it hadn’t been for ‘that’ winters evening. September 1993, the leaves had just fallen from the trees, the short wet English summer was well and truly over. Autumn had give its wink of approval to winter and the real cold began to settle over Hammersmith.

The Campbell family shouldn’t have ventured out into central London that day. Mum made Kimberly and me both wear thick itchy woollen scarves, Kimberly complained her scarf was scratching her nose and chin.

Jonathan couldn’t find his, he didn’t want to go out anyway, he wanted to stay in and complete the final level of his computer game Galactic Aliens Invader. Mum wasn’t bothered if we didn’t go out this one weekend. She was exhausted from a full week of working and looking after us but dad wanted to go , it was Campbell tradition that every first Saturday of the month was the family day out, winter or no winter.

We all secretly thought dad loved this family time the most. A day at the arcades in Piccadilly Circus or a family movie followed by popcorn and ice cream. I always choose the big green and yellow gobstoppers from the sweet counter over chocolate ice-cream, I loved the way they left my hands and tongue stained in a sweet multi-coloured goo.

We set out at 3pm a little later then we usually do. The last tickets at the cinema to see the Lion King had been sold to another family of five; the only other option was the Ghost Busters movie that Jonathan was dying to see but Kimberly and I at the age of seven were too young to see the certificate of an over twelve movie.

Mum had said it was far too cold for ice cream so dad was running out of ideas. I remember that the wind had been blowing quite fiercely that day, I saw an old man chase a five pound note down the street, he caught it but not before bumping into a lamppost .

The wind rushed past my cheeks and whistled in my ears , people wrapped their coats around them like shields and hurried to where they were going. It was that same wind that blew the five of us into the photo shop that day.

Dad was like a small kid, excited with his discovery, a small shop about seven doors down for the cinema in the same complex next to the bowling alley, I’d never noticed it before. The windows displaying large portraits of people in Victorian and Tudor clothing. The photos had been taken In sepia and black and white, some with hair lines and light burns through them for effect.

Mum explained to Kimberly, Jonathan and I that we were all going to dress up like we were from the American civil war period. I said the outfits looked silly. Kimberly said in a mater of fact way that this is what people wore in the olden days but I don’t think she really knew.

There was so many styles to choose from, I choose a peach silk dress with a pale satin sash. The matching hat had a ridiculous feather. It was so big it just flopped to the side, Kimberly choose a similar style in blue, dad and Jonathan were allowed to hold fake pistols, Kimberly and I tried.

to convince Jonathan to swap his pistol gun with our umbrellas. They were made out of cloth and didn’t even open.

Mum had the nicest dress of all , layers of lace and silk fabric with extra padding underneath. It was so big an assistant from the shop had to help her into some sort of cage and corset before the dress was fitted over it.

The photographer arranged us with mum in the middle and me and Kimberly on either side of her. I was hot and uncomfortable.

The photographer told us not to smile to make the photo look authentic.

A few tourists and couples busied themselves trying on clothes and choosing their theme. The five of us posed for a few more photos before the photographer called “that’s a wrap.” Kimberly and I got to choose which photo would be printed and framed before running off to the changing rooms.

mum yank the dress over my arms while tutting and telling me to hold my arms up straight. It was Kimberly’s turn to have a hot head now. I bent down and crawled under the rack of dresses to find her, she wasn’t there, I went back to where we had been sitting to get our photos taken; she wasn’t there either. Mum and dad started looking for Kimberly too. We looked near the props section. Maybe Kimberly had gone to take a closer look at the plastic pistols , she wasn’t there nor was she in any of the nine changing rooms either.

I think I threw up and passed out while looking for her. I remember dad carrying me to the car and my trainers being soaked in something acidic, from the back seat I could hear mum talking to the police in hysterics. I covered my ears, I knew her head was spinning because mine was too.

The police later informed us that a paedophile had been praying on children in the area. Kimberly was gone, we never found her . Dad and mum put up’ missing child’ poster all around Hammersmith and Chelsea. The neighbours all chipped in but nothing came of that.

As the weeks turned into months there was no new information. Months blurred into years. When I was old enough to ride the bus on my own, on several occasions after school I would visit the photo shop where Kimberly disappeared. The shop was under new management but the shop assistant knew why I was there.

I would check under the tables next to the hats. I really don’t know what I was hoping to find. All I could imagine was Kimberly huddled somewhere, frightened and scared, pulling at her itchy woollen scarf

.

As I matured into a teenage and Jonathan left for Bournemouth university the arguments between mum and dad became more frequent.

We all knew my mother blamed my father for making us go out on such a windy day, my dad blamed my mum for not keeping an eye on Kimberly by the time I moved out four years later they hardly spoke at all.

Its been twenty years since Kimberly went missing. I straightened the photo and kissed my mum on the cheek and thanked her as she entered the living room with my birthday cake, five plates and twenty seven red candles. All four of us took our place on the sofa . Mum pressed the timer on the camera, she carefully cut five slices, one for me, one for dad, one for herself and Jonathan and the last slice is always set next to an empty chair for Kimberly just in case she is found and comes home one day.

At last the setting has begun – a jet-stream hangs like a chalk mark boasting: one to the sun. Midsummer. Night descends – gently, certainly – through gold and candy peach to light-less lapiz depths, but I am not scared. Traces of jasmine, fried chicken, idle rose and honey-suckles on hot tarmac and the soles of my shoes lick, stick, linger on the pavement. Translucent seed heads bank and shine and sway and serenade the murmurs of young lovers as they skim and roll along the limestone town hall walls. Beyond traffic, the cellophane and flowers bristle on a railing for the face on a t-shirt hung by a mother’s mourning. The electric moons of street-lamps rise again and all that she can do is mouth mute warnings and rewind, replay and fail to erase that doom of a day. Please God. Not him. Please no. Oh God. And the whisper of a boy’s last breath escapes from the landing of a lonely, acrid stairwell: there is truth and there are rumours but I don’t feel scared.

Here I am: Standing.

I am standing on my heights; standing all alone. I don’t recall how long I have been standing here.

Days!

My days are my nights. My nights are my days. I could never tell the difference between night and day.

I lost count. I count no more.

I have been standing here so long that I don’t recall when I arrived here. I don’t remember.

I just don’t want to remember.

I am cold. I am very cold.

I have only one friend that I call the void. I can never have a better friend. This always allows me to expand. There is no limit for my expansion. I like it.

I am getting big, so big that I can move no more. Did I ever move? I don’t recall.

I am standing here, on my heights all alone and I got only one friend that is the void.

I am invincible.

I can’t look down. I don’t want to look down. There is nothing to see there.

I’ll look straight in front of me. This is better. There is nothing in front of me!

I should look elsewhere. There is no elsewhere.

I should look down! I can’t look down.

I have to stand here. I am standing here! I am not moving!

I am invincible.

I’ll try to move just a little as I feel tired from standing in my place that long. Just a bit.  Then I will come back to my place. I should never leave my place.

I am moving; it seems fine to move a little!

I am slipping! I should hang on! I am slipping! I can’t hang on!

There is nothing to hold me. The void couldn’t hold me.

I am falling.

I thought I am invincible; I fell.

Here I am: Falling.

I am so afraid. I should have never moved from my place.

I am so afraid and I am falling. I try to hang on, but the more I try, the more I get shattered into pieces.

I am so afraid. I am so angry. I got so angry while I am falling. I found loneliness only as friend.

I am furious. I destroyed everything I touch during my fall.

I heard them calling me names. It hurts. It hurts so much. They even called me avalanche!

I never expected to be called like that. I am only falling. I am only falling all alone.

I am ravishing and bringing down with me everything that stands on my way.

I am also bringing down myself.

Myself?! Myself exists no more.

I am shattered into pieces all over the place.

I thought I would never stop falling; here I lay.

Here I am: Lying.

I am weak, shattered and almost dead. I am no longer that invincible. Invincible, I was!!

I lost myself. I don’t recognize my body anymore.

I am crying. I am crying. I am crying. All these tears gave me strength to rise.

Again! Again! Again!

I will give it a go and look what could be, there, in these places that I never wanted to look at.

I started running all around trying to explore and to understand. I faced lot of obstacles, but this time I did not try to break them, I learned to move around them. To my surprise, this gave me strength that I did not expect and push me to move more and more here and there.

I, who used to be always standing on his place.

My journey made me stronger but also turned me heavier. I am heavy full of faults. My body is full of mud. And I am tired. I am tired of running all alone.

I thought I would never meet you; here you are.

Here you are: Glittering.

You glitter in your place. It was the first time I saw you. It is the day that I remember well. It was early spring, the nicest day I’ve ever known. I was ashamed. I tried to hide. You saw me, came to me and stayed. You merged with me. You purified me. I don’t know if I got your soul or if you got my body. We are just one. You brought joy to my life. We were happy. We made other lives happy. Void and loneliness existed no more. Fulfillment and care took their place.

I thought I would never leave; I left.

Here I am: Flying.

I am flying away. I do remember the day when I had to leave. It was a hot summer day when I stopped breathing. Breathing?! Did I ever breathe? It was the day when my soul left my body. No. It can’t be that. It was the day when my body and soul just left. I see you from above. You are still glittering under the sunshine with your usual charm and glamour. You are so beautiful! You will always be.

I see you fading away as the wind is transporting me. I don’t know where I am going, but I know that I will join the dance and will adjust my rhythm to the song of the wind. 

I am riding the wind and wandering in all directions.

“Here I see this lovely lady with her pink necklace not quite diamonds but worth more because of love. I admire Francine’s treasure. Here I see a flag flying high next to the old Englishman’s house. I avoid bumping into this huge white horse fifty meters high.  I am shuffling around like things that go bump in the night. It is just like seconds of May. Look out there: Lights go on. Lights go off. Time had to stop at 9:05; Freyer Montague’s flowers always stayed the same. I saw robbery, murder by accident and stabbing in the back. Guessing, I also made sometimes. I even felt squeezed like a chocolate bar between the soya milk, peanut butter and a sandwich. There she is: This crazy woman knocking on Mr. Clarke door. Also, I saw Caroline not realizing that her date had started without her.

It is bloody freezing tonight. Collar up, cap down and scarf tight”.

I am seeing lot of stories different than mine. I am enjoying them all. Stories are always nice.

The wind might bring back as it might take me away.

I thought I would never be happy; I am happy.

Here I am happy.

I am happy because I know. I know what my name is.

My name is H2O!

It was the first minute of that day when Jeff opened his eyes. At this moment, Jeff woke up, looked at the window while he was lying on his bed. He could see a clear blue sky with a nice green tree in front of his window. Jeff liked to watch the landscape that offers him his window at least for a minute when he woke up. Here come the birds as usual. He considered that they are here to salute him. He enjoyed watching them trying to enter his crystal clear clean window. Jeff often wondered if the birds are always the same or just some other birds. He did not mind at this moment the authenticity and thought deep inside of himself that it is not important as long as there are birds on the tree and they are trying to enter his window. He kept always his window closed; the birds never had the chance to pay him a visit.

As Jeff was enjoying the scenery, he did not notice that he was running out of time before he goes out of his flat. He jumped out of his bed, walked in his flat bare feet. He liked the feeling of the wood under his toes that gave him a sense of belonging to nature or part of it. He filled his kettle with water to boil it and prepare his coffee. He went to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

It was the second minute of the second time when Jeff opened his eyes. He woke up a minute late as he spent a late night out dating. The sky was not that blue that day and the birds might have looked a little less. He did not have his minute to admire them or enjoy the scenery that offered him his window. The window was just a bit dusty even that he had cleaned it lately from inside. He just salute the birds and again wondered if they are the same as before, but as usual, he didn’t mind if they are not as long as there are birds in front of his window. Again, the birds did not have the chance to pay him a visit as Jeff still kept his window closed.

He moved out of his bed, put on the kettle to boil water for his coffee and went to the bathroom, did not brush his teeth but start shaving. He opened the tab, put some water on his hands and brought them to his face. He took the shaving foam, pushed some out on his hands, put them on his face. He was delighted to feel the freshness of the soap. He indicated on his face where to start and precede shaving as he watched his face, he smiled.

It was the third minute of the third moment when Jeff opened his eyes, but a bit slowly. Jeff was tired of all the circles that he has drawn around him. As he is obviously running late, he couldn’t watch the scenery that his window usually offers. He couldn’t notice that the birds got less than usual as his window is clear no more and got dustier. He just assumed that after all it is not a nice sky to look at and he never heard the birds to enable him to tell if they are out there or not. So, he just got up, put on the kettle to boil water for his coffee and entered the bathroom, but he did not brush his teeth, did not shave, just looked at the mirror and couldn’t really recognise the guy he saw, dropped off his clothes and went under the shower.

Jeff adjusted the water temperature and enjoyed the falling warm water on his skin. This gave him a refreshing feeling. He had to stop this pleasure as he was running again out of time.

It was the fourth minute of any remaining day when Jeff couldn’t open his eyes as usual. He was so tired that nothing meant any more to him. The sky had no colour that day or he assumed it has no colour. No bird visited him or he assumed that no bird visited him. He thought after all, they were never the same birds and that is why they did not have a reason to come back so why would he wait or expect them to be there. But, he opened the window hoping that a bird will come to salute him while he is preparing himself. He skipped all the usual things he does and just put on the kettle to boil water for his coffee and came back to the room to dress up before he leaves. He thought he could take his coffee on his way out. Jeff couldn’t decide what to wear that day, just like any other day. He couldn’t make up his mind, so he just took the same clothes as the day before that are the same one of the day before “the day before”.

 It was just the fifth minute of that day when Jeff couldn’t open his eyes. Jeff just woke up leaving his body lying on the bed. Jeff did not see any window, there was no window; Jeff did not see any sky, there was no sky; Jeff did not see any tree, there was no tree; Jeff did not see any bird, there were no birds. Jeff sat next to his feet and waited. He thought he can at least have his coffee now but maybe it would be a good idea, for a change, to have a cup of tea.

Yesterday, I entered the box….

I was standing for long in front of the box wondering if I should enter or not….

I always wanted to enter this box but I never did.

Yesterday, I found myself inside the box….

Inside, it was very bright, so bright. I felt happy inside the box. I wanted to see it all. I did not want to miss any of it.

I kept my eyes widely open.

I even opened them wider and longer than I should for me to see more.

Yesterday, I entered the box of light; I found myself in the dark.

Yesterday, I got myself in the dark even though I entered the box of light.

My eyes were open, but I saw nothing… I am in the dark inside the box of light.

Yesterday, I got lost in the box… Yesterday, I just entered the box.

Today,

Today,

Today,

Today,

Today,?!

Today, I am still trapped in Yesterday.

The scene opens on the inside of MARJORIE PINKERTON’S
house. It’s decor is neutral and tasteful, understated,
with neat looking sofas and plain painted walls. There are
many books on the sagging shelves but that is the only real
‘decoration.’ She is sitting at a simple, round wooden
table towards the back of the house, in the large
downstairs room near a window. Through the other window at
the far end of the room, the blurred profiles of plants and
trees can be seen. Occasionally birdsong can be heard. It
is quiet, calm. There is a newspaper open in front of her.
She has been having a cup of tea and doing the crossword.

Marjorie is an older woman; in her late sixties probably,
but without the agedness of age. She has quick pretty pale
blue eyes, a grey bob and an air of understated chic – not
groomed or showy. She is around 5ft 5, carrying only a few
extra pounds on her slender frame. Marjorie wears pearl
stud earrings and a cornflower blue cashmere jumper.
Although usually an outward looking person, today Marjorie
seems ponderous, far away in her own thoughts. She looks
straight up into the camera as if she knows she is being
watched. She starts to speak as the camera pans downwards
and comes to rest at the opposite side of the table.

MARJORIE
Who do you think I am? Miss
bloody Marple? Not likely dear.
It’s not as glamorous as all that
you know.

She twists round to take down a box from the shelf behind
her. She pulls out a kingsize cigarette from a packet
inside the box. She taps the cigarette on the table and
lights up. It seems surprising. She doesn’t look like a
smoker. Thick spirals of smoke ascend and catch the dim
light seeping through the windows at the day’s end.

MARJORIE (CONT’D)
No. I’ve spent less of my life
in country houses than beneath
damp railway arches, behind hotel
bars or in the shadows of a
city’s side-streets, for my
sins… Might not look like it
at first, but that’s all part of
the job, the skill… For my
sins.

Flicks ash over the crumbs in the saucer by her mug.

MARJORIE (CONT’D)
(loudly, almost indignant) What?
May just as well wash the ash off
the china as some ‘wellappointed’
ashtray.I always thought they were such
unnecessary items. So surplus to
requirements.
(BEAT)

MARJORIE (CONT’D)
Anyway, I have lived a life pared
down and that’s that. I’m used to
it. I might even like it. Sure I
have my little guilty pleasures
(gestures to cigarette in her
hand), but on the whole I’ve kept
things straightforward.
Uncluttered. In a manner of
speaking.

Drags on cigarette a few times, blowing expansive plumes at
the window pane.

MARJORIE (CONT’D)
When I was a kid I wanted to be a
nun. Or perhaps an artist. I
found all that catholic
iconography so inspiring. And
the colours! Emerald and
amethyst, ruby and gold. My
grandmother always said that
these were the riches of the
spirit and I, for one, was
dazzled by them. I’m sure it was
the gore dripping from the
crucifixion in the chapel that
gave me such a stomach for those
things later on. Ah…

Smokes; absent-mindedly cleans her nails.
(BEAT)

MARJORIE (CONT’D)
In a way, I suppose my life has
been more monastic than you might
think. That’s the thing about
intelligence: irregular hours,
discretion, dedication, silence,
and getting around so’s not to be
noticed. And then there’s the
immersion. Or ‘Going Undercover’
as its called. A more
melodramatic inaccuracy I could
not imagine! … Sometimes it
seems that I have lived so many
lives in one. I should see myself
as lucky, I suppose. Count my
blessings… Maybe that’s what
being an actress is really like.
Funny – I played an actress once.
Now there’s a Russian doll for
you – acting an actress acting
(her eyes twinkle). I have
played so many roles: social
worker, heiress, shopkeeper,
nurse, estate agent, switchboard
operator, banker, typist,
housewife, lawyer, traffic
warden, hooker. Yes, hooker.
More than once. Market trader. I
had a stall on Deptford market
for almost two years selling
kitchen products while observing
the organised brutality taking
place in the lock up across the
way. You wouldn’t think a thing
like that could be state
sponsored, but those networks are
truly sprawling. Truly.
(BEAT)

MARJORIE (CONT’D)
Living all those other lives…
it’s no wonder that I didn’t get
my own. Not really.
(BEAT)

Stubs her cigarette out decisively on the saucer and shoves
it away.

MARJORIE (CONT’D)
Of course, I’m a Professional
Investigator now. Exintelligence.
(BEAT)

MARJORIE (CONT’D)
Such an awful way to put it. As
if somehow I am no longer in
possession of my faculties …
(BEAT)

MARJORIE (CONT’D)
Maybe that is true. Yesterday,
just as I reached the end of my
path, I was stunned stock-still
by such deep stabbing pains
across my chest that I had to
stop and fold my palms upon the
damp stones of the wall.
It was all I could do to bend
forward and drop my head, wishing
myself right out of my skin…
But not like that… never that
(shakes head, points finger
upwards).
(BEAT)

Leans forward and talks straight to camera, fervently, as
if gripped by an urgent need to tell someone about this,
share the truth.

MARJORIE (CONT’D)
In that moment, the distilled
regret of so many turned down
chances poured upon my head as if
God himself was christening me
again at the wrong end of my
life. (breathes, slows her
speech). I sucked in the fog that
hung above the green as if it
were the Holy Spirit itself. I
pledged that I would walk St
James’s Way, like I always said I
would. I will get to Santiago…
And then the pain just lifted,
like a miracle. It was just like
a miracle. I tell you.

She stops and pauses. Takes a few breaths, looks a little
uncomfortable, as if she knows that this kind of talk -
this outburst – normally only comes from the mouths of overexuberant
religious enthusiasts. She rights herself. Takes on a more pragmatic air.

MARJORIE (CONT’D)
Anyway, the walk will do me good.
Santiago de Compostela: that
Plain of Stars. (pronounces) Ste -
lla… I read somewhere that
that was a corruption. That it
didn’t mean plain of stars at
all, but quite the opposite -
something to do with burial
grounds. (dismisses this
information with a wave of her
hand) – there is some ongoing
pseudo-theological debate
involving the church and the
tourist board, but I really
couldn’t care less for that. No.
…
(BEAT)

MARJORIE (CONT’D)
Ste – lla… I have seen so many
people’s aspirations soar towards
the stars, then tumble at a
revelation … And I have, of
course, seen precisely the
reverse – ascending hopes that
seem to find new heights from
every summit. Those are the
joyful ones. False accusations
of adultery, grand philanthropic
gestures that truly aren’t just
fronts to launder money. There
are good people in the world you
know. Deceit cannot exist
without its bold antithesis.
(BEAT)

MARJORIE (CONT’D)
I have often wondered what it
must be like to be a priest in
Santiago, delivering the same
pilgrim’s Mass over and over each
day. Now that’s a job -
(corrects herself) vocation – I
have never covered. Must be
deadening, I’d have thought … I
always expected that I would find
myself there. My grandmother had
her Galician scallop on the
mantelpiece – fanned grooves all
leading to one place. Sometimes
I would put my tongue on it and
taste the sea.
(BEAT)

Inexplicably, Marjorie stops to brush down her jumper,
folding and unfolding her cuffs back neatly, ensuring they
are equal on each arm. She clasps her hands and places
them gently on the table again in front of her.

MARJORIE (CONT’D)
It’s ironic really. No one’s
certain if the relics of St.
James or some heretic are what
lie there. In the end perhaps
that’s not what matters. Isn’t it
faith’s convergence, not the
truth, that really counts?

She sits back in her chair, unclasps her hands and pulls
another cigarette from the box. She lights it up and turns
towards the window.

I picked up the portable phone which was ringing insistently.  ”Hello,” I said.

“Is that David Holmes?” asked a friendly, efficient-sounding woman; in her 30’s I would guess, and with no discernible accent.  ”Yes. Who’s that?” I replied.  The caller said, “You don’t know me, David, but my name is Susan Parr, and I work for a company called Find Time…”

“Sorry,” I interrupted, “but whatever it is you’re selling, I’m not interested.”  I hesitated, feeling that I’d been a little rude.  ”David, I understand your view, but I’d appreciate it if you could give me a few moments of your time.  I’m not trying to sell you anything,” she continued.  Tolerantly I replied “I’ve heard that one before, but go on, as long as you’re quick.”

“Thank you, David.  David, I would ask you for the moment not to ask any questions, but please could you go through to the kitchen and look at the card on the pin-board?”  I found this rather puzzling – how did she know where the kitchen was or whether or not there was a pin-board?

However, I did as I was asked, and saw that the only item on the board was a piece of A4 card.  At the top of it were printed the words FIND TIME, underneath which was a photograph of me with a woman, who I had never seen before.  ”David, could I ask you to read out the name of the person pictured with you on the card?”  asked my caller.  I looked at the name printed below the photo.  ”Susan Parr,”  I said.  ”OK, I think you are going to have to explain to me what is going on, right now!” I insisted, my voice shaking slightly.

“David, my company specializes in providing patient-specific support for a variety of frontal lobe trauma-related issues,” said Susan.  I took a moment to consider this, before responding “Are you telling me that I have brain damage?”

“We don’t like to use that term, David, but what I can tell you is that on the 2nd of February, you suffered trauma in a car accident which caused you to have difficulties with your short-term memory.  Since that time you only remember a day at a time.  Every night when you sleep, your short-term memory is erased, and when you wake up you have no knowledge of the day before.”

“This is getting ridiculous,” I said.  ”What proof do I have that this is not a scam?”

“David, I quite understand your suspicion, which is why we have procedures in place.  I’ve been visiting you since you left hospital on the first of March.  Please could you turn the card over and tell me what is on there?”  I reached up and unpinned the card, and scanned the back quickly.  ”It has a list of dates from the first of March until the 23rd of June, and next to each there’s my signature, and the signature of Susan Parr,” I said.

“David, do you know what the date is today?”  I looked at my watch.  ”The 24th,”  I said, and began to feel quite weak.  ”I think you’d better come over.  My address is…”

“Thank you, David, I’m standing outside,” she said, and the door bell rang.

Blinking amber lights splintered across the wet lanes.  The dots on the electronic sign by the hard shoulder read ACCIDENT AHEAD. DIVERT VIA LICHFIELD NEXT JUNCTION.  ”It’s OK,” I said to Liz, “I know that road, it’ll be quicker.”  We stop-started through the evening traffic, relieved to find the blue sign for the exit, and I thanked the technology which had given us the warning.

As we navigated the roundabout at the end of the slip road, I realized that there was a lorry with a foreign plate in the wrong lane for our exit onto the A road.  It was too late to get behind the lorry so I pulled up on its inside at the lights.  ”No problem,” I said, “this mighty beast will overtake that piece of junk.”  The lights turned to red and amber and my foot stamped the accelerator.  But instead of the cab of the lorry disappearing from my vision on the right, it stayed level with us.  Damn, it must have unloaded, it’s empty, I thought, but kept quiet.  Our engine whined as I tried in vain to outpace the lorry and I cursed the lack of power.  I saw that the dual carriageway narrowed to a single lane ahead and I began to slow down.  The cab of the lorry slipped on by, but its body was inching closer to us.  He’s pulling in, we must be in his blind spot. I jumped on the brake to avoid a collision, but the back end of the lorry caught us as it moved over, sliding us into the curb as if the wheels were skates.

I tried to straighten us up but must have turned the wheel the wrong way in panic.  The nodding dog which we had as a lucky charm leaped from the parcel shelf and between our shoulders to hit the dashboard.  Outside was a blur, a life-and-death fairground ride as the world spun around us, how many times I couldn’t tell.  Everything was concentrated into this tiny space, memories and thoughts rushing through my head simultaneously. Don’t die, Liz.  Our first kiss.  Fatherless children, friends weeping.  Don’t let us turn over.  Forgive me.  Liz was saying “Shit! Shit!” as she was rocked from side to side in her seat, and I was grateful for the seatbelts.  We slammed into something solid and the spinning stopped.

It took a few moments for my brain to recognize that we were pointing in the wrong direction, and we were sliding backwards along the crash barrier on the central reservation.  The inside of the car was flooded by the headlights of another lorry approaching us.  I couldn’t see the driver from this angle, only a windscreen high above us with the word Stobart above it in thick green letters, as if that was the name of some alien life-force, too huge and powerful to be under the control of a human being.  I touched the brake and the car lurched to the right, the wheels on the left side losing traction on the muddy verge.  I knew that if we turned too far the lorry would plough straight through the front of the car.  ”Pull your feet back under you!” I shouted to Liz.  The lorry showed no sign of noticing us, it seemed to be moving towards us in slow motion yet with unstoppable momentum, and I kept stabbing at the brake and turning the wheel this way and that way to keep us level.  If I could just keep us straight until the lorry went past.  The lorry’s engine became increasingly loud, but I could hear metal scraping from the side of the car as we were rammed back against the barrier.  We had nowhere to go to our right so I put my foot firmly on the brake and we slowed gradually, sparks lighting the darkness.  I feared that we would be ripped apart but the lorry roared off, like a lion which had savaged an antelope for sport, and we jerked to a stop.

I held tight to the wheel, and could see that a car was pulling over in front of us, hazards flashing, and the driver got out warily, pausing with his hand on the top of his open door.  The cars behind streamed past, their occupants looking in at us with puzzled expressions.  Liz reached into the glove compartment for the cigarettes which we had recently given up.  I leaned over to pick up the nodding dog, hooked his head back on to his body and placed him on the dashboard, where he continued to nod for some time.