Dead In The Water - Chapter Three

Chapter 3

         Mindful of my promise to Owen to cut down on my alcohol consumption, I spread my intake of the four of the five bottles of red wine over the next week. You may frown, huff and puff, and wave your finger in contempt but for me, that’s quite an achievement; it averages out at approximately half a bottle of wine per day.

         Truth be told, however, I drink one bottle the evening after speaking to Owen, to wind down, you understand, and then I am tea-total for four days. Don’t drink a single drop. Instead, I spend long, agonising hours furiously pacing the floor, abusing my laptop both verbally and physically, thumbing through my vast book collection, strolling through my garden at midnight and yet all I can come up with is one poem. It’s pathetic. Not having the wine to comfort me somehow makes it worse.

         On Thursday I fall down the pit once more. A friendly admirer – I didn’t know I still had any – kindly forwarded a cut out from a piece about me published in an American newspaper. Apparently, this particular paper is running a series on famous people who have gone into obscurity. I don’t know – for obvious reasons – which other has-beens have been covered so far but even as my blood reaches boiling point, I decide that the author is clutching at straws. I was hardly ever truly famous compared with, say, Audrey Hepburn or Agnetha Fallskrog. Few people who met me in the street even at the height of my popularity would have known who I was.

         But alas, this bright, young upstart puts the truth there in print for all to see: ‘Sonia Spooner is a has-been who hasn’t published anything noteworthy in over two years. Her downfall inevitably aided by a hankering for partying, drugs and alcohol rather than producing work of the quality we all had become accustomed to in the early years of her career. It appears, she has drowned in her own success, her career, as it was, is dead in the water.’

         That nice little closing argument is backed up with a picture of me looking truly harassed outside, well, I am not entirely sure where the picture is taken. I resist the urge to tear the article into a gazillion pieces but for some reason I decide it’s worth holding onto. I hide it inside my original first edition of Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls, and try to push it out of my mind but alas, it seems to have almost magical powers and I am drawn to reading it several times over, torturing myself each time I do.

         They often say that the truth hurts. What puzzles me is that none of what he has written is untrue; I am the master of my own downfall but I still feel a brooding sense of injustice. And, as it happens, my pride has been comprehensively bruised. Before it was just me and Owen who knew just how bad things had gone, now it was there in print for the world to read (or at least a section of the American public). I open a bottle of wine and weep as I do so. I weep because that age-old saying is bloody true, I weep because I hurt so badly inside, I hurt because it’s so bloody unfair. The first bottle goes down pretty easily, and I eat some leftover cheese and crackers with it. The second bottle I drink in the total darkness and silence of my living room, while the third is carried upstairs to my bedroom. In my state of dipsomania, I forget the wineglass downstairs and drink straight from the bottle.

         It is probably no great surprise that I wake up the next morning, feeling as rough as a badger’s arse. I recall reading somewhere that at any given time, 0.7 percent of the world’s population is drunk; at this moment in time I would give my left arm – hell, take both! – to not belong to this dubious, exclusive club. It takes me nearly five minutes to drag myself out of bed, but my speed increases as I realise my body is screaming to rid itself of the toxins I have subjected it to, so I rush to the bathroom just in time to open up the toilet lid and vomit so violently, it makes my body ache.

         As I pour cold water, cupped in my shaking hands, onto my face, I look at my reflection in the mirror. My skin looks blotchy, my eyes are red, there is sick in my hair and down the front of my t-shirt; in short, I look like shit. Aside from that, I also notice a bloody gash on the side of my head and recall suddenly having tripped over I don’t know what in the lounge last night, hitting my head on the quarry tiled stone fireplace.

         I turn on the shower and let the water run for a few minutes until it reaches the desired temperature. Still feeling nauseous, I sit on the edge of the bath until I am ready for the onslaught of water on my skin. I have to steady myself, holding one hand on the wall. I bend down to pick up the shampoo and as I straighten up, I am overcome with nausea again and throw up. As I watch my sick whirling around my feet, making its slow progress to the plughole and subsequent descend down the drain, I sob.

         I return to bed, still wet, and sleep til almost five in the afternoon. I go downstairs and pour myself a large glass of water which I drink in one go, then pour myself another glass which I drink more slowly this time, taking a couple of aspirin with it. I sit on the kitchen chair as I am doing this, unable to do much else. Finally, I feel sufficiently refreshed to put on a pot of tea and make myself some toast with butter. I look down at my bare legs and notice a large bruise on my left leg; further evidence of last night’s fall. If something more serious had happened, I could be dead on the living room floor now and not a living soul would know. I realise this is my wakeup call.

~~~*~~~

         On Saturday, a week before my trip to Aberdeen, I drive into the nearest town and spend hours in the poorly equipped library. Poorly equipped if you are researching sheep, that is. I find plenty of other things to distract me, however, one of which is listening in on a children’s story hour. A perfectly charming young woman – who I am sure, has a billion better things to do than to read to youngsters – guides fourteen excitable three to eight year olds through an intriguing tale of Mr Seahorse (for the younger audience) and, surprisingly, a childhood favourite of my own, Saint-Exupery’s The Little Prince.

         The story of the Little Prince is an enchanting one; it tells the story of a prince who falls to earth from a star and comes upon a number of adults including an airman, stranded in the desert by the crash of his plane, who seeks to understand the prince’s secret. The tale is full of poignancy and hope, and as I watch the little faces of the children light up in delight, I too, am touched. The Little Prince speaks straight to my heart of friendship and love, and of the magic in our lives that we risk losing as we grow up.

         I am not sure if you have ever had a life-changing experience before, but in the space of three days, I have two. One, when I was so drunk I didn’t realise I’d fallen over and could have killed myself, and two being today, in this tiny small-town library where the gentle voice of the narrator gives me an eye-opening reminder of what I have lost and what I could still lose. I join in the heartfelt applause at the end of the session and afterwards, approach the young woman – Miss Finch, a teacher at the local primary school, I learn – to thank her warmly.

         As I stroll along the High Street with a couple of books from the library under my arm, I chance upon a notice in the shop window of the dry cleaners:

Ladies’ Bike for sale – enquires 665-3901

         I make a note of the number and later that same afternoon, I am the proud owner of a three-geared green Raleigh bicycle, anno circa 1982 for which I pay the grand sum of eight pounds. It has just had new tyres fitted and even comes with a small shopping basket attached to the steering wheel. I am delighted with my purchase and set straight off for a short ride around the countryside near my home. It is more rusty than green and it squeaks and creaks in a charming manner but more than anything, I am enjoying the feeling of wind on my face, the fresh air in my lungs and the early winter sun on my face. My fingers are almost frostbitten when I return, and my legs are numb from the use of muscles, which have been dormant for much too long.

~~~*~~~

         A large parcel arrives for me on Monday morning and I cheerfully open the door to the postman; I have been up since seven and feel incredibly invigorated by a good night’s sleep brought upon not by intoxication but hours of cycling in the fresh air the previous day; I cannot remember the last time I felt this good.

         The parcel is from Owen and as well as a number of books and leaflets on sheep (where did he manage to find them? I wonder) it also includes my flight tickets and a small hand-written note:

Dear Sonia,
Enclosed as promised some research material to assist you in the writing of the article we discussed last week. I think you would do well to do some additional research of your own as I am not entirely sure there is enough meat here to put together five thousand words.
I am also enclosing your flight tickets – I know I said I would collect you on Saturday and take you to the airport but something else has come up so I am sending a taxi to collect you at seven-thirty a.m.
The address and telephone number of the guesthouse is on the leaflet attached to this note.

I hope you have a wonderful & productive time.
Much love,
Owen

         I realise with a start that I’ve not been calling Owen every couple of days to report my progress and make a mental note to do so later this afternoon. I decide not to tell him about my accident, nor about the binge-drinking incident, but I am looking forward to tell him about my tee-total days (thus far numbering four) and my bicycle.

         After a quick browse of the reading material, I notice with delight that the grey clouds, previously looming on the horizon, have cleared and I head out for another ride on my bicycle. I pack a small lunch of tuna sandwiches, a flask of orange juice and a packet of crisps.

         I return, drenched and rosy cheeked several hours later to the cursor blinking on a blank screen.

~~~*~~~

         I read, or heard, somewhere that being alone is the same as being in bad company. Now that I am not drinking, and still not writing a single valuable syllable, I feel much more lonely than before and believe me, it is bad company. Now, a life partner isn’t something you easily acquire and I, for one, haven’t ever had much success in locating a partner whom I could bear spending more than a few days at a time with, let alone the rest of my life. For a brief moment I return to the thought of acquiring a companion of the canine species, but think better of it; I am not sure I am up for such a task.

         For the fun of it, and because you just never know, I read a few of the locally advertised ‘Male seeks female companion for intimate moments’ type adverts and laugh, heartily, at most of them. The villages and towns surrounding the little cluster of houses commonly referred to as Upper Tillington where I live, can hardly be described as a bedrock of romantic liaisons; most of the male species I have come upon are either the result of generations of inbreeding, farmers or married, and in some instances, all of the above. I have never come upon a single attractive male in a radius of fifteen or so miles.

         That is, until I recall my brief encounter last week with Anthony at my local supermarket and with what I can only describe as a thrill tickling on the surface of my skin, I decide to make up a shopping list as an excuse to seek him out and perhaps catch his eye.

         Standing in front of the large rectangular mirror in the hallway, I apply a small amount of lipstick and eye shadow, a liberal amount of makeup to cover up those dark circles around my eyes, and on the bruise on the side of my face, which still hasn’t quite healed. I brush my hair, hand shaking slightly, in an inexplicable moment of anticipation, grab my bag and keys, and shut the door noisily behind me.

         At the supermarket, I grab a small basket and throw in a bunch of bananas, a readymade pizza, a packet of chewing gum and a loaf of bread. As I wander up and down the aisles, I crane my neck to see if I can spot him but alas, after twenty minutes of filling my basket haphazardly, I admit defeat and head home, feeling dejected. It is almost as though I have been stood up on a first date. As I am driving back, I turn on the radio and sing along to a Motown classic at the top of my voice, and I suddenly break into a huge grin at the thought of my own antics. How stupid of me, to seek romance at the local supermarket.

         I dig out an old map of the local area and make a note of some of the bridleways criss-crossing the surrounding villages and decide to work off my frustration with a quick ride. Of course, I realise too late that such a route is not one easily traversed on a rickety old bike with zero suspension. As the path leads me across a field of grazing cows, I am faced with the choice between leaving the bicycle behind and continuing on foot, or turning around. Still hopelessly out of shape, I opt for the latter and in a flash of inspiration decide to turn left along the field and pick up the path further along by turning right at the nearest opportunity.

         That opportunity turns out to be by way of a farmyard; I know the Knowles’ by name and sight but haven’t really spoken to them since I was a child. I disembark and start crossing the yard, tentatively but then realise that I have the perfect excuse for being in this very place: Farmer Knowles has opened a farm shop on the premises.

         I lean my cycle against the wall and slowly head for the shop door, unsure if there is even anyone inside. The door is unlocked but the shop is empty. There is an almost inaudible click of the bell over the door as I open it and venture inside. I have a little look around but feel like a schoolgirl taking the first peep at anatomy books at the library with the purpose of looking at male sex organs.

          “Hello, can I help you?”
         I am startled at the sound of someone standing behind me, and spin on my heels. I cannot believe my eyes when I realise the person to whom the voice belongs is Anthony.
          “Oh, hello… I was just ehm…”
          “Looking at groceries, I assume,” he says with a smile. Besides knowing him from the supermarket, there is something else about him, something familiar.
          “Yeah”, I manage, remembering how I drove several miles earlier the same day in the hope of ‘bumping’ into him, and I smile at the thought.
          “You….” he hesitates, taking a step back as though trying to take in all of me. “You were at the Supermarket last week, weren’t you?”
         I am flattered beyond words that he remembers me; he must have had hundreds of customers after me, and yet he remembers me.
          “I… ehm…” he says, scratching his head but not saying anything else.
          “Go on,” I say, challenging him to finish his sentence, hoping for some compliment, a sign that he noticed me in the same way that I noticed him.
          “Well, it’s just that I was worried about you. You seemed… worse for wear… If you don’t mind my saying so.”
         I blush and look down at my feet, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah, well… Long night, you know.”
          “But look at you now”, he says in a voice that sounds much more enthusiastic, full of boundless energy. “You are looking great.”
         I am still too ashamed to say anything and just want to get the hell out of the shop.
          “Thanks. Can I have ehm… six eggs and a pint of milk please?”
          “Sure”, he says almost bouncing behind the counter to serve me. As he carefully, gracefully almost, places the eggs inside the container, I turn my back to look at some of the other produce. I notice a basket full of delicious looking apples and place four inside a brown paper bag, which I hand to him.
          “That’ll be two sixty-five please”, he says, and I know he is trying to catch my eyes but I am still too mortified at the thought of him seeing me drunk and in all likelihood, looking like something that had been dragged backwards through a hedge.

         I hand him the exact change and as my fingers touch the palm of his hand, I feel as though a surge of electricity is rushing up my spine. I raise my eyes to meet his, briefly.
          “Here, let me carry them for you”, he says, opens the door for me and places my shopping carefully in the basket on my cycle.
          “It was nice... to see you again…”, he says, and I realise he is even more nervous than I am ashamed. It warms the cockles of my heart and I cannot resist the urge to grin at him, broadly.
         At that same instant, I feel a wet nose on my hand, followed by two heavy dog paws on my arm which catches me off guard, and I lose my balance.
          “Molly, get off, come on, stop it, you silly dog!” Anthony says as the black and white sheepdog bounces excitedly between us.
          “This is Molly, my dog”, he says, and I go down on bended knees and speak softly to Molly, who then sits down, tail wagging and presents me with a muddy paw of friendship.
          “She likes you”, and he sounds pleased with this revelation.
         I pat Molly for a while longer, then stand up and pull my cycle from the wall. “Well, I’d better get going. Looks like it’s about to rain”, I say and swing my leg over the back wheel and place my bottom firmly in the saddle. I set off, unsteady at first, with Molly barking at my wheels until Anthony calls her back and I turn around to wave at him before I turn onto the road.
          “Hope to see you again!” I hear just as I disappear around the corner.
I whistle all the way home.

         The rest of the week passes by in much the same way; cycles ride in the morning after breakfast and then reading up on different breeds of sheep. I spend much of the time trying to work out why Anthony seems so familiar but I am unable to place him. I chance myself at baking an apple pie with the ingredients bought from the farm shop but it’s a complete disaster and I bin the entire experiment and eat a chocolate bar instead.

         These activities are interspersed with brief attempts at making a start on the article but alas, it is as though my fingers are unwilling to follow the commands of my brain. Or is that there are no commands?