Dead In The Water - Chapter Five

Chapter 5

Although the origins of the sheep can be traced right back to single-celled creatures arisen most likely near volcanic vents in the Earth’s ancient oceans 4 billion years ago, they didn’t evolve into anything more than worm-like multi-celled animals until some 3 billion years later.

Initially, there was no evidence of the now-familiar wool coat and their characterisation wasn’t also necessarily that of shy, inconspicuous animals, fleeing in terror at the slightest sign of danger. Wild breeds such as the American Bighorn are crafty animals, perfectly able to defend themselves against predators.

The domestic sheep as we know them today are thought to be descendants of the mouflons of a geographical area spanning from Iran to Asia Minor. These small, wild sheep with chestnut-brown wool live largely in the mountain areas and their only existing direct relatives are the European mouflons, which can still be found in Corsica and Sardinia. It is thought that the Romans introduced sheep to Britain and excavations of a Roman farm at Rockbourne Down in Wiltshire appear to confirm this. The skeletons found have some remarkable similarities with the Wiltshire Horn breed, which now stands only 2 inches taller than the skeletons uncovered.

Illustrations in Mesopotamian and Babylonian art books show the common features of sheep as we know them today were already evident by 3000 BC. Evidence found in Iran confirms that sheep were among the first domesticated animals in the world; an archaeological site in the country indicates selection for woolly sheep commenced some six thousand years ago.

Robert Bakewell (1725-95) started something of a revolution in the sheep industry when he carried out a number of experiments on the Leicestershire breed. His work is noteworthy because it transformed livestock farming, and indirectly influenced the work of Charles Darwin and Gregor Mendel.

Other breeds, such as the Welsh Mountain Sheep, prized for its superior richness in the Middle Ages, evolved from reddish-brown to black wool as breeders started selecting specimen specifically for their black fleece. The result of this selection is the Black Welsh Mountain, a decorative breed made popular by its soft and fine wool.

         For the next five hours I cover a variety of other breeds (spanning from the Dartmoor, the Leicester Longwool, the Orkneys with their sizeable horns, the Red Engadine with long, hanging ears, and the Ryeland) and finally, with the click of a button, save my article as “Man and sheep; the perfect partnership?” ready for submission the following morning. Bah, bloody bah!

~~~*~~~

         The following morning I devour a barely palatable breakfast of super-crisp bacon, burnt sausages and scrambled eggs of a rather rubbery texture. And I mean devour; I feel a sense of relief at a job if not well done, then at least completed.

         I take a stroll along the beachfront and find Aberdeen in the sunshine infinitely more attractive; the granite is positively sparkling, my fellow strollers have a relaxed air about them and life, with an assignment bagged, seems at least a tad more positive than just a week ago. After enjoying a banana split and pot of tea in one of the beachfront cafes, I return to pack up my belongings and head to the airport. In spite of the sunshine and a sudden lift in my spirits, I cannot wait to get out of this place.

~~~*~~~

         The most remarkable thing about my return is that I attack my domestic chores with a fury, a dedication almost, that I didn’t know I was capable of. I wipe every surface, wash the windows, dust my vast bookcase (removing the contents shelf by shelf), wash the floors and attack each bathroom tile with almost frantic vigour. I go through three loads of washing – I didn’t even know I owe that many pieces of clothing – and dutifully fold them and put them away. I fill two black bin liners with junk mail, old newspapers and other such miscellaneous rubbish that so seems to accumulate so quickly.

         Exhausted, I open a bottle of wine and sit back to enjoy my gleaming house and feel immensely proud at my achievement. I tune in to Radio Four but am promptly interrupted by the unwelcome sound of the phone ringing shrilly in the hallway.

          “Sonia, hello. It’s me, Owen.”
         I am not sure why he feels the need to tell me as, after eighteen years, I recognise the sound of his voice before he has even finished saying my name.
          “Oh hello there. How are you?” I curse myself for not having brought my glass of wine to sip while chatting but settle down on the stairs, resting my arms across my bended knees.
          “Fine, thanks, fine. How did it go in Aberdeen?”
          “Oh, ok”, I hesitate, not sure whether he is referring to the trip itself or to the article; I assume the latter. “Shame about the shitty hotel”, I say teasingly, challengingly.
          “Hmmm… yeah, sorry bout that. It was all I could find at such short notice.”
I recall the number of “vacancies” sign I noticed in the windows of perfectly respectable looking establishments around the city, but decide to drop the point. Something in Owen’s tone of voice is worrying me.
          “You ok, honey? You sound tired?”
          “Well, yes. Busy, you know what it’s like. Listen, how did you get on with the article?”
          “All done, five thousand words as agreed. Bit of a long haul, Owen. I mean, there’s only so much anyone can say about sheep”, I say jokingly. Owen doesn’t, unusually, respond.
          “It’ll pay the bloody bills for a while, won’t it?”
         I am somewhat taken aback by his snarl; we rarely have an argument and I am not sure what has brought on this attitude, considering I wrote the bloody article.
          “So sorry, Sonia. Things are a bit tough here.”
         I am about to ask him whether he wants to talk about it but he cuts me dead in my tracks, “Listen, email it to me so I can forward it to the magazine, ok?” He appears distracted, perhaps by someone entering the room and continues in almost a whisper, “I’ll call you tomorrow when I’ve had a chance to read it, all right?”
          “Sure, I’ll be here”, I say and the line goes dead.
         Frowning, I return to the living room, my Chilean wine and snuggle down on the sofa. The radio programme threatens to bore the wits out of me, so I switch instead to a station playing classical music, while I ponder what has caused Owen to act in such an out of character manner.

~~~*~~~

         Not long after my conversation with Owen, the telephone rings again and I jump out of my seat, assuming it is Owen calling again; the end of our chat did seem rather abrupt which is very much unlike us.
         It is, however, not Owen but Anthony.
          “Hello”, he starts and he sounds as nervous as he looked last week at the farm shop. “I hope I’m not interrupting or…”
          “No, not at all”, I smile and sit down on the bottom step, stretching my legs in front of me. “I was just listening to the radio.”
          “I ehm… I hope you don’t mind me calling you this way,” which instantly raises a number of questions in my head.
          “No, I don’t mind… it’s just, I mean… How did you get my number?” I wonder if I’ve got a stalker on my hands, which is a turn of events I am definitely not looking forward to.
          “The farmer, I mean, Mr Knowles gave it to me… I mentioned you to him and he, well he looked you up in the phone book and… well, here I am, calling you”, he gives a nervous laugh and I laugh, too, feeling like rather foolish about the whole thing. Good, but foolish.
          “So, I was wondering if perhaps you would like to go out… for a drink… or ehm.. a meal, or the cinema… some time?”
          “I would love to”, smiling now like a little girl who has just been asked out to her first school dance. “But how about you and Molly join me, for a walk tomorrow?” I don’t want to tell him just yet that I am not quite ready to face a drinking establishment having to stick to soft drinks. I may be off the wagon but I feel as though I am hanging onto the rear bumper, tooth and nail; I am not yet out of the woods. Besides, I want to be able to prove to Anthony that I am not just a drunk but a person who is perhaps worth considering romantically – a sentiment which, given the circumstances I can’t quite understand; I usually don’t give a flying fig about what people think.
          “A walk? Yeah, that sounds perfect. What time? Shall we come and pick you up?”
          “How about ten tomorrow morning? Then we can get a spot of lunch back here.”
          “Ah, well, that poses a slight problem. I’m on shift from nine til four tomorrow, well for the rest of the week in fact. But I could come over straight after work, pick you up around five?”
          “Sure, that’s fine, too. We could do the walk another time. I’ll check what’s on at the cinema and we’ll just take it from there.”
          “Great, see you tomorrow then,” I can detect a sense of excitement in his voice which is clearly mirrored in my own as I inwardly whoop for joy; I can’t remember the last time I had a date.

~~~*~~~

         The following morning I spend sprucing up myself with the same level of zest as I cleaned the house but with a sense of excitement I haven’t known for years. First, I wash my hair followed by a long hot soak in my favourite milk and honey bubble bath. I shave my legs, paint my toe and fingernails, pluck my eyebrows and put out the perfect cinema outfit: a pair of jeans and a grey roll neck sweater.

         Outside, the sky is grey and dull, filled with dark, looming clouds and I decide not to chance a bike ride today. Instead, I write a letter to Laura and Peter, asking them to come and visit me for a pre-Christmas celebration, email my sheep article to Owen with the subject header ‘Feeling sheepish?’, read the paper and drink lots of cups of sweet tea as I gradually get more nervous and feel my stomach turning to knots. I smoke several cigarettes and, after lunch, have a quick nap on the sofa in front of the television.

         I am woken up by the telephone ringing. Disoriented at first, I get up and clear my throat before I answer it.
          “Hello, Sonia Spooner”, I say still slightly sleepy but filled with cheerful anticipation.
          “Sonia, honey, it’s Owen.”
          “Oh, hi, honey – are you ok? I was a bit worried about you yesterday, you didn’t sound too good.”
          “Long story, let’s not go there right now. Listen, I want you to come down to London tomorrow. I’ve managed to set up two back-to-back meetings with a couple of publishers who might be willing to hear you out, you know, to see what ideas you have in the pipeline.’
          “But I’m not sure I’m ready for that, Owen, I mean, I’m only just getting my head together and well, I’ve not written anything yet.”
          “Any ideas come out of the trip?” he asks hopefully.
          “A couple, yes, but I haven’t even started formulating them in my own head.”
          “Well, girl, you’ve got to get your thinking cap, your skates, whatever on. This may be your last chance.”
          “Right, ok, I get your drift. I’ll see what I can do”, I say as vague ideas flash through my head as I try to grab onto something I can pick up and run with. I feel clammy and sweaty, anxious and under pressure, and my next thought is of the one last bottle of wine waiting for me in the airing cupboard.
          “Good girl”, he says, followed by instructions of which train to catch, which hotel to meet him and a run-down of the days events, which clearly meant I would have to bring a change of clothes.
          “Right, see you tomorrow, then”, I say feeling less certain than I sound.
“You’ll be fine, Sonia, just…”, there’s a loud sigh at the other end, “just do your best.”

         I hang up and am in a state of panic as I try to work out how to divide the next few precious hours before my ten-twenty a.m. train to Euston. I decide that by packing first, I will at least have one worry off my hands and can concentrate on formulating some of my thoughts and be as prepared as possible, given this sudden change of events. I curse Owen’s name as I rush up the stairs and start putting together an overnight bag. As I am packing, my eyes fall upon the outfit I so neatly laid out earlier and realise that I will have to cancel my date with Anthony. Oh well, I think, I will just have to ask him in for a cup of tea, explain the situation and send him on his merry way, for now.

         With my bag packed, I head for the kitchen where I put the kettle on and pour half a bag of M&M’s into a small bowl. I sit down in front of the laptop, flip it open and as it starts up, I say a silent prayer to whoever will listen, hoping my muse will pay me at least a brief visit.

         After an hour’s frantic typing, the phone rings once more and I am tempted not to answer it, for fear of having my precious train of thoughts interrupted. It’s not exactly a high-speed train, more of a slow-moving steam train, huffing and puffing its way up what seems like an endlessly steep hill. My concentration already broken, I decide to answer it.

          “Hello?” I say, a strong hint of annoyance in my voice. I check my watch; it’s four thirty already and Anthony is going to be here any minute now.
          “Hello, is that Miss Spooner?”
          “Yes?”
          “Oh hello, my name is Sister Mandy… From St Ursula’s Hospice.” Aunty Mildred, I think but with a terrible sense of foreboding I hold my breath, unable to speak.
          “I’m so very sorry to disturb you but I wondered if perhaps you could come and see us… as soon as possible.”
          “What, today?” I ask, shaking my head as I say it. So bloody typical of Aunty Mildred to spoil what has already turned out to be a roller coaster day.
          “Yes, I am afraid she has taken a turn for the worse”, says the friendly nurse. Worse? I think, I didn’t even know she was bad.
          “We don’t think she will make it through the night so we thought we should call you, give you a chance to come and say your goodbyes while you still can.”
         I feel the blood draining from my face, and I want to throw up.
          “I’ll be there in an hour”, I say and hang up. Shit. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, shit, bloody shit.

         My overnight bag lies on the passenger seat, my laptop and handbag in the foot well, as I lock up the house behind me and speed off to Weston Supermare, an hour’s drive south of Upper Tillington. In the rush, I forget to leave a note for Anthony.

~~~*~~~

         It is almost six o’clock when I arrive at St Ursula’s. I run through the double swing doors, handbag almost dragging behind me, and I am acutely aware that I probably look a complete mess.

          “Ehm, I’m here… to see my aunt, Mildred Spooner? Someone rang me earlier?”
          “Ah yes, Miss Spooner, it was I on the phone earlier”, says the middle-aged Sister, leading me gently by the elbow down a corridor towards what I assume to be Aunty Mildred’s room. Sister Mandy proceeds to give me a quick recap of Mildred’s medical condition before she, as we arrive at the door, puts her left index finger to her lips.
          “She is sleeping, heavily sedated.”

         There was never much love lost between Aunty and myself; she openly resented me and having to look after me after my parents’ death, and as far I am concerned, she did everything possible to make my life difficult when I was growing up. It was with a sense of jubilation that I finally managed to convince her to move to a home, as far away from me as possible was the only thing on my mind at the time. After having left what was, after all, my parents’ house to go to University, I didn’t return to live there until Aunty had moved out.

         Seeing her there in the hospital bed, I wonder just how long it has been since I last saw her. Christmas, almost two years ago, I realise with a pang of guilt. I came to visit her in the home and we ended up having a blazing row because, once again, she criticised me for my choice of career. She made it abundantly clear that, as far as she was concerned, being a write wasn’t a proper job. It didn’t help that I had received yet another rejection letter from a publisher who had been considering a collection of my latest short stories.

         I pull a chair up and sit down next to her. Several minutes pass as I just sit there, uncomfortable to the core of my very being, until finally, I take her hand.
          “Aunty Mildred, it’s me”, I say, feeling foolish knowing that she probably can’t hear me. I stroke her wispy, thin hair and then place her hand in the clasp of my two. Unexpectedly, the skin on her hands is soft although it looks leathery and rough. Above us, the monitor is beeping, she has tubes in her right arm connected to a drip and, doped up to her eyeballs, she looks positively angelic.
         Nothing much seems to be happening and I feel the hours wasting by; it is half past ten in the evening when I approach the nurse at the front desk.
          “Excuse me, I am just going to get a couple of things in the car.”
          “Sure, just buzz and I will let you back in.”
          “Oh”, I say and stop myself in my stride, “am I allowed to use the mobile phone?”
         The nurse points to a large poster, which indicates otherwise and says, “there is a payphone just down that corridor by the cafeteria.”
         I nod, thank her and fetch my laptop from the car.
         After retrieving the few coins I have in my purse, I walk to the phone box and call Owen at home.
          “Weatherley”, says the female voice at the other end.
          “Mel?”
          “Yes”, the voice sounds hesitant.
          “It’s Sonia.”
          “Oh hello Sonia. How are you?”
          “Not good, my Aunty Mildred is quite unwell and I’ve been told not to expect her to last through the night.”
          “Oh I am very sorry”, even though she sounds less sincere than I had expected. Oh well, I think, not even I am really that upset, how can I expect someone who has never had the dubious pleasure of Aunty’s company to feel remotely touched.
          “Thanks”, I say anyway. “Listen, I am sorry to disturb you at home so late at night but is Owen home?”
         There is a pause at the other end, and she says “No, sorry, he’s not here.”
         Shit, I think. Of course Owen’s travelled ahead to London to make sure everything is ready and set up for the meetings. I am about to ask her if she has the telephone number for the hotel where he is staying, when Mel announces that Owen has in fact moved out.
          “We split up about three weeks ago. He is with his new girlfriend”, I hear her sniffing at the other end of the phone, then blowing her nose. I am at a loss for words.
          “Oh Mel…” I start but she interrupts me, dismissing my words of comfort before they have been spoken.
          “Let me get you her phone number”, she says.