Dead In The Water - Chapter Seven

Chapter 7

         There is no doubting the fact that Malcolm Dillon is a transformed man; in spite of his vicious reputation as a ruthless, no beating round the bush, critic who is not afraid of calling a spade a fucking awful spade, it turns out his temper has mellowed. Don’t get me wrong; he is no pussycat and he still doesn’t suffer fools gladly.

         The questions he asks me over dinner are hard-hitting and hurtful; hurtful because they confirm what Owen previously told me, that my life is a mess. I have gone steadily down a very slippery slope, have managed to crawl my way up an inch or two on a couple of occasions, but generally it has been downwards for three years now.

          “Where do you think it went wrong?” Dillon asks me after dinner and small talk has finished.

         I know from my experience of him, both old and new, that he isn’t looking for a woolly answer. “I know that… that everything starts somewhere”, I say tentatively, looking across at Owen for support but he is giving me a straight-laced poker face. “I believe in circles”, I continue, “that everything in life evolves in circles, no real beginning and no end. The way that the planets evolve in a set pattern, it fascinates me. I think that each stage of our lives is a circle and as you move from one stage of your life to another, two or sometimes more circles are moving at the same time, overlapping, absorbing elements of each other before they drift apart, taking with them parts from a previous stage that perhaps we can’t quite let go of.”

         The look I get from Owen still doesn’t give anything away. Damn you, I think, I need you here! I feel like I am drowning in my own ocean of confused, irrational thoughts. Circles? Pah! He must think me such a fairy.

          “That’s… interesting”, Dillon says as he is unwrapping a small chocolate mint, which he chews thoughtfully before continuing. “I’ve not thought of it like that before, but you are right. About the circles.” Stirring his coffee, he says, “which… circle… would you say you are in right now, and where would you like to be?”
         I realise I have to continue to be on my guard with Malcolm Dillon; it feels as though I am in a confined space with a caged animal who could, at any time, pounce and go for the kill. But at the same time, no cock and bull story will do. It is time, as they say in America, to talk turkey.

          “My circle is complex. There is one… section of my circle, which carries on from one circle to the next. My parents died when I was six, you see… In a car accident. My love for them, and the trauma I felt at the time, is always with me… In my heart. Then there is a portion of… anger and resentment. That I am trying to let go of.”
          “Who do you resent?”
          “My Aunt Mildred… Well, I resented her. She brought me up after my parents passed away, and let’s just say she didn’t make a good parent. I think a lot of my feelings of inadequacy and lack of self-esteem is down to her. She was always telling me I am no good.”

         Even in my own ears it sounds like I am whining and if there is one thing I know about Malcolm Dillon, it is that he hates people who whine. The only reason why I am telling him this is that he is no longer a critic but a potential publisher. I will not fear having my name or my work ripped to pieces in the Sunday papers, but hopefully, merely a rejection letter. At this moment in time I don’t dare even contemplating a publishing deal with Malcolm Dillon; I may as well wish for the moon.

          “She passed away last night…”, I say, and Owen leans back in his chair. I try but fail to read either of them; it is as though they are preparing me for the slaughter but now that I have started this diatribe I feel I have to continue. There is no way of backtracking my way out of this situation. I am dying for a cigarette or a glass of wine, or both, and the thought of it makes me tremble; I want so much to be strong and prove I can do this.

          “I am very sorry to hear that”, Dillon says, “but what are you doing here? Should you not be with your relatives at a time like this?” He has placed a reassuring, comforting hand on my arm and I give him a small smile.

          “I have no other relatives”, I say and feel my throat constricting. I fight the tears burning behind my eyes. “In a way, the timing of her death could be good. I feel I am ready to progress to the next circle, and leave those negative feelings behind. Bury them for good.”
          “That may not be as easy as it sounds”, he objects, “you know how difficult it can be to break the habit of a lifetime.”
          “Sure, I am not oblivious to that. All I am saying is, it is time to put that demon to rest. She can no longer touch me, it doesn’t matter anymore what she thinks – and in a way, if I do fail, if I don’t manage to pull myself out of this rut, then she has won. She was right. I am a failure.”
          “And in terms of your writing, where are you with that?”
          “Well”, I sigh, placing a hand on the folder next to me, “I have put together a few ideas…”
          “I am not interested in your ideas, Miss Spooner. Continuing with your circle analogy, where are you with your writing?” For the first time this evening, his voice is hard and unforgiving, a flash of the old Malcolm Dillon.

         I have never been inside a court of law, neither as a witness, a defendant nor as a member of a jury. Today I learn a hard lesson in what is feels like to be cross-examined by a barrister or prosecutor who has done his homework.

          “For a long time, my writing circle was just… well, almost… drifting… in a sphere of its own. A few years ago, it drifted into the realm of my personal circle… and they became… meddled, linked.” I curse myself for having brought the whole damn circle thing up; clearly the weeks and months of solitude has turned my brain to pea soup, which, if you think about it, might explain my inability to write a decent piece of work.

          “What links did the two circles establish?” Even more astounding than me having mentioned the bleeding circles in the first place is the fact that Malcolm Dillon seems intent on continuing with it, pressing, pushing me, like a bulldog hell-bent on hanging onto its bone. How much more of my blood does he want? I wonder.

          “Well, personal… circumstances started interfering with my… ability to put thoughts onto paper. I became… so consumed with my own life, my own feelings, that I couldn’t… I couldn’t relate to the outside world anymore. I think if you lose that, then your creative cogs just… shut down.”
          “And now?” I breathe a small sigh of relief that he doesn’t press me to provide exact details.
          “Now… well, for the past six months things have been getting worse. I have been… too much on my own… brooding… drinking”, I say quietly, hoping he doesn’t react my ripping the heart out of my chest.
          “How much?”
          “Pardon?” I say but I am merely stalling for time. I look at Owen who gives me a small shrug as if to say, sort this out yourself.
          “Well, how much do you drink?”
          “A couple of bottles of wine a day. More, on a bad day.”
          “Every day?”
          “Not every day, no. But, like you, I had a wakeup call and have decided to give up the booze.” He snorts in a manner that tells me he has heard it all before. The strong, determined woman within me resurfaces, feeling she has to stand up for herself.
          “You don’t believe me?” I say, giving him a challenging look, which makes me look infinitely more self-assured than I feel; I can feel my knees trembling beneath the table. “I have spent this whole day, trying to convince you and others to let me return to the fold of established writers. I have done so without drinking much more than a glass of wine, and even that I have only drunk out of courtesy. And that is in spite of the fact that I am crapping myself with fear of rejection, in spite of the fact that my only remaining living relative passed away last night, in spite of the fact that I have barely enough money left in my bank account to pay next month’s bills.”
         Owen and Malcolm are both staring at me, and so are, I vaguely realise, a number of other diners.
          “Believe me, if I needed a drink, if I ever needed a drink, then today is the day. “

         It is almost eleven pm by the time we bid our farewells to Malcolm Dillon and share a taxi across town. Owen is unusually quiet. I stare out the window; raindrops are dragging a squiggly path down the pane like a snail leaving a slimy track. The bright lights of the city are reflecting off the puddles in the road, on the pavements, off the buildings. As we drive past Westminster, I realise Owen is crying.
          “Why, what is the matter?” I say, putting one arm around him, resting the other on his knee.
          “Oh, Sonia”, he says, but wipes his eyes without elaboration. “Never mind, you have got enough stuff going on in your own life right now.”
          “Yes, but you are part of that life, Owen. Tell me what is wrong.”
          “Another time, Sonia darling, I am not ready for this yet.”

         I withdraw my hand from his knee and place it in my lap, but leave the other around him. A few times the taxi swerves to that side or the other and we are pushed together, my stockinged leg pressing hard against his.

         He walks me to my platform and before I board the train, he squeezes my hand and says, “You were wonderful”, gives me a small wave as the train sets in motion and within seconds he is out of my view. I sleep all the way back to Weston.

~~~*~~~

         Visiting a funeral organiser isn’t, in my mind, the best way to round off an already difficult week. I am taken straight to the funeral director’s office, where I am offered tea, bourbon biscuits and words of comfort.

          “We are so very sorry for your loss”, the director, Mr Millet says, pushing the small decorative bowl of biscuits towards me. “Here at Millet & Sons we pride ourselves in excellent customer services, offering a dignified farewell to your loved ones. Now, I understand you don’t live locally?” He asks in a gentle, sympathetic voice.
          “No, in South Gloucestershire, twenty minutes from Bristol.”
          “All right”, he says, shifting pieces of paper around his desk as though looking for something.
          “Well, there are lots of things that we will take care of for you. Now, your aunt’s body will be released later today and will be taken into our care here at our chapel of rest. I think the first thing we should do is decide which date would be best for the cremation.” He checks his diary and looks up at me, “how does Wednesday sound?”
          “Yes, fine, that suits me fine.” In my mind I am wondering who to ask to come to the service, and where I could hold a wake, if at all. I don’t really know any of her friends from the home, or indeed if she had any friends.
          “Right, now, included in our package is obviously the coffin, the transport to the chapel for committal in a hearse”, he shows me a picture of a typical black vehicle used for transporting coffins, and I nod, not knowing whether I am meant to comment on the quality of the vehicle. Mr Millet, however, seems content to continue his reassuring, well-rehearsed monologue.

         Together we draw up the wording for the obituary, and Mr Millet takes me through a brief history of cremation. “The very first cremation took place in 1885 in Woking. That year, only three cremations took place although the number of deaths totalled almost six hundred thousand. Today, close to seventy-five percent of deaths in the UK result in cremation. There is no religious significance to cremation, you see, so nowadays all Christian denominations allow cremations, and it is also the customary method of disposal of the dead for Buddhists, Sikhs and Hindus.”

          “Now, would you like me to take you through what is going to happen at the service itself?”
{indent I nod and swallow hard.
          “Basically, the coffin will be brought into the chapel, followed by you and the other mourners”, I give a small frown, still wondering whether I will in fact be the only person present. “While the coffin is being placed on the catafalque”, he continues, “the service will continue. As the committal words are being spoken, the curtains will close around the catafalque after which you will leave the chapel. We will arrange the floral tributes for you to view outside.” He pauses as I take this information on board and it occurs to me that it is not just the words that are well-rehearsed, even the paused are perfectly timed. Years of experience, I suppose.

          “What… What happens… you know, afterwards?”
          “Well, the coffin is labelled with an identification card prepared by the crematorium. This card will accompany your Aunt until the final disposal of the remains. You may witness the committal if you wish”, but I shake my head in rejection.

         He nods and continues, “The identification card is now placed outside the cremator and remains there until the ashes are transferred to a… cooling tray. Finally, the remains are reduced to a fine, white ash, weighing around five to six pounds.”

         I spend almost an hour in the company of Mr Millet and feel exhausted as I walk up the High Street towards the hotel where my car is still parked. The ground outside is slippery and I notice a light dusting of snow on some of the vehicles on the hotel car park.

~~~*~~~

         The drive back to Upper Tillington is treacherous; the Malvern hills are covered in snow, the main roads, thankfully, clear. As I drive along the small road through leading through Andon, Lower and Upper Tillington, conditions worsen. It is now nearly seven pm, it is pitch-black, and the heavy rainfall earlier has turned the roads into an ice rink.

         I lean forward in my seat as I am driving along, clutching the steering wheel, trying my hardest to concentrate on the road in front. Although every single little bend, each little humpback bridge, every hill is imprinted in my brain, I am not prepared to take any chances in conditions such as these.

         As I turn the car down the long, windy driveway from the main road, my cottage looks dark and looming; ominous, almost. How I wish there were someone to welcome me, arms wide open, with the coffee brewing and a warm, cosy fire crackling in the fireplace, ready to take my bags off me, rub my feet and ask me about my day. More than anything, I am also longing for someone to hold me, someone to whom I can offload the trauma of the past thirty-six hours. Someone who will listen and tell me that everything is going to be all right.

         The heavy oak door creaks in as I push it open and I enter the house almost cautiously, not wanting to realise or absorb the loneliness within just yet. I switch the light in the hallway on, place my bag at the foot of the stairs and for a while I just stand there with my coat still on, as if waiting for some noise, some proof of life to jump out at me.

         Although Aunty Mildred hasn’t lived in the cottage for almost seven years and I have removed all of her belongings, remove all trace of her connection with this place, her spirit, somehow, seems to be lingering within the walls. I feel the hairs on my arms rise, and the walls which seemed solid and comforting only a few days ago, now appear to be on the brink of collapse, as though the walls are propped up by mere toothpicks rather than a concrete foundation.

         I feel a cold a chill of shame as I realise I haven’t only removed all trace of Aunty Mildred from the house, but have banished her from my life. This cold, dark house now seems to echo her voice as she stands at the bottom of the staircase shouting up at me to hurry up and get ready for school. I sit down on the sofa, the light still off, my coat still on and light a cigarette. I feel the rush of the nicotine as I inhale, and lean back into the settee, closing my eyes as the tears, finally start to trickle.

         I fall asleep, curled up on the sofa, the blanket wrapped tightly around me and wake up just after midnight. I head upstairs, change into a cotton pyjama, wash the day’s makeup off my face and brush my teeth while all the time avoiding my own reflection in the mirror. Too awake now to head back to bed, I make myself a cup of hot cocoa. I can’t actually recall the last time I made cocoa for myself; in fact I believe the last time I had cocoa in this house was just after my seventeenth birthday when I was feeling low with a head cold and Aunty brought me the hot, sweet drink to my bed, dabbled my forehead with a cold cloth before leaving the room, quietly closing the door behind me.

         The dining table is less of a mess after my tidy-up last week, however there is a stack of reference books piled up next to where my laptop usually stands. The picture on the front of the local paper catches my eye once more, and I read the short article for the third or fourth time, absorbing every small detail of the small face looking at me; the cute eyes, the long, dangly ears, the mouth which seems to be almost smiling.

         Over the past seven years I have filled the cottage with my own mementos, knickknacks gathered over years of travelling, gifts presented to me by thoughtful hosts, fans and grateful readers. Don’t get me wrong, a lot of what I have been given has gone straight in the bin. In fact, I recall being invited to a pre-Christmas party a couple of years ago at a fellow writer’s house. She had married a very nice, tall and handsome, very blonde Danish guy who wanted to introduce to Ella’s circle of friends a peculiar Danish custom of Jule-Klap.

         The rules of the game, I was told, is that each person brings a wrapped gift to the party and then a dice would be thrown; throwing a six meant you could pick one of the pile of presents. After everyone had managed to throw a six, the presents were to be opened. The slight variation on the game was that the gift had to be an unwanted present you had been given but never had the heart to throw out. I had a whole loft full of such gifts and picked a lava lamp; the worst, most hideous punishment hurled at us by people who call themselves designers.

         As the game progressed, I was excited to see who might find the shape of my gift interesting, and to my delight saw that Ella picked it. She gave me a small smile as she unwrapped it, then gave me a long stare. Later, as I was taking my leave, she whispered, “Thanks for returning it. It is by one of my favourite designers but I could never really afford it for myself.” I felt my heart sink into my shoes. After that, I had a loft clear out and gave most to a charity shop some thirty miles from Upper Tillington.