Saturday, 14th February
I forgot it was Valentine’s day. I invited Sandra over for Christmas pudding. I made four in December and had one left over. I put a candle on the table – I don’t know why. I served the pudding with Madeira Sherry. I joked, “well, this is romantic.” I think it would have been okay had I not winked. She stood up and blew the candle out. “The pudding was nice,” she said, as she hurriedly put on her coat. She took one last look at Monty. “You have a kind soul,” she said to me as she left. She smiled and shook her head as she got into her dad’s old Ford Capri. She waved as she drove away.
Monday, 16th February
My good friend Barry, now long-deceased, introduced me to the art of Welsh Rarebit one sunny afternoon. I was just nineteen years old. I remember the old gas cooker with its grill above the stove. I remember the warmth of the sun on my back as I leant against the windowsill watching the artist transform a bit of cheese, some mustard powder, ale, Worchester sauce, and, of course, homemade bread, into something unimaginably tasty. We used to talk philosophy, poetry and religion most evenings – until the sun set.
Time is so unkind.
The bric-à-brac I have in my shop are the scars of our living. I have several souvenirs from my friendship with Barry waiting for new soil, waiting to be planted in someone else’s imagination.
We are unfinished objects, life’s projects. Like the unfinished novel I keep in a French jug. (A novel that I hope to finish one day – whatever that means). When I went out to fetch a hod of coal I heard the cry of a tawney owl coming from the little woodland that hides the old mine shafts.
Monday, 16th February
Mr Taylor, the Ticksmith, has asked to see me next week. I’m worried he has some bad news about the clock. He’ll have the results of the tests he carried out last week. Edwina invited me round to share freshly baked bread. I took the lemon-curd. We had a chat about electricity, birthdays and the art of pickles. Edwina is addicted to conversation.
The mug has never reappeared.
8:15pm
Godfrey came to my house and presented me with a box-file full of the notes and ideas for his biography. I gave him a glass of nettle-sting wine and we chatted about Lilly Palgriff. He said he knew her well and was saddened when she passed away. I told him about our middle-of-the-night conversations. This brought a tear to his eye which he wiped away with a very large, embroidered handkerchief. He has travelled extensively but decided to settle down when he saw the flat above The Resurrectory. “Nothing and nobody can be allowed to be forgotten,” he said, wiping another tear from his eye.
Thursday, 19th February
A woodpigeon called me to attention this morning. I returned to the study where I do most of my writing, placed Einaudi on the turntable, and woke my imagination. I’ve seen several oyster-catchers recently, a curlew in mid-flight and a snipe. I’ve heard the haunting song of the lapwing but I’ve not seen any yet. It’s nearly spring and the waders are arriving to nest. This is wonderful. I’ve also seen two starlings.
As an owner of a bric-à-brac shop, my life is ‘all about stuff.’ (As Godfrey Fisher once pointed out). I’ve always believed that ‘things’ exist for a purpose. Understanding how things work is not the point, it is the meaning-of-things that is important. If we don’t understand the ‘why’ we will never understand the ‘how.’ That’s a thought worth holding on to.
Ruth, my second wife, gave me a notebook in 1998, on the day of our divorce. She glued a photo of herself onto the cover. I keep the notebook in my sock drawer and use it for my deeper thoughts. Not that I have many of those at the moment. I sometimes take it to the shop.
The other day a book dropped from the bookshelf in the shop. As I lifted it from the floor it fell open to a page discussing the relationship between keeping diaries and logontology – my preferred philosophy of disclosure.
Here’s a quote from the page:
Godfrey inspires me. I’ve come to see my writing as footprints on sand – a disclosure of the divine. One day the sea will wash them away and they’ll be forgotten, just like the body that produced them. The sun shines, gulls glide beneath the blue of the sky and we scribble in the sand trying to leave our mark, trying to say something before the tide returns. It’s not the words that hold meaning but the act of writing. So let the sea wash them away. We have proved the existence of the divine simply by leaving meaningful trails in the sand.
Friday, 20th February
Friday. The winter socks I purchased at the What-Is-It Fair, are far too good for my sensitive feet so I’m going to put them in the shop. I’m sure someone with less sensitive feet than mine will find them useful. Harriet said she’d make them into sock-puppets and donate them to a care home. Maybe that’s a better idea.
Monday, 9th March
I took the bus to Hexham today. The sun followed me there as I chatted to Mrs Viola who was also on the bus. She was on her way to meet a mystery man. She was hoping he’d fill the ‘husband shaped gap’ she has in her life. I get the feeling Mrs Viola is succumbing to sadness. She talks about her childhood as if it were spent under dark clouds. She seems not to know why. She sat in silence for a while looking out of the window watching the landscape slip by. She has become a victim to the passing of time. I have a feeling she wants to stop it and get off but doesn’t know how.
I had a cup of coffee, and a slice of walnut cake at The Cloister Café. It was busy in a nice way. People were cheerful. I needed that after my conversation with Mrs Viola. I took my notebook to Hexham so while in the café I jotted down a few thoughts. Before that though, I spent a few minutes sitting quietly in the Abbey. It’s funny how a single conversation can hide the sunshine, bury the daffodils and silence the birdsong. Thank goodness for happy people in cafés and notebooks that just listen.
Percy Preece is coming round tomorrow with his two broad-shouldered sons to help me move Monty into the spare bedroom. I’m currently decorating it in a Victorian style – I’ve furnished it with stuff from the shop which has freed up some useful space. I’ve put the complete works of Charles Dickens – Imperial Edition (1901) – in Monty’s room. I plan to read Dickens to get to know Monty’s world a bit more. I’m hoping Monty might help me re-write my novel. I know it sounds odd but I feel happy sitting with the stuffed man. From a letter he wrote in 1846 I have learned that he was ‘afraid of the dark.’ Not the normal lights out dark, but the infinite one, ‘the abyss that is absolute.’ It seems he believed this fear is due to some ‘terrible, terrible crime’ he committed when he was sixteen years old.
Sandra gave me a photo of herself yesterday. She came to Tarnleigh to photograph the old Norman church. St. Eadburh’s is popular with photographers. It’s less popular with the faithful. Sandra stopped at my house to deliver the odd socks she had promised Edwina. “I’ll not take them to her myself as I’ll be there for ages,” she said. We had tea. She had a conversation with Monty telling him how he’s going to like his new room. She gently touched the clock as she walked through the hallway. We talked about how we first met. She was only sixteen and fell from a tree just behind my cottage. I cleaned her grazed knee. Incense, my cat, was still alive then. Sandra fell in love with him. She was devastated when he disappeared – presumed dead. He has never returned.
Sandra gave me the photo as she was leaving. “You haven’t got one of me have you?” I have. But I needed another. She asked how Ruth was. She said she had been offered a place at Plughole Seminary. “I’ll continue to work for you,” she insisted.
Just after Sandra left, Harriet phoned and invited me over for a meal at the end of the week. I’ll be at the bookshop on Friday so I could stop by. “I’ll cook lasagne, your favourite,” she said. Lasagne isn’t my favourite, and never has been. I don’t really have a favourite dish. Although a Sunday roast done well…
8:15pm
The clock is making a funny noise – again. It’s coming from behind the pendulum. It actually sounds like someone walking heavy-footed up an old wooden staircase. It makes the sound seven minutes after every 5pm chime. It’s quite creepy. The first time I heard it I thought Monty had come back to life and was wandering about the house. I wasn’t able to finish my scrambled eggs supper and had to put it in the bin.
Here are the café reflections from my notebook:
I think we exist to encounter: This is the true meaning of life. When I was young, the ‘meaning of life’ question excited me so much. I was on a journey of discovery. Now, I don’t think the answer actually matters. The conversations, the sharing of ideas are the joys of the journey. These are the things that matter. I have always been good and kind and my intentions have always been honest. This is what matters. I miss the not-knowing, though. And the discovery.
Time was once measured by the speed at which ideas were drawn upon a page. This must return. I must bring back my scribble-shaped thoughts. Fear has no place in a poet’s heart. For nothing is so terrible as a page left alone and ink left unrolled. Whatever the thought, free it. Let it come forth.
I’ve been looking at some of the pictures that came with Monty in his trunk of treasures. There’s one particular photo, of a young woman who looks so familiar. I’m sure I know her. Which is impossible. Looking at the old photo sends a shiver down my spine.
Sunday, 15th March
Monty seems happy now he’s in his own room. The decorating isn’t quite finished and I need to bring a few more items from the shop for him, but he certainly looks at home now that he has his own place.
I saw Mrs Viola this morning standing at the bus stop. She told me that her mystery man is called Nigel and is very nice. She smiled when she said his name. She was wearing a long floral skirt rather than the black skirt she usually wears. We talked about the weather. She said she hadn’t noticed that the sun had been shinning for several days now. “Didn’t it rain yesterday?” she said. It didn’t. We’ve had an unusual spell of warm, sunny weather. The daffodils look splendid and the dandelions are beginning to cover the banks with their scruffy kind of yellow.
Saturday, 21st March
Ruth told me this morning that she’s dying. She’s terminally ill and doesn’t know how long it will be before she takes her ‘final breath’ as she put it. This final breath seems to hold some sort of significance for her.
I’m devastated.
We are divorced but friends. Divorce is just the separation of paths. We never lost sight of each other. She travelled the world and I brought a bookshop. She was always looking ahead while I was arranging words onto shelves. She made her own memories while I safeguarded the memories of others. She said, “I’ll be sorting out some stuff. I hope you have room in your new shop.” Sandra hugged me when I told her about Ruth – she already knew apparently. It was a nice hug. She hugs nicely. I feel I shouldn’t have enjoyed it. Harriet cried into the gold-fish pond when I told her. She was in her wellies helping me catch the shubunkins which she says are disruptive. She has them indoors now. It’s driving her cat mad.
Monty said nothing, but he did let me cry in his room.
Percy Preece lost his wife some years back. She was cycling to Plughole Seminary and rode into a sinkhole. Maggy Preece used to go to the seminary to picnic and crochet. Before it reopened, the former stately home was a popular spot for people seeking a bit of inspiration.
Some young lad called me a ‘tit’ today, after I accidentally tripped over his bag. I told him he shouldn’t place it in the middle of the pavement. He said I shouldn’t be reading The Importance of Being Earnest while walking to the post office.
11:15pm
I have new duvet covers. Plain green with small pink flowers. What was I thinking? They were cheap and looked great in the shop. I think it reminded me of something Ruth and I used to have.
Harriet thinks I’m a fool. I don’t see Clara, my first wife, much. She lives not far from the shop but works in Newcastle. I’ve seen her sitting in the cemetery talking to the grandma who died on her 100th birthday. “If you leave me I’ll never want to talk to you again,” she said when I left. On the frequent occasions our paths have crossed, she has smiled. Never forced smiles. Never polite smiles. Genuine smiles.
Maybe Harriet is right.
