Ol’ Man River

Embrace your solitude and love it. Endure the pain it causes and try to sing out with it. For those near to you are distant.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters To a Young Poet.

Oscar sat in his cherry wood rocking chair and moved back and forth in time to every other tick of the grandfather clock. The gothic black filigree hands allowed him only five minutes to make himself presentable to the public. One, two, three rocks and he was out of his chair standing bolt upright, elegant, like a sergeant major about to salute. In his peripheral vision he spotted a black dot in the corner of the windowsill. Using his thumb and forefinger, he held onto the dead bee’s translucent wing as if it would turn to dust at any second. With one pointed foot on the kitchen bin lever, he dropped it from a great height, hoping that the bee could still use its wings, but it fell like a coin in a cold deep well into a mass of unwanted vegetable peelings. Two minutes to go. Oscar looked in the golden cherub framed mirror above the fireplace and tried to smooth his unruly grey eyebrows. He failed. He flung open both conservatory doors and a gust of warm air made him inhale deeply…and he closed his eyes for a few seconds to fully appreciate the nurturing touch of the sun on his pale face. He walked down the grey cobbled steps to the bottom of the garden, which overlooked the River Dee. Turning on his heel, he looked up towards his house where the open conservatory doors looked like a white proscenium arch that presented a rich red and gold living room set, ready for the actors to fill the space. Walking to the edge of the garden, he adjusted a few red peanuts that were scattered on the bird table, which he had crafted for Sally. Every year he would clean, sand and repaint the white roof and the cluster of carved acorns and red berries near the bird’s round entrance. Oscar’s eyes skimmed over the glistening green and brown river. It relaxed him. With one hand resting casually on his gardening fork and the other loosely inserted in his beige slacks, Oscar was ready.

                                                                 *

    Mags fumbled in her purse, trying to find enough golden coins to pay the ticket master.

    ‘Oh, I found another. There. Six pounds. I knew I had it in change...’

    ‘Here’s your ticket, Madam. Feel free to take a seat anywhere you choose on the Eleanor Rigby Showboat. Enjoy the ride and have a nice day.’

    ‘Thanks. I’ve always wanted to go on one of these riverboat cruises, but I’ve never had the confidence to go on me own, you know’ said Mags, adjusting the flower in her hair.

    The young ticket master grinned but was already serving the next customer.

    ‘As the crow flies, you can see the splendid Old Dee Bridge. It is the oldest in Chester, having been built around 1387 on a series of wooden predecessors, dating back to Roman times. Incidentally, the river was frozen three times in 1895, 1917 and 1929, when people would revel in the novelty of crossing the river by foot. Should you wish to further indulge yourselves, there is a postcard of the frozen river in 1929, taken by a Mr Mark Cook, where men in bowler hats attempt to walk on the huge expanse of ice. This is available to purchase from the Tourist Office, just opposite the disembarking area. The River Dee is around seventy miles long. It rises in the hills above LLanuwchllyn, in the gold belt of Gwynedd, and before it passes through Bala Lake, it is known as The Little Dee. There is an old legend which says that the waters of the River Dee do not mingle with the waters of Bala Lake, but they pass through, as a Mr Steve Howe so eloquently puts it ‘emerging undiluted for their final journey towards the sea’. And, ladies and gentlemen, on our left, as you can see, there is an overgrown, tangled mass of weeds on the riverbank, which protrudes into the water, rather similar to the shape of a willow tree. This is in fact a spot where witches were tried and drowned. Since the Dark Ages, it has come to be known as a cursed area.’

    Mags shivered. She rummaged in her handbag and brought out a boiled beige sweet.

                                                                  *

Oscar waited. He could hear the distant sound of the orchestra playing Love’s Old Sweet Song inside the Edwardian bandstand, near the city walls. For some reason, the song took him back to a time when he and Sally were rehearsing for a local amateur operatic production of The Pirates of Penzance. Oscar was practicing his audition for the role of Frederic:

    ‘How beautifully blue the sky

    The glass is rising very high

    Continue fine I hope it may

    And yet it rained but yesterday’

    ‘Ok, but try and hold onto the notes a little longer, darling. You are finishing too quickly. Use your diaphragm. Try again and hold your head up. Be animated. It will come across in your singing. Be proud of yourself. Eyes and teeth. Eyes and teeth.’

    Oscar rolled his eyes and assumed another position, with his sweaty hands clasped behind his back.

    ‘No, loosen up a bit. You’re too stiff. You’re like one of the stage props. Do something with your hands and look up to the sky or something. Come here’, she said as she gently kissed him on the forehead.

    Oscar’s eyes twinkled.

    ‘Is this position acceptable?’

    ‘Uh, huh. Let’s start again. From the top.’

    Oh, how he missed his Sally. Forty years they were married. Oscar’s thoughts drifted to another memory which was on their wedding anniversary in 1986. They went to see The Nutcracker. This was one memory that Oscar treasured and regularly replayed in his mind, because Oscar felt special that night. The two lovers sat in the left hand box as you look at the stage. It was as if they were in their own miniature theatre, because people from the audience would always look up to see who was in the box before the real performance started. Oscar was conscious of every movement he made, particularly when it was time to applaud the performers. Politely letting go of Sally’s hand, he would raise his hands to neck level and perform a delicate, cultured clap. And a straight back throughout the whole performance. As for sweets or anything in a bag that rustled. Oh, good grief, no. What would people think? For their romantic meal they ate Duck á la Orange followed by Tarte Tartin with the most exquisite nutmeg infused cream, which they never tasted again in their lifetime. Oscar accidentally let some cream slip onto his tie, which, after all those years had passed, remained unwashed, hanging in the wardrobe, like an self conscious hobo in a crowd of businessmen. Every Christmas since Sally died that year, Oscar would be reminded of their special evening by the warm, earthy nutmeg aroma of mince pies or a whiff of hot Christmas pudding.   

    Oscar was brought into the present by the low rumbling sound of an engine, which overtook the delicate music like a hungry sea monster emerging from the depths of the Loch Ness. The river started to ripple and from behind the overgrown dark green weeds, Oscar saw the tip of Eleanor Rigby’s nose. He licked his lips, assumed his best smile and scanned each body-less face that slowly floated in succession before him. There was a fat man with a long haired boy whose head was pointing downwards, as if he was asleep. Oscar’s milky eyes settled on a woman with an enlarged plastic daisy nestled in her grey hair. She sat towards the back of the riverboat and her pale fingertips rested on the windowpane, producing a warm white halo of mist around them. Her mouth continually puckered, which he thought was rather odd. Maybe she had an affliction? But she had an enthusiastic expression, even joyous, like a child flying a kite for the first time. At last, thought Oscar. This was what he had been waiting for. His stomach became alive with a surge of excitement due to several people pointing in his direction, including Daisy.

                                                             *

On the riverboat there were bright flashes of light and pointed fingers and oohs and ahhs and wows. An overweight, curly haired man pointed to the riverbank and reached for his camera, which was hanging round his neck.

    ‘Look, it’s a heron!’

    ‘Where, Dad?’

      ‘By those weeds. I’ve never seen a heron before. It’s got a fish in its mouth. I can’t believe it. I bet it’s a trout. Magnificent. Such precision… ’

      ‘Well cool’, said the son, who took his own picture and immediately assumed a secretive hunchbacked position over his iPhone.  

        Mags smiled at the solitary heron, which was unaware of the human commotion. It was as if the riverboat was invisible to the heron, who led a separate life, but in the same environment.

                                                  *

With the riverboat out of sight, Oscar flung the gardening fork across the lawn. He could feel his trousers loosening and needed to adjust his belt, but he carried on walking up the cobbled steps, past the vivid pink fuchsias to his left and the marigolds to his right. He shut the conservatory doors and swished the red velvet curtains together. Oscar had an idea. He had just enough time left.  

                                                  *   

Mags held the ticket master’s hand as she stepped off the riverboat.

    ‘Do you know what? That was delightful. Thank you. I don’t know why I haven’t done it before, you know. I’m ever so pleased with meself.’

    ‘No…thank you Madam. See you again very soon.’

    Mags sat on the bench. The one that was Dedicated to Steve, a keen and much loved canoeist who was sadly taken from us in 2004. She stretched out her swollen, sandaled feet and wiggled her fat toes, the nails of which were chipped with lime green nail varnish. Clasping her large plastic handbag in her lap, she watched a new set of people embark on the riverboat.

    ‘Excuse me.’

    ‘Eh?’

    ‘Excuse me, dear, but did you just take a trip on the riverboat?’

    ‘Why, what’s the matter? Have I dropped anything? I’m always losing things, you know. I haven’t dropped me purse, have I? Flaming heck.’

    ‘No, you haven’t lost anything, as far as I am aware. It’s just that… I saw you in the riverboat as you were passing my garden.’

    ‘Your garden?’

    ‘Yes, near the overgrown weeds where the witches were drowned in the Dark Ages. That’s where I live.’

    ‘Oh.’ said Mags, popping another Murray Mint into her mouth.

    ‘You smiled and pointed at me from the riverboat. I remembered you because I noticed the daisy in your hair. And my wife liked daisies...I mean…Oh, I do apologise.’

    Mags looked at her watch.   

    Oscar walked home. Slowly. Without looking behind him. He was trying to work out why he approached Daisy. Did he not love Sally anymore? Of course he did. He just…needed the attention. He craved the attention from the tourists. It didn’t matter who it was. Anybody. But he was also frightened. Of being alone. Of dying alone. And the world just keeps rolling along. Rolling along without recognising that he even existed.

     Oscar slowly turned the key, stepped into the porch and sighed. He looked in the cherub mirror and slowly shook his head from side to side. Sitting back in his rocking chair, Oscar wondered where he had put them. After several minutes, he remembered. He stood up from his chair. They were in the tall chest of drawers in the living room, the top drawer, the one that could be locked. After selected one at random, he ripped out pages and pages from the summer section of that year’s diary.

Monday 11^th June

Total = 2.

Tall moustached elderly gentleman with blue tie. Looked.

Girl. Around five years old. Pigtails. Holding dolly. Pointed.

Tuesday 12^th June

Total = 0.

Wednesday 13^th June

Total = 0. Not many on the riverboat.

Thursday 14^th June

Total = 1.

Vicar. Middle aged. Nodded.

Friday 15^th June

Total = 0. It rained.

The solitary heron stood by the river. His apricot irises and matching coloured underside of his long pointed beak added a touch of sunshine to his subtle gentleman ensemble of varying shades of white and grey feathers. But his deathly black pupils signalled a serious, determined look; of survival. The heron took three steps away from the river and shook his whole body, creating a heavenly fountain of crystal drops…and his dripping wet white feathers hung in clumps underneath his neck, like a white bearded Old Father Time who had got caught in the rain.