Dark tree, still sad when

other’s grief is fled,

The only constant mourner

o’er the dead

Lord Byron ‘The Giaour’ (1813)

The Uninvited Guest

Sadie felt the pain in her stomach spread like black ink on blotting paper as the smell surrounded her. She stared out of the shop window and watched the snowflakes tremble through the air until they softly locked into each other, safe in each others embrace. The smell interrupted her late afternoon mission of deciding between Dr. Zhivago and Anna Karenina. She wanted the snow to last by reading about it, be it the intricate lacy hoar frost or the skaters’ feet spitting ice and carving out crosshatch patterns with their silver blades, or the huddles of peasants standing in the snow drinking kvass to numb the pain of winter. She realised that the smell was like winter; lingering, dark and heady, like preserved fruit in rich syrup, enjoyed in the bleak months when the earth refused to provide without the cooperation of the sun.

       The smell took her to her past….there was a blackout. She was snuggled in bed underneath several blankets topped with a 1970s pink candlewick bedspread. On her bedside table, there was a lamp. Was it blue? Or maybe black. Yes, it was black. Only it had no light. But the room was illuminated by the warm yellow glow of a candle.

     ‘Which story would you like me to read to you, sweetheart?’

     ‘Erm…a fairy tale.’

     ‘Okay, let’s open the book and see which story turns up.’

     ‘C-can I do it? Can I open the book?’

     ‘Of course.’

     ‘Look! It’s called The Burial Shirt, mummy.’

     ‘And the little boy dies and the mother could find no solace. The mother cried. And cried. So the boy appeared night after night. Stop crying mummy, he said, my burial shirt will not dry out because of your tears. So his mummy stopped crying and her son, who now lay in a dry burial shirt, could rest in peace.’

   Sadie bit her stubby nails. Her mother leant down and tickled underneath her chin, making her look into her pale blue eyes. As her mother snuffed out the candle, her warmed wrist smelled like dark plums. She imagined eating the fruit and her mouth watered. The scent lingered on, long after her mother had left the room and long after she drifted off to sleep…

*

     Sadie continued to walk around the second hand bookshop tightly cradling both books to her breast. She tried to catch the shopkeeper’s eye for some form of contact, some kind of acknowledgement of her existence, but he never raised his head. Ever since she first visited the bookshop he had been there. And that was well over a decade ago. So, why didn’t he ever look at his customers? Was it because he respected their privacy when choosing a book? Or did he not like people in general? Was he depressed because of his age? There was that smell again. Sadie looked behind her and saw a woman standing in front of the History section. The curly haired woman, dressed in a long camel coat, searched for something in her handbag, gave a restless sigh and pulled out her glasses. She breathed short and hard onto each lens and gave them a brisk circular rub with a soft white cloth which lined the coffin of her glasses case.

      ‘Excuse me. I am sorry to bother you but I was wondering if you c-could help me.’                       

‘Are you talking to me?’ the woman said, peering over her glasses.

    ‘I, yes, I…’

    ‘What do you want?’’

    ‘I …’

   ‘Well, hurry up, then, it’s a quarter to, the shop will close soon.’

      ‘What’s it c-called? Your…perfume?’

      ‘Oh. Right. Ok. It’s called ‘Lara’. There. I need to go and choose a book now, so if you will excuse me…’

     How dare she wear that perfume…It didn’t even suit her…Sadie inspected her small hands and noticed that there was a spike of white nail left on one of her fingers, so she bit it off, played around with it on her tongue and then swallowed it. As she twirled a long strand of her unwashed auburn hair around her fingers, she watched the shopkeeper dragging his weary body over to the front door. He locked it, causing the brass bells at the top to jangle. Just at that moment, a new customer arrived outside, tried to open the door and then peered through the window. He looked at the shopkeeper, who slowly shook his head from side to side without making eye contact. The shopkeeper slid the bunch of keys across the table until they hit the till. He coughed loudly and rummaged in his trouser pocket, bringing out a crumpled tissue. He spat into it, looked at the contents and put the tissue back in his pocket. He then glanced at the clock.

*

    Sadie rushed through the cold cobbled streets towards the chemist. It was late and most of the shops were closing. Just made it. As she came out of the chemist, two young waitresses left the Pickle Jar café, talking loud and fast. She needed a cigarette. Her hands were too cold and numb to roll one so she decided to buy a packet of Marlboro when she arrived at the train station. She had to keep her gloves on otherwise her sensitive fingertips would turn a deathly white. Doctor said it was Raynaud’s syndrome.

    Underneath the yellow light of the station, she moved towards the edge of the platform and held out her gloved hand to catch a pretty snowflake, but it dissolved on the wool as if it never wanted to be touched… She wished she could have one last embrace. What if she forgot the sound of her voice? It was quite low pitched, wasn’t it? There was no recording of it…Though she did keep in her flower press a flattened ball of grey, scraped from a silver backed hairbrush. And the clothes. Most went to the local Cancer Research. But not her best jade green jacket, adorned with her sparkling Swarovski brooch. So it hung with darkened jewel, hidden in the wardrobe in-between Sadie’s oversized threadbare jumpers and white Asda tee-shirts, complete with orange spaghetti stains.

*

    On the train, glancing through the window, she accidentally met the station guard’s eyes and felt his discomfort in trying to keep warm. He seemed angry at her; as if it was her fault that the weather was bad and that he was cold. He stood on one foot, then the other, like a child not knowing what to do with himself. He clapped several times, cupped both hands over his face and breathed hard, closing his eyes in warm relief. 

    The train started with a jolt. She realised she had chosen a seat that faced backwards. It was too late, the carriage was packed. She started to observe the passengers through the window’s reflection. Several ghostlike doppelgangers were set against a backdrop of pure dark night. There were two boys. One was huddled underneath his father’s arm. The other wore a Puffa jacket and unconsciously stuck out his tongue, moving it from side to side as he scribbled into his book. Sadie couldn’t resist a quick look. He had drawn a tree with red leaves and a big sun blazing in the right hand corner of the page. It was like the oak tree in her back garden when she was a teenager. Her mother had tied to it a black rubber tyre, but it just hung there, abandoned in the winter months. Each lunchtime in winter she would come home from school and make herself a sandwich, usually cheese or raspberry jam, and she’d look out of the window at the tree and yearn for summer days, longing to loop her legs through the hole, bend her head backwards and swing back and to, brushing past the warm air. Drake would have sat on the grass waiting for her to finish so he could have some attention. One day, her mother came into the kitchen with several bags of shopping.

     ‘I don’t think I’ve forgotten anything. We have currants, sultanas, mixed peel, spices, oh, and a bit of brandy to lace the cake with. Drat, I’ve forgotten the walnuts. Oh, well…What ever is the matter sweetheart?’

     ‘Drake.’   

     ‘But, Sadie, it was three years ago. I’m sorry, I sound so harsh, don’t I? I wish we could afford another dog for you, darling, but since your Dad left us, we have had to budget. And my wage at the hospital isn’t enough to… ’

     ‘I know, Mum…It’s just that…’

     ‘Remember. Just as a candle cannot burn without fire, men cannot live without a spiritual life. Buddha. Drake will always be with you. Come on. You do the Christmas cake this year. You can make it from scratch as well as decorate it however you want. It will be fun.’

*

      The sound of children’s laughter startled Sadie and made her sit up and adjust herself on the train seat. She watched the boy through the window’s reflection. His laugh was muffled as he popped his head inside his Puffa jacket, away from his brother’s tickling fingers. Next to them was a thin teenage girl who seemed frozen, like a waxwork figure kept alive by the electrical wire of her headphones. Sadie wondered what music she was listening to. Perhaps it was an audio book. Northanger Abbey? She then looked directly at the man who was reading his newspaper. US State of Emergency: Freak Snowstorm Kills 11, Leaving Millions Without Power. The man became aware of her attention and they exchanged glances. He looked familiar. It was his eyes. Pale blue. Embarrassed, she darted her eyes back to his reflection. After twenty minutes, though, she felt accustomed to the new people that surrounded her and felt ready to open one of the books. She turned to the back pages.

    Like swarms of summer midges

    Drawn to the flame

    The snowflakes

    Flocked to the window                                       

    And the candle burned. The candle burned. Like the candle which she lit in church two years ago. Its yellow flame flickered in the cold air as it bled wax tears. Pleated folds of red carnations rested next to the candle and the golden picture on top of the coffin. It was as if her mother was still alive and was listening to her own tribute. Oh, and the music. The gentle choral music which drifted through the church, caressing the coffin with its sweet sound. She loved Rachmaninov. Sadie smiled when the vicar mentioned her mother’s love of quotes. Always keep your face towards the sunshine, she would say, and the shadows will fall behind you. Walt Whitman…Following the coffin out of the church, she could feel the heavy gaze of the congregation watching her every breath, every tear, every gesture. It was like performing on stage….. And ladies and gentlemen, we present to you, for one day only…put your hands together for…And then there was Aunty Mary, with the perfectly styled hair who stared for too long. Did she get a kick out of seeing Sadie suffer? Her cousin Michael assumed a patronising half smile. It was as if he was laughing at her. At her mother’s funeral! Why did they have to come and try to ruin it? But when her aunty kissed the coffin, Sadie gently touched her shoulder, on which several grey hairs shone on black acrylic. Then there was Michael’s beautiful floral tribute she had received that morning. Large white lilies with staining stems. Thinking of you with love…Oh, but the vicar, with his rising and falling stereotypical tone. How many times, how many years had he repeated those words? Did he mean what he said or was he just earning money to support his family like an ordinary businessman? But he did say something that haunted her mind. It was something that she thought impossible. It was about trying to let go of your loved one. Love is not self seeking, he said…She followed the coffin outside into the white light of day and walked down the twisted path towards the dark mound of earth that lay waiting. She was envious of the earth, which would remain close to her mother. The freshly laid snow was like an uninvited guest, sitting on the gravestones, making itself at home. All was silent. The huge ancient yew tree stood with head bowed, like an eternal mourner dressed in a dark rough suit. Sadie rested her hand on its thick gnarled trunk which was like a labyrinth of dark honeycomb. She could somehow feel the sadness of ages that slowly seeped through its hundreds of wooden rings. Her tears stung as she watched a robin hop onto the snow covered branches that hung over the graves like a giant white umbrella protecting the dead…

*

   A branch tapped on the train window. She snapped the book shut and delved into her handbag. After several deep breaths, she pulled off the black lid and slowly caressed the cold, carved glass bottle. She felt a stab of guilt for forgetting the name of it. Of course it was called ‘Lara’. After spraying some onto her wrists she slowly rubbed them together. She watched the newspaper man she had observed earlier. He was reaching for his sandwich. He nibbled at one corner and then tried to tease something long and thin out of it with his teeth, but it fell onto his shirt. It looked like a strip of salami. The man dangled it into his mouth and licked his lips. Pouring water from his plastic bottle onto his handkerchief, he rubbed the greasy stain, deepening the shirt’s shade of blue. The man’s shirt was wet. Of course. Like the boy in The Burial Shirt. This had to be a sign…She stared at the perfume bottle that rested in her lap.

    An automated voice informed the passengers that the train was about to arrive at Kemble. She threw both books in her bag, gratefully nodded to the man and stepped off the train. She inhaled the cold air. People were rushing around her. Each person seemed to have a self important air about them, a determined look in reaching their destination. On her way home, she stopped off at the cemetery. Walking a different way than usual, she paused to look at other headstones.

     KARL ZEIGLER…dearly beloved Father, Husband and Brother

     ERNEST WALTER CLOSE… loved fishing

     FREIDA HARLECH…fifteen years old, resting in the loving arms of angels

    She swept the snow off the top of the black granite headstone. It looked shiny, as if someone had polished it. Unafraid of the cold, she took off her gloves and lit the tiny candle inside the carved lantern. The light illuminated the headstone, making the golden letters shine. Sadie slowly walked away. The ancient yew tree stood patiently, waiting for the tears to fall, but the only sound was a clink of iron as the cemetery gates were closed.