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NOTES:

WRITERS' CHALLENGE: SPRING 2008 - SECOND PLACE WINNER

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"Hearing Loss"

by Julie McGowan - Usk, Wales, UK
 

THIRD PLACE IN THE "WRITERS' CHALLENGE" CATEGORY, SPRING 2008

The darkness was descending again. It had been hovering around the edges of her consciousness for some time, like the wisps of smoke from an early woodland campfire. But now it had gathered strength, encircling her whole body in black, pressing in on her, as heavy and encumbering as a burqa.

Rob had wondered this morning. ‘You alright Anna?’ he’d asked, to which she’d simply answered, ‘I’m fine’ and presented her back to him, hunched over the breakfast she didn’t want to eat and reading the newspaper with unfocused eyes.

She resented him for not realising the depths of her misery. She told herself that she’d given him the answer he wanted to hear, that he didn’t want to know more about what was bothering her. But she also knew that if he’d asked more specifically, ‘How are you this morning?’ and put his hand on her shoulder, she would have  answered ‘Fine’, just as brusquely, and shrugged him off, so the poor man couldn’t win.

Now she somehow had to face a day at work. Put on her bright smile and rearrange her features to ‘understanding’ mode as she listened and advised and tested and assisted the doctor with immunisations.  She felt sorry for the little mites brought to the clinic; the appendages of their young single mothers who gave them outlandish names and spent a large part of the day wheeling them round the indoor shopping centre, bundled into thick padded suits even though they spent only a few minutes in the fresh air.

She still loved them all, though, and told them they were beautiful. Every baby deserved to be told it was beautiful. Many years ago when she was very small, she had overheard her mother and an aunt eulogising over what a bonny baby her elder brother had been. ‘What sort of baby was I?’ she’d asked. ‘Oh, you were a funny little thing,’ her mother had replied. And. deep inside, a funny little thing she had remained for most of her life.

So every baby, as it was undressed and placed on her weighing scales, was showered with compliments. The truly lovely ones, with big eyes and dimpled cheeks and mouths they had control of from the early months, always smiled and chuckled at the compliments as if they knew already that they were blessed with the approbation of all who came into contact with them. So she made even more fuss of the less fortunate, pallid infants with narrow heads and slack drooling mouths, who also seemed already to know their place in the world and were less quick to make eye contact. Whilst the children who appeared in grubby ill-matched clothes, of varying degrees of dampness and aroma, were given extra cuddles, if only to aggravate the clinic assistant, Joan, who wrinkled her nose at them and looked sourly at their multi-punctured and tattooed mothers.

It made Anna enormously popular with all the parents, of course, especially combined with her knack of making them feel that she had all the time in the world for them and that each little problem mattered to her. A Heath Visitor who truly understood what it meant to be a parent.

‘Amazing, when she’s had no kids of her own,’ they would mutter to each other when she was out of earshot. Within earshot she was often aware of their pitying glances and the unspoken, ‘What a wonderful mother she’d have been.’

In the early years, when the mothers she visited were the same age as her, there had been many jocular references to when it would be her turn. She had laughed them off, then, even though she already knew.

‘It’s much better like this,’ she’d joked, ‘I get all the fun of cuddling and playing with babies, and then hand them back for the difficult bits.’

As time passed she’d almost convinced herself of this mantra. After all, babies grew into delightful toddlers, whom she still had contact with, but then turned into difficult children, ugly ducklings often, with second teeth too big for their faces and gangly limbs and obsessions with bodily functions. Even worse, they became mysterious scary teenagers, of whom she had no experience whatsoever. Whilst, in her world, she had a constant flow of babies and small children of the ages she liked best of all.

She engaged all her senses when handling and examining each baby - breathing in the scent of new skin as she picked it up, marvelling at the silkiness of its hair as she ran her hands expertly over its skull, revelling in the perfect dimpling of chubby limbs and feet that had never been walked on, and remarking on each new milestone, so that by the end of each day the ache for a child of her own was dulled and, eventually, she hardly ever noticed it.  Just occasionally, when she was visiting some squalid flat that smelled of sex and stale milk bottles, had she had to fight the urge to pick up the little scrap which had been brought into the world so casually, and make off with it.

Rob had never minded about her infertility. He liked to travel and surround himself with fine things, and take impromptu breaks to unusual places, or impulsive evenings out to a new play or restaurant - all the things a young family would have proscribed.

There had been a surge of hope when the first ‘test-tube’ baby was born, but when Anna meticulously researched the topic she quickly realised that the chances of success were slim. And by the time IVF twins and triplets were becoming almost commonplace on her books it was too late for her.

Occasionally friends had suggested she get a dog. ‘They’re such good company and puppies are so much fun,’ they’d told her. But Rob wasn’t keen.

‘Too much of  a tie when we want to go away,' he’d said, ‘and an animal would wreck the garden.’ She’d known then, when he said ‘animal’ rather than ‘pet’ that it was pointless pursuing the topic.

No matter. She continued to mother every baby she came into contact with and a feeling of relief had descended as her contemporaries waved their offspring off to university. Now they had no children at home either and had to learn how to be just a couple again, until they metamorphosed into doting grandparents, but it hadn’t come to that yet.

So everything would have been fine if it wasn’t for the dreams. At first she blamed it on her time of life and demanded that her GP give her hormone therapy. But the dreams continued. Dreams where she was pregnant; giving birth; holding in her arms a baby which she knew was her own because she was filled with such raw love that it was painful and made her wake up in tears. This time her GP blamed it on her time of life and gave her anti-depressants, but they made no difference.

It was a dream last night that was making the darkness descend again. As she drove away from their immaculate country cottage, where on winter evenings they sat in front of the log fire like two neutered cats, she wondered if she could face a day of other people’s babies. Last night she’d had a baby girl with dark curling hair and rounded limbs. The baby had tugged on her breast and she’d felt a surge of milk flow from her. She’d awakened suddenly, to a sense of loss and longing so acute that she’d tried desperately to return to the dream, but to no avail.

Now, as she drove, she experienced a growing urge to drive past the town and simply keep going; to drive on and on to  some place where she could escape her present and her past and be someone else. A woman of mystery, free of this senseless longing, free to do and be whatever she wanted.

Embark on a love affair perhaps. Sometimes, before a baby arrived in her dreams, there was an episode with an unknown man that produced a passion she had never felt in reality. Maybe that was what she needed. An encounter where a different sort of rapture would claim her. Her body was still good, unsullied as it was by childbirth and pampered in keeping with Rob’s appreciation of fine things.

The idea of escaping appealed so much that she pulled up outside a bank and withdrew three hundred pounds in cash from both bank accounts. Enough to keep her going for a while so Rob needn’t know where she was. She avoided looking to left or right for fear of catching sight of someone she knew.  Her melancholy wanted no interruption that might lift it even a fraction. At the moment there was comfort in clinging to her tenebrous state.

When she returned to the car she switched off her mobile. The road out of town was long and straight. It beckoned to her, even though she knew where it immediately led. There was still a promise of what might lie beyond what was familiar.

At first she took little notice of where she was heading, her mind replaying last night’s dream as her body inwardly squirmed with desire for it to come true. Her hands on the steering wheel could still feel the fragility of that tiny skull as the baby had nestled into her shoulder. It seemed as if the dream was more real than anything had ever been in her life.

The grey uniformity of the morning lifted slightly with glimpses of pale February sky visible between moisture laden clouds. The road carried her through a narrow valley surrounded by undulating hills, with, ahead, a true mountain. She recalled a visit here as a child, with an uncle who had walked up the mountainside carrying a rope which he attached to a craggy outcrop and convinced her brother and her that they were really rock climbing. She had been exhilarated at her uncle’s praise of her agility and had wanted to go on to the top but they were expected back for tea.

Suddenly she knew that she had to climb to the very top of the mountain. That here she would find the freedom she was seeking and that, at the summit, there would be some way of resolving her anguish.

The lower slopes had changed since her childhood; there was a proper car park and signposts indicating the safest way to walk to the higher levels. She was in a hurry now, eager to release herself from her oppression. She disregarded the stouter footwear kept in the boot for when she was visiting outlying farms, and the warmer coat which lay alongside. The murky day was mild and she would become too stifled by them as she climbed.

With blazing eyes and the rapturous expression of a mystic she moved purposefully up the mountainside. She should have thought of this before. All the tales through history had approved of solace sought in the mountains. It was where the Greeks went to find their gods, where Moses had been given the Commandments, where Christ has wrestled with the devil. It would be where she would find her epiphany.

She encountered no-one. The few bedraggled sheep, winter coats tinged with dirt like roadside snow which had lain too long, moved away long before she reached them. There was nothing but the breeze lifting her hair, depositing a fine spray of moisture on her reddened cheeks, and the ever-fainter noise of the world below.

It took longer to reach the summit than she had thought, the dips and changes in the terrain not visible from the road, but she persevered, ignoring the pain in her feet and the rasping of her breath as the air grew colder and damper.

Neither, at first, did she notice the mist as it began to swirl around the top of the mountain as the blackness had swirled around her mind that morning. Was it only the same morning? She felt so far away physically from all that she knew, that time had fractured too.  It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Nourishment, warmth, respite from the increasingly hostile elements - all were irrelevant, unheeded. Here was the release she’d craved.

The mist swooped down to meet her and she lifted her arms to embrace it. It obliterated all indication of any world below. It seeped through her pores to her core, expunging the darkness which was destroying her.

The ground was still firm beneath her feet and she sensed she was near the top. She kept moving forward, relying on instinct, until the ground levelled out and she knew she was there. For the first time she stood still. All was silent. Only the angel- hair mist continued to circle, eerie wisps of light occasionally oozing through.

Then she heard it, very faintly in the distance. Of course! It was a cry. The baby! Somewhere here she would find the baby. She turned slowly on the spot. Where exactly was it coming from? The swoops of mist confused her. She moved in the direction she thought to be true.  Stopped. Listened again. Yes! The cry, lifting and dropping with the breeze, was nevertheless stronger.  Her legs, muscles stretched and torn from the unaccustomed exercise, resisted the instruction to move on, but she persevered. Faster, she must go faster, before the cry stopped and was lost. She heard it again, and knew it to be the baby of last night. She was the baby’s mother! Of course she would know the cry!

And now there was a light. Round and yellow like a torch shining dimly through the thickening fog. She stretched out her arm towards it but it moved further away. It began to spin slowly, creating a mesmerising vortex, at the centre of which she knew was her baby, waiting for her. As if numbed she stepped forward, her feet no longer feeling the ground beneath.

The light was the answer....... her whole body keened towards it, quivering in anticipation and need. Her lips moved frantically, the words disconnecting as her breath met the air, dredged from Christmasses of long ago when there was still hope in her heart...... ‘In the beginning was the Word...... and the light shone in the darkness........ that was the True Light.........’

She repeated them over and over. There was nothing but the words, and the Light, and beyond it the grey of the mist and beyond that the darkness, gone from her  forever. And, nearly upon her now, the cry of the baby...... her baby. Her breasts ached in response to the sound, as they had in the dream.

One more step, one final step. Light as air. Her body suffused with joy as the mist raised her up. Suddenly the light rushed towards her, pure white now, transforming the droplets of moisture in the air into a million dazzling sequins. She held up her arms as the light engulfed her and the baby’s wailing  filled her head.

‘I’m here!’ she cried.

Copyright (c) 2008 by Julie McGowan - do not reproduce
without the author's written permission!
 

COMMENTS FROM OUR COMMISSIONING EDITOR, Jo Holloway:
A brilliant insight into the mind of the deeply depressed and disturbed; the sense of loss and yearning is sharply portrayed, and the ending somehow right, yet so wrong and sorrow-filled. Very well written.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Julie McGowan has had over 40 short stories and features published both nationally and internationally, and is an ardent playwright for the Welsh theatre. She has won numerous writing competitions over the years, as well as penning various features, a newspapercolumn, and a local annual town guide. Her first novel, "The Mountains Between", has already won the regional best seller label, and is now followed by her second book, "Just One More Summer”. Julie is currently working on her third book, "Don't Pass Me By", with a fourth in the pipeline.

Well known in her home town of Usk for her work in the community (including rescuing the old Sessions House from destruction!), Julie runs a young people’s drama workshop as well as a full theatrical group, performing variety shows and witty pantomimes to sell-out crowds every year. She also co-runs a theatre company which tours secondary schools in Wales with productions covering health and social issues.

Born in Blaenavon, Julie left Wales for Kent at the age of 12. She trained as a nurse at Guy’s Hospital, London, and then as a Health Visitor in Durham, living there for 4 years after her marriage to husband Peter. The couple now have four adult children, and have lived in Surrey, Lincolnshire and Hertfordshire before returning to Wales 15 years ago. (Picture courtesy of Free Press Series Ltd.)

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