Please note that the work on this blog is the copyright of the writers and may not be reproduced without their permission.

Friday 7 September 2007

The River Road -- by Zephirine

-

“Ellen, Ellen! Come here, look!”

Ellen looked round from cleaning the stove. Her mother-in-law’s tone and tension made her move quickly across the room, her long skirt catching the little stool and nearly knocking it over.

The clock struck four as they stood together and looked out of the kitchen window towards the dusty road which ran alongside the river and past the back of the house.

They watched the figure walking slowly up the road towards them.

“It is him.”

“It must be.”

“He must have got leave.”

But although as the figure got closer it was unmistakably her husband, Ellen didn’t run out to meet him. Something was wrong with him, the walk was different, the brisk farmer’s vigour gone from his movements. She watched.

Albert walked slowly, steadily, up to the open back door, paused on the threshold. Brown-haired, solidly built, his khaki uniform discoloured with dust from the road.

His face was blank.

“Well, we didn’t expect to see you,” said his mother, trying in vain to keep the fear from her voice as both women looked at him with the same thought: he was back, but he was mad. Or at any rate, absent in mind.

Ellen went over to him, put her arms round him. He was reassuringly solid, his cheek rough with stubble, but he stood still in her embrace without responding. She stepped back.

“Sit down, have a cup of tea,” she said, for lack of anything else to say. “You must be worn out.”

Mrs Martin thought as she poured the tea that perhaps this was what they called shell-shock. He must have seen terrible things, it had affected his mind; he would heal, now, in the country.

Still he had not spoken, or kissed either of them, and now he went, not to a chair, but over to the wall and sat down on the floor, forearms propped on his knees in the ancient pose of the soldier resting on a march.

Ellen took his tea, but he made no movement to take it. She bent down and put it on the floor between his feet.

His mother said: “You just sit there, then. We’ll get on.”

She went back to the dishes and Ellen started cleaning the stove again, but neither of them had any idea of what they were doing. Their whole awareness was concentrated on the still shape sitting there, leaning back against the wall, the untouched mug of tea growing cold on the floor.

The dishes clattered as Mrs Martin finished washing and began to dry them. Ellen finished the stove and began, unnecessarily, to polish the kettle.

After what seemed like a long time but was actually about ten minutes, Albert got up, carefully, as though he ached.

Then, as he walked past her without expression, Ellen saw the bullet hole in the back of his tunic, surrounded by a little cloud of blood. About where his heart would be.

And then he walked slowly out of the door and disappeared.

Mrs Martin had seen it too.

She was in time to catch Ellen as she fainted, and help her onto the big chair by the stove.

-

Both women cried for most of the rest of the day. He had been Mrs Martin’s only surviving child, the man of the house since his father died when he was thirteen. Ellen had known him since they went to school together at six years old.

“What will we do without him?” she asked. Meaning not: how will we run the farm and make money? but : how will we get up in the morning and put one foot in front of the other?

“I don’t know, love. I don’t know.”

Eventually, exhausted, they went to bed early. They were tired enough to sleep. They did get up in the morning and put one foot in front of the other, sustained by the routine of work which had worn them both down since he went off to the war. Cows to milk, chickens to feed, horse to muck out, house to clean.

Ellen felt weak and confused, Mrs Martin felt disconnected from her own body carrying out the daily tasks. By the afternoon they had both run out of strength and had to stop.

They sat in the big kitchen and had some tea, and a biscuit. For the first time they spoke about Albert’s appearance yesterday. He must have been shot, then, at about the time they saw him. Mrs Martin had heard of such things before, the bereaved having a vision of their loved one coming to tell of his or her death. But how had he been shot in the back? Perhaps the Army would tell them, though Mrs Martin doubted it. He would not have been running away. Albert would never have run away.

The clock struck four as Mrs Martin took the cups and plates to the sink. Out of habit she glanced out of the window, and Ellen, who was by the always-open back door, heard her gasp as she dropped the crockery into the sink. She looked where her mother-in-law was looking, out along the river road.

They watched the figure walking slowly up the road towards them.

This time they did nothing.

They stood still, together, clutching hands tightly, and watched Albert walk up to the door, pause on the threshold, come in, sit down by the wall and rest his forearms on his raised knees.

They waited. He sat, for about ten minutes, and then got up carefully, painfully, and walked to the door, his bullet-hole still there red on his back, out of the door and disappeared.

After a long time Ellen whispered: “Why did he come back? We know, now. Why?”

Mrs Martin shook her head, uncomprehending.

-

That evening they were silent, beyond tears and filled with a new fear that neither of them expressed.

Neither slept, and the next day they avoided each other’s eyes, working harder even than usual, trying to get tired so they would stop thinking, but making clumsy mistakes and dropping things, bumping into furniture.

As the afternoon progressed, they were in the big kitchen as always, and both trying not to look at the clock.

As four o’clock struck, there was a long moment of stillness between them, and then it was Ellen who walked decisively to the sink and looked out of the window. She stood very still for a moment, and the blood had drained from her face when she turned back into the room to Mrs Martin.

“Yes.”

The older woman stared back at her, the fear realised. Now both of them somehow knew that, for some reason, they - the three of them - had been sentenced.

“It’s going to be every day, isn’t it?”

Ellen nodded mechanically. “Yes. Every day.”

Every day.

Mrs Martin saw her own emotions reflected on her daughter-in-law's face. She went to join Ellen by the sink, putting an arm round her but feeling her own lack of strength or reassurance.

And could not prevent her gaze from moving out of the window to where the dusty soldier trudged lonely up the river road towards the house.

-

39 comments:

file said...

this is great Zeph, love ghost stories and you pace it so well, how, exactly, do you structurally engineer waves of tingling nettles washing up and down my spine?

it's art luv

thanks for sharing this Z, are we having a ghost story section now?

offsideintahiti said...

Both soul-chilling and brilliant.

The ghost story section gets my vote, I love them.

And to quote le grand Jacques: Quelle connerie la guerre.

offsideintahiti said...

Of course, the problem with a ghost story "section" is that this one is not exactly an easy act to follow. Do you feel up to it, mon filou?

offsideintahiti said...

And no, I know it's not a competition.

Am I talking to myself?

file said...

it's not an easy act to follow but I'm scared about letting you go first

Zephirine said...

I had this one sitting unfinished in the vaults and thought it would do for the site, being quite short, and you guys might like it. Glad you were suitably chilled.

I dunno about the pace, File, I think ruthless cutting always helps.

Certainly, more ghost stories please....

Anonymous said...

I like how this starts sort of "safely" but yet with an undercurrent of uneasiness. You just sense something's not quite right, but yet the story could go anywhere.

By the end, the spine is well-chilled.

Thanks Zeph

offsideintahiti said...

Zeph,

can you tell us more about the element of guilt for the two women?

Or am I reading too much into it?

file said...

yes Owf, I got that too, there's definitely a lot unsaid here, is it just their survivors guilt?

And why was he shot in the back?

Zephirine said...

I put in the line about being 'sentenced' at the last minute and I guess it might imply guilt... but I don't think the women are feeling guilty, specifically.

The thing is, they don't know why it's happened, and I wanted the reader to share that, what it would be like to be haunted without knowing the reason. And perhaps to supply their own reason.

I do have my explanation, but I'm not sure if I want to reveal it!

Anonymous said...

Oh Zeph, I love this. I felt the chills too and the pace was perfect - kept them running right to the end. And beyond.

Zephirine said...

Hi Tony, glad you liked it and thanks for your inquiry on the Pseuds site. I'm fine (except that my cat just died), just staying off Pseuds for a bit.

Great to have you over here, if you've got anything you want to contribute don't hesitate to send it in.

Anonymous said...

Sorry to hear about your cat, Zeph.
I do have something hanging around... maybe I'll work on it some more.

Anonymous said...

By the way, saw you on a Dylan thread on cif. Did you get my link?

Zephirine said...

Tony, I didn't go back to that thread - like so many Dylan discussions it just turned into 'ooh, when I was student I loved this one' v 'Dylan is shit' - but I've just been back and picked up your link and hey, thanks, that is a great interview.

In fact I'm going to post it here. As always the man is rambling and self-contradictory, but even if you're not into Dylan's work there's some really interesting thoughts about creating and where ideas come from and how you deal with them - well worth a read.

Zephirine said...

EXPLANATION ALERT - if you don't like your ghost stories explained, don't read this!

'Shell-shock' is the key. I saw Albert as one of those soldiers in WWI who were so damaged by constant exposure to heavy artillery fire that they blanked out and started trying to walk home. He was shot because he appeared to be deserting as he walked away from the trenches and refused to stop. So his ghost is locked into a pattern of re-enacting his desperate desire to get home, but it can't communicate.

Some British soldiers who were unjustly shot for cowardice in the First War only got pardoned very recently, and their names finally got put onto the war memorials. Perhaps something like that would lay Albert's spirit to rest... after ninety years.

Exactly, quelle connerie la guerre.

Anonymous said...

Ah, Zeph, you just couldn't resist, could you? I was thinking along those lines but I had the wife and mother feeling guilty because they'd been writing letters about how hard it was without him.

Agree about blogs on Dylan. These days I refuse to discuss him except with other fans. Will you do an appreciation or shall I?

Zephirine said...

I think everybody who posts on this site is a fan, or appreciates anyway. I must have put a sign on the door :)

The comparison with Picasso is interesting - the changing styles over time, huge influence, willingness to be commercial up to a point, slavish admirers, legend in own lifetime etc etc.

The thing I find fascinating is this: he can write songs that are 'sleepers': you hear them the first time and think 'hm, OK, bit long', or 'yeah, well, lot of music going on there' and then about 3 months later you suddenly have to hear that song and no other song will do. And then you play it over and over.

Anonymous said...

Can't agree with the Picasso thing Zeph, especially with "willingness to be commercial up to a point". I think Dylan reached a point, many years ago, when he could allow himself to be his own person. I envy him that very much.

Anonymous said...

Aah Zeph - didn't need the explanation. I'd thought he was one of the so-called deserters - for why else the bullet in the back.

I didn't see guilt in the women, just grief and not understanding what possibly could have happened to their strong man.

What used to be called shell-shock still exists post-combat, and is treated pretty much as poorly now as it was 100 years ago. Some of the men I know who come home after serving in Basra and Afghanistan are as damaged as those who served in the trenches in WW1 and get no help outside their loving families who often don't know at all how to cope.

For all your story is of the past, it's very timely.

I remain chilled (and that's not in a "cool" way, but the spine-tingling type.

offsideintahiti said...

Isn't it great to have the author on hand to throw all sorts of questions at? Like, why four o'clock? In time for tea or is there more to it?

It's ok Zeph, you don't have to answer that one.

file said...

hmm, and poets drown in lakes...

great Dylan interview, a rare engagement

not sure if folk should have to explain work on here, I mean, we can ask questions but don't think there's any pressure on createurs to justify anything, feel like Dylan and Zeph must have had a whole life full of folk screaming "Yes, but what does it mean?" and then shouting "Come on, there's more too it than that" and then storming off muttering "feckin' egocentric icons"

Zephirine said...

File, did you just mention me in the same breath as Dylan ???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! gasp

Zephirine said...

Tony, I was just meaning 'compare and contrast', not to say they were alike in how they dealt with those aspects. That's maybe another blog though:)

offsideintahiti said...

Another blog? Oh yeah, we wouldn't want to be going off-topic now, would we?

file said...

I thought it was interesting hearing Dylan talking about the mnemonics of rhyming in poems and how folk nursed on free verse are at home there, and how he wasn't and isn't...

Zephirine said...

Yeah but no but I meant it needs like a whole article... too much explaining Zeph, stoppit.

Zephirine said...

My last post was a reply to Offie, of course.

Yes, absolutely File, slinging in a quick Byron quote and all, great stuff.

file said...

who can forget

"She walks in Beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies."

well, me actually cos I had to check it but I'd sort of got it right

or what about the fearful symmetry of Blake's poems?

Zephirine said...

And of course there are very good reasons why he called himself Dylan - this being only one of them.

file said...

the original tenacious D, wonderful site Zeph, Offie and I prowled around it a few weeks ago looking for some prose

love Fern Hill but you could easily imagine BD coming up with "In my craft or sullen art..."

but what the fack does a yellow railroad symbolize?

Anonymous said...

Endless treats on this site, Zeph. Thank you for the DT link.

Zephirine said...

File, yellow railroad = "The road goes ever on and on" maybe?

Or maybe it just sounded good..

file said...

yellow is the colour of royalty here tho it could refer to sickness, danger or cowardice, it could refer to fools gold

a railroad in England goes round in circles, but a railroad to an American probably stretches on forever

I despair of reading Dylan confidently tho as the images get so diverse

isn't that partly what he was saying in the interview, that his imagery has a personal truth outside of it's symbolism, that that makes technical problems for his poetry but is unlocked by the key of the song?

haven't drivelled on about the gallant minstrel for ages, can you tell?

Anonymous said...

This is WAAAY off topic, but I'm saying it anyway. With the recent stuff posted here, this is the site I come to visit first when I arrive in cyberspace.

Even when I'm supposed to be logging on to work, I check here and am seldom disappointed.

Thank you everyone for this. It just feels a comfortable place, and always challenging and informative.

I'm just away to look at File's latest - that may take a while!

DoctorShoot said...

great and evocative Zeph
reminds me of some Thomas Hardy stuff...
Doc

Zephirine said...

The site thanks you, Mimi, as you well know it's only as good as those who contribute, including yourself :)

Thanks Doc, yes, it's a Hardy sort of landscape, Dorset or Hampshire maybe...

Anonymous said...

boooo

Anonymous said...

Get back into Limbo, Albert, you're not allowed out till ten to four.

Nice to see they read Other Stuff down there though....