RAMBLING MAN

Photo by Mario Beducci on Unsplash

Peaceful out here, isn’t it? Big sky, constellation-clear, the odd shooting star. You need to sit still long enough to see it though and you can’t do that nowadays. Not your fault. No time, is there?  And stepping back, checking out from ‘society’ or whatever you want to call it – well, that’s a commitment – another thing in short supply. Again, not your fault. It’s one thing to dream about leaving it all behind; but doing it, that takes a reason bigger than four walls, a roof, your fancy car. I’ve met a lot of people who ramble and we all share the same reason: protection. There are the obvious ones: war, abuse and whatnot, but then there are some, like me, who did it to protect someone else. But you don’t want to hear all about that, you want to hear about the view, I bet. Much more interesting.

There are night fishermen down at the shore, wrapped up warm. They’ve got flasks, torches, smiles on their faces as they cast into the black. Makes me happy to see. Takes a bit of faith, you know. Not the fishing… being a father to a son. Good men. Talking it out in the dark, easier than in the light of day when they’ve got suits on, hoodies up, peer pressure, time pressure. Dads showing their kids a slice of yesteryear before nature got sold off in plastic. I’d take a picture for you, but I ‘lost’ my phone in the River Ness. Never did me any good, that thing.

Listen to those waves washing the stones. Such power, capable of destroying cities and lives. Seen it with my own eyes. But tonight, it’s not out to destroy anything; tonight, it’s whispering, stroking the shore. Mercurial thing, the sea. Bit like a woman. Ha! I’m only joking with you. I love women, just don’t understand them too well. Came from a family of boys. All army. My first ‘knowledge’ of them was the porn we got given with our rations. Took me years to work out they were soft things, gentle things, paradoxes – capable of craziness as well as belly laughs and constancy. Like the sea. Never let you down if you treat it right; but treat it wrong and watch out. Ha, ha. Right now, it’s busy rolling stones and depositing new ones brought from far away. The journey of the stone, the history of it, that’s what I want to think about these days. Big things in small pieces. Bit like me. Ha!

What surprised me when I started walking was how kind people can be – once they realise you’re not an immigrant out to steal their livelihoods or their women; that you’re just a man having breakdown and wouldn’t appeal to anyone. And if you stick around an area long enough, they start bringing you cups of tea, even the occasional sandwich. But you can’t save everyone, mate. Not your fault. I don’t blame no one. That is how I like it. Not blaming people, makes you happier.

I’m rubbing my forehead with clean fingers in case you’re wondering. No dirty nails for me. I keep things tidy, even my face. It’s just the hair on my head I let grow. My one ‘fuck you’ the institution that made me. Fastidious, is what I am. What? Big words for a homeless person? I’m a rambling man – not a stupid man.

I really hope she forgives me one day. I’d love to have her here under the stars, but it wasn’t her thing. She’d be moaning about the cold, the lack of facilities. She liked the trappings, the five star hotels, the risk. She liked Vegas me. Big winner me. I liked him too, some of the time, but he was a drunk and no friend of mine, in the end.

God knows I tried to get her into a tent when we first got together. She laughed and said, “You’re mad, you are.”  “Yes,” I told her honestly, “no one is sane after what I’ve seen.” She found me funny. Thought I was joking. She always thought I was joking. Half the problem, I suppose. Even that day when I told her I’d lost most of it on the dogs. “Yer joking, right?” Took her hours to believe me. Still, I made sure she was alright before I left. Had to, didn’t I?  She was so pissed with me, which is kind of ironic seeing as it was the gambling that got us the house and the fancy cars, the posh schools for the boy and what not. She should’ve known she was taking a risk on me. After the money was gone, she went too. Not far, just into the second spare room. We lived separate after that. Can you imagine, strangers in the same house? Maybe you can. Not a nice feeling, right? Then one day I won big again at the track and she wanted back in my bed. It was me who said no that time. What I really wanted was for her to send me to rehab or wherever, you know, an intervention. Some love isn’t built on more than material biz. I don’t blame her. Not her fault. She never had anything neither. Owning shit made her feel safe. So, I paid off the house, opened up a savings account for her and the boy, packed my things and snuck out. I’d only end up losing it all again. It’s what happens when you’re addicted to risk.

Probably never even noticed that the tent went missing. Probably hasn’t even gone into the garage to look. It’s a good thing though. Better she thinks I’m dead, like everyone else. Under the tarpaulin behind me is everything I need, a bed, clean clothes and 30K in cash. Surprise you, does it? It shouldn’t. I’ve met a crackhead with a house in Kensington. Takes all sorts, this rambling game. I try to stay away from highstreets though, too tempting. This beach, with its big sky, this I can handle. Listen to me, I’ve told you my bloody life story. You’ve probably nodded off. I wish I could, but this cold snap is keeping me well alert.

Strangers are so kind. A fisherman just offered me a cup of coffee. I said no thanks cos the caffeine will keep me awake. My voice, clear as it is, not drunk or whatever, threw him a bit. We all expect certain behaviour, don’t we? Nice offer, though. Anyway, it’s late and you probably all have big days tomorrow, getting to your jobs and what not. I’ll leave you to it and zip myself up for the night.

Fran stood on her balcony to watch the sun rise over the channel. Every day the sky was different, everyday it promised possibility that never came to much, but maybe today, maybe. She breathed in the salty air as David scuttled from room to room, collecting keys, wallet, phone, his sense of self.

That man had been living on the beach for weeks now. Pity would be the right emotion but all she felt was admiration. He stretched every morning on the pebbles like a golden retriever. Some sort of yoga routine before running into the sea naked. Voyeuristic, watching him with her cup of coffee, but his life had become part of hers, without asking his permission. He was quick about it, not out to offend anyone. If she stepped out at exactly 7.05, she could watch him do all these things. His body a sculpture – all lean muscle. No third bottle of wine and couch days for this man.

“Bloody vermin,” said her husband as he came to stand next to her shoulder, his chubby hand gripping a coffee cup, milk foam in his moustache.

“He’s not hurting anyone.”

“Ruining our view.”

“It’s not ‘our’ view.”

He ruffled her hair as he went to leave. Good dog.

“Such a pedant. You know what I mean. I’ll miss the train if I don’t go now. Back by five. Try not to get into any trouble. We can go for a walk later.”

When did she become his pet? He left the house whistling. Of course he whistled now. The kids had gone, he had her all to himself, came home to freshly prepared meals, a tidy house, everything in its place. No more moaning about Rubin’s slovenly ways; no more worry about Liz’s dramas. Without them the house was a morgue of memories on walls, the faint smell of Lynx and hair products in the rooms. Only she knew she hadn’t changed the sheets. Occasionally she went for a lie down in their beds for reassurance. It was mad, she knew, but living here without them seemed like a nonsense. A claustrophobic nonsense.

The man emerged like Poseidon and rubbed himself dry with a towel. She stood transfixed. Incredibly rude but she couldn’t turn away from the perfect form drying in the winter sunshine, the serenity on his face. He looked up then and caught her eye and grinned, and, oh god, he waved, as the towel dropped from his waist – utterly shameless. Fran didn’t know where to look, so she looked right at him, keeping her eyes fixed on his while her cheeks reddened. The irony, since he was the one who was starkers. Did he just mouth, “Are you alright?” No one asked Fran if she was alright; it wasn’t what people did with mothers. Mothers asked others how they were doing. He didn’t take his eyes of hers as he tilted his head and asked the question again. Fran shook her head, or rather her head shook her. And then it happened, he beckoned her to come down from her balcony, like bloody Juliette. Stood there, naked like baby Jesus all grown up, messy hair, kind smile – come down here he gestured.

I’ve been watching this woman every day for the last week or so. She’s probably been ogling for longer than that, but a week is all I’ve noticed. To say ogling is a bit unfair. She’s allowed to look out of her ivory tower in the mornings. But there’s something in the way she holds her coffee cup, like she’s holding her breath, that makes me feel sorry for her. I think she’s lonely. Too young to be retired, but she hasn’t got anything better to do than watch me, so yeah, lonely. This morning, I decided to engage her, bit rough of me to do it naked, but if she wants to watch I am going to let her know I’m watching her too. I invited her to come down here for a cuppa, beautiful day, but she shook her head and backed away. I thought that would be the end of it, but when I got back from a walk along the cliffs, I noticed my towel had been washed and tumble dried, folded and left outside my tent, with a thermos of hot chocolate. Delicious it was, and the towel smelt of fabric softener. Not gonna lie, I shed a tear, inside the tent of course.

Another day; another sunrise.

“Fran, darling, where’s my thermos?”

Fran was surprised how good she was becoming at telling lies. It began with, “I’m so glad we have the place back to ourselves,” to, “I am absolutely fine with putting off travelling the world like we promised,” to “Oh that old thing, I gave it to charity, was leaking everywhere. I’ll grab another.”

David was placated with the promise of something new. He was stickler for staying up to date with the mod cons: the surround sound, the Alexas, the doorbell cameras that chimed on Apple wrist watches when people so much as approached the front door – the bells and whistles, beeps and listening devices.

He wished her well, hoped she would be meeting up with the other ladies of the town, maybe treat herself to a manicure, yes? “Look after your appearance a little more, darling, it will make you feel better.”

Fran managed a smile, managed to not claw his eyes out as he pulled away and said, “It’s simply a period of adjustment. You’ll be fine. Get a hobby.” A peck on the forehead like a vicious little bird. It was all she could do not to headbutt him.

Just when she thought she was safely alone to go cry into Rubin’s pillow, he was back.

“This can’t go in recycling. Come on, use your brain, it’s not a can.” He threw the thermos in her direction, giving her no time to prepare and it fell on the glass coffee table. “Butterfingers,” he said almost kindly. “Maybe take up a sport that involves catching.”

Fran managed to laugh gaily until she heard the front door slam, then she ran to the thermos. Intact, sealed, unsealed, a note inside, with a drawing, the sunset, two people, backs towards the ‘camera’, watching the world go by. And two words: “Thank you.”

Would you look at that, she’s walking towards me, wrapped up warm enough for an expedition in the Arctic, wearing one of those post swim duvet numbers, bright pink. If she was hoping to be incognito as she visits the parasite, she’s doing a terrible job. Kind eyes, grey hair, big ruby lips, pursed as she slips on stones in her hurry. Skittish head movements, checking none of the women she paddles with in the morning are about. Fair enough. I’ve brewed coffee. Hope she likes coffee.

“Alright?” I ask.

“Yes. You?”

“Never better.”

She’s plonked herself inside my tent. No invite, but I don’t mind, it is cold out there this morning. So, I climb in after her and plonk opposite.

“Make yourself at home why don’t you.”

She laughs, it’s a sweet little sound, like a bird flying around the tarpaulin. I pour the coffee, she takes a sip, looks around at the trinkets hanging from the bars: dog tags, pictures of the boy when he was a baby, washbag with my aftershave sticking out. That throws her, more than the dog tags or the boy. Not her fault; expectations see. What’s mental is that we don’t talk, she just sits there and drinks her coffee. Not a peep. I don’t press her, cos if she wanted to say something she would. Then after she’s finished, she gets up and says two things: “You have a cosy home,” and “Do you need anything?” I tell her no, because if I did, I’d use my 30k, wouldn’t I?

“You’re welcome… anytime,” I call out as she zips up the tent behind her. I doubt she’ll be back, curiosity satisfied and all that.

“You’ve got colour in your cheeks,” David told Fran. There wasn’t quite suspicion in his voice but something close to it as if he wasn’t expecting happiness without him in her sphere. “Been up to anything fun today?”

Fran could tell him she’d touched herself for the first time in six months, or that she’d looked in her underwear drawer for that matching set she’d once loved wearing. Instead, she said, “I polished the silver your mother gave us last year.”

David grunted and she thought he hadn’t heard until he said on the way to the shower, “Mother will be pleased, I’ve invited her round for Sunday roast. Make it lamb, you know how she loves lamb.”

“Do you like lamb?” she asks me. Not normal questions like, “Is there someone I can call?” or “Is anyone missing you?”, but “Do you like lamb?”

“I prefer them living in fields with their mothers, but they do taste good when there’s nothing else to survive on.”

She nods and fingers my sleeping bag.

“Looks warm,” she says. “May I?”

“Knock yourself out.”

And she gets under it. I’m thinking, uh oh, this is one of them homeless tourists, out for a bit of rough, report me to the police after, get me moved off, or worse, what have I done? etc. But then I hear snoring, loud as old Mick who nearly got us all killed in Syria with his bloody sleep apnoea. I lean over her and haven’t the heart to shake her awake. She’s out for two hours in total. When she finally opens her eyes, she does the oddest thing – reaches out an arm and pulls me to her, like a mother with a baby. She turns over and spoons me. Human touch. The maddest sensation, like how it’s all meant to be when you strip away everything that keeps us going. I know to pull away to tell her to get the hell out of my space, to go back to hers, but she’s asleep again already, and pretty soon, so am I.

The lamb was a success. His mother loved it. She told Fran she was, “looking well”, as if that was a crime. David nodded and told his mother it was Pilates. “Does wonders for middle-aged women, apparently,” as if Fran wasn’t in the room. His mother said she didn’t go in for all that eastern nonsense and asked her what was wrong with a good walk? She was right, of course, a walk was good for the soul.

“How about a walk?” she asks, poking her head through my zipped front door like she has a key now. I am shaving, which gives her pause, like she watches this activity somewhere else and it doesn’t belong in a tent on pebbles. “Sorry, I should have knocked.”

“Ha! Don’t worry. I love a ramble. Give me five.”

I expect her to leave but she keeps looking at me, watches me go about my preparations. So, what the fuck. I pull her to me, stroke her face with the hand holding the razor.

“Aren’t you even a little afraid?”

“No.”

“You should be. I’m no good.”

And then we kiss, like it doesn’t matter what we are: good, bad, housed or tented.

“Where on earth are you going?” David looked over the Sunday paper to ask the rucksack on Fran’s back.

“Hiking.” She gathered up her keys, her purse, her sense of self.

“But it’s a Sunday.”

“Aren’t you playing golf?” Her voice was more judgmental than she was aiming for.

“Well, yes, but only for three hours, then I thought we could meet up with the Thomas’s and have sundowners, I was going to ask you to get the nibbles in.”

There is a rage within her that is more dangerous than a tsunami. This man can shove his promise of happy-ever-after right up his arse, along with his golf balls and his cricket tours and his mother.

“But of course darling, I am just stretching my legs, got to move it or you lose it, as my Pilates instructor aways says.”

His face was so full of childlike relief that her exit would be temporary that her heart stuttered – detritus stuck in the engine. She could no more leave him than run away with her new friend. A new friend, at her age, the concept filled her with a warmth that made it possible to stay in whatever this was.

“Okey-dokes. Well, enjoy your little ramble.”

Perhaps she could tell him to shove-it after all…

“I love you.”

How Fran wished she had left before she heard those words, tying her to a past insistent on anchoring her in the present. An old skin she would never shed.

Been a few weeks now. We still don’t know each other’s names. Seems unimportant to share that. We don’t talk about our lives. I mean nothing. We either meet in the woods and walk along the cliffs where no one can spot us, or just stay put in the tent, several hours a day, every day, making each other happy with who we are now, on this day, not before, not tomorrow. She looks younger every time I see her, and the laugh… I could listen to that bird forever. Reminds me of Africa. But you don’t want to hear about all that, you want to hear about the view, I bet. This morning you can see France across the channel. It looks close enough to touch. There’s a small boat halfway between the two pieces of land that were once joined. The history of it. Big things, in small pieces, that’s what I like to think about nowadays.

One day soon, when the spring comes, I’ll pack up and leave and maybe she’ll come with me, but then I’d have to ask her who she’s leaving behind, and I don’t think she’s a leaver. She is constant, like the sea we can hear kissing the shore. I kiss her forehead. One day I’ll go. I’m a rambling man. But for now, I’ll be the sea too.

 ****

 (With thanks to Nikolaj Hess for music composition and Pete Monk for sound).