Winter Solstice - Part I

Winter Solstice


I come to ferry you hence across the tide
To endless night, fierce fires and shramming cold.
- DANTE

The bench was littered with scraps, her eyes watered as she chopped furiously. The sink choked on the remains of carrot and potato peelings. She raced determinedly between sink and stove, with swift, certain movements. The basil stained her fingers and dispersed the aroma of home-grown herbs throughout the cramped lodging. The cat glared into the kitchen, and intently eyed the thawed pink carcass as though ready to pounce. Not a moment had passed before the crescendoing crunch of gravel encroached on Illy’s concentration and drew her to the window.
Peeking out from behind musty curtains, she watched the postman’s motorbike approach. It moved forward and halted, chugging along as if battling inertia in an attempt to make progress. The clouds hung low, as though attempting to engulf this fluorescent man whose jacket clashed with the sodden sky. After all, he only offered debt receipts and bills.

The dilapidated caravans seemed more fragile than normal this morning. The children from number 41, directly opposite, did not squealingly rocket towards the letterbox. Instead, silence seeped from the park like fumes. The naïve hope which radiated from those grubby faces, and dimly burned somewhere within aged hearts alike, had long been extinguished. Envelopes etched with soft cursive were caressed, typed letterheads handled with certain coarseness. They offered no hope. Illy was attempting to ignore her own anticipation, yet it grabbed her every year and hurled her towards the letterbox.

Curiosity killed the cat, she reminded herself.

She remained subservient to the desire.

“C’mon Choo Choo!” she exclaimed, swooping the purring bundle into her arms. A faint smile drifted across her lips, warmed momentarily by the sandpaper greeting from her feline friend. She hurried for her slippers, and pulled an ink-stained cardigan over her shoulders, the cat catching hold of the sleeve playfully with its paws. She hummed to herself, softly at first, as though she were incapable of remembering the tune.

happy

birthday

to

you…


Shall I bake a cake? I’ve always liked chocolate! But for who?
Fool.

She reached the letterbox and battled to repress the thoughts simmering to the surface. Choo Choo precariously dangled from one arm as she fumbled to open the latch with the other. The surrounding caravans were starved, their mailboxes seized by rust. Her reflection startled her, her face distorted by the convexity of the cold metal. She peered at it, and pulled at the dry skin of her cheek before eagerly glaring inwards.

A letter!

Could it be?

Hope lurched as she felt the paper. A shaky hand brought the envelope to light. A bold letterhead glared back, taut with business like hostility.

Water Board.

She peered inwards again.

Nothing.
Again.
As it was, is, and always will be.

A painful whimper seemed to leak from her quivering lips, now embarrassed of her song of celebration and the pending reality.“ It’s OK. Told you I wasn’t expecting anything! Maybe we won’t celebrate today, I’ll remain forever young!” Her strained chuckle seemed to startle the cat, who, in an attempt to remove a ridiculous miniature party hat, battered her head against Illy’s waist. It looked up at her for a moment, confused, and leapt suddenly out of her arms. Illy stood for a moment, in the middle of the driveway, pondering whether she could call it that anymore. It looked to her like some forgotten little path, tyre marks and footprints long washed away by rain, or concealed by feeble ochre dust. She slipped from the pending daydream, raced towards the kitchen, the dropped letter swallowed by a puddle of mud. The terracotta pot now a volcano; rivers of broth flooding the already stained vinyl. She turned down the temperature, and found herself waiting for that apathetic calm, skimming along the surface of her endless plateau. She leant over the stove, her numb hands outstretched, shaking under her fraying cardigan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harlowe chased the documents around the cluttered office, arms flying, breath laboured, and his hair a thick, graying bird’s nest perched on top of a skin and bone skull. Toothpick legs threatened to snap from under him, promising a spiraling descent towards hard, unswept floorboards. With one plunge and all his remaining effort, he slammed the window shut just in time to save the “Resident Complaints” pile from creating a cyclone of paper cuts. He felt the beads of sweat roll down his forehead, as dizziness and the shivers worked in unity to keep him seated. The battering of an icy winter morning made its presence felt, knocking eagerly against the foggy glass windows, and reminded him exactly why he shouldn’t have staggered out of bed this morning. He anticipated, in fact, dreaded, the review in Accommodation Central. It sat there staring, a sodden mash of paper, unnerving him as it bled onto the wood, the title now illegible thanks to a dimwitted postman, who obviously failed to notice the pouring sky and its incompatibility with ink.

10:17 am, Saturday, and not a customer in sight.

Apart from a few regulars, the caravans were only booked by desperate tourists as a last resort, dubious faces greeted the mouldy stench of the office. His trembling hands reached for the glass of water, as his chesty cough bounced off the walls and seemed to give rise to a miasma of stifling disease. Drenched in sweat, he slowly reached outwards and flicked towards the weekly reviews. The words were a blur; indistinguishable between the letters as they floated around the page, his dizziness allowed twice the dose of disappointment.

“Void of family atmosphere, sub standard facilities with poor customer service. Incomparable to more reputable accommodation just 3 km south. Two and a half stars.”

He pushed the magazine towards the back corner of the desk once again. One hand gripped his head, while the other frantically scribbled the day’s chores on a “post it” note. Harlowe’s daze was evident, the lights died and the exaggerated “Welcome!” sign was flung around.

Not like there’s any business, anyway.
It’s that woman. Number 54. Singin’ the whole night like some moron! Can’t you bloody sleep like the rest of us?! Staining my tables with your ink, paint soaked carpets and cat hair bloody everywhere!
She’s gotta go.
Bad for business. Bad for bloody everythin’.
Knew it from day one, shouldn’t have let it get like this.
God damnit! No wonder he carked it, left me the stress of it all.
Typical. He knew just when to die, didn’t he. Givin’ up the fight when it got tough.
Mum could vouch for that one.
Bastard.
One bitter thought drowned by the next as he left the office. His physique was immediately consumed by the sheet of grey which had pounced on him as he left.

She peered out of her window, and gently mixed a pinch of salt into the now simmering stew. A man, smothered by an umbrella twice his size, stood alone in the middle of the road with his hand clutching his chest. For three months she had barely seen this figure anywhere but that claustrophobic office, head buried among paper and disorder, determined to revive this failing business with much less success than his predecessor. In fact, he had greeted her with nothing more than a grunt as she chattered and attempted to welcome him. She revisited the office only days prior, to shelter herself from the sudden downpour which cut short her aimless wanderings about the grounds. She had peered curiously at his sick, pallid features.
“Darling. You look like death warmed up! No no no, actually, you just look like death” she had chuckled to herself.
“But seriously, dear, you must rest. You must! Come on now, bed time and some nice lemon tea wouldn’t go astray!” she urged him, as she approached the chair behind the desk and attempted to push him out of it. He wasn’t sure whether she was drunk, and startled at the sudden physical contact Harlowe leapt from the chair, almost toppling backwards over the desk. With this, she burst into a shrill, somewhat startling cackle which agitated Harlowe further. “L-listen,” he paused. “My head’s not with me, ok. If you could just…please just, go?” He sighed, turning his back to the curious figure. She glared at the trinkets modestly decorating the wall unit.
A collection of canvas books. She peered closer, holding the fraying works of Dickens between her hands, gently feeling the matted covers.
A few faded waterpaintings.
A single photo.

“This your pa?” She queried, turning the picture so it no longer faced the wall, oblivious to his request. He looked towards her, the silence brewing, and then focused on the smiling pair. “All unhappy families are alike. And all happy families are just pretending,” he muttered. “Didn’t I just tell you to…to go?” His voice was strained, fading with the colour from his face, and he erupted in a violent coughing fit. By this time, she had wandered out of the cramped office with hunched shoulders.
He stood, gasping for breath.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The lingering few days since had obviously taken their toll, and Harlowe had finally realised he had come to a state of utter exhaustion. She watched as the crooked figure hobbled on at a painfully sluggish pace, towards an off-white caravan opposite the office. The trip was stretched over the course of several tiring minutes, and Illy found all the more reason to frantically resume the task at hand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

She stood tall, the breeze giving flight to her golden tangles - a mess now literally before her very eyes. Driblets of a frozen June battered down on the large pot, her domestic bongo reciting a primal rhythm, sincerely yours from a mad tribeswoman emerging from the sea. She embraced it, with chubby arms, her body enveloped in the smell of drenched wool, unaware that he stood only centimetres away. He was all too aware that separation came in the form of a measly fly screen. Was it too late to dim the lights and silence the crackling of the radio? Its antenna was snapped and dangled stupidly as though it waved in the direction of the uninvited guest. The radio spat hollow words, and it was pretentious company through the infinite hours of night. Nevertheless, still company, he argued. The fact was, she was still there, wrapped in persistence on his doorstep; an abandoned package waiting to be acknowledged, framed by a sky collapsing under leaden clouds. This picture would engrave itself into his memory.
This moment, this silence.

The irritating tune of a cheap doorbell resounded for the fifth time, her gaze downwards towards her drenched moccasins, scuffing her feet on the frayed welcome mat impatiently, hair plastered to the sides of her face, squinting as false teardrops streamed down her cheek. He watched from the inside, sheltered in his uncomfortable confines, while she stood and endured the intense embrace of weather. He felt his chest contract, realising it was too late to stifle the cough or sink back into the safety of his bed. He barked, and she jumped at the revelation of such close proximity. He cursed under his breath, forced to open the door.

“Yeah?...What’s wrong now?” He cringed, his voice as dry as whiskey. Three days growth accompanied the stale smell of cigarettes, he was not in the mood for eccentrics, especially her, – a pounding headache manifested itself quite well on its own, and the bitter review still replayed in his mind.

“Darling, about time! You haven’t been in the office I’ve noticed, so I, well I thought…Actually, I saw you just before! Leaving… And you, well…” Words flowed with rapidity, verging on the nonsensical, laced with a bittersweet smile.

Shit.
Shut the door!
Bet my caravan smells like cat piss.

“Look, Ellie” he began, his stare fixated on the golden leaf earrings adorning her aged features.

“- Illy” she corrected, in a tone which suggested profound insult at this error. Her eyebrows knitted together for a moment, and she bit her lip as if to stifle some equally offensive remark.

“Yeah yeah…Ellie…Illy…same thing.” He shook his head slightly, paid no attention to her reaction and massaged his forehead with yellowing fingers. “If its ‘bout the rent, I ain’t droppin’ the price…” he continued, pulling off his thin glasses, his unflickering eyes staring straight towards this shivering woman perched before him.

“No, no, no! I just….see…. I noticed….I…. that cough! You are ghostly!” Silence was a foreign concept to Illy’s bright red lips, her neck bopped persistently and bore an uncanny resemblance to a dashboard Chihuahua in its most exaggerated form.

“- Been meaning to tell ya, annual cleaning inspection comin’ up. Clean up ya place, got till the end of the month, or else you’ll be making tracks real soon.” His words, flat, spoken with vindictive spite through charcoal eyes. Oblivious to her half-sentences. Beady pools of the hardest stone failed to falter. She stared back at him, her eyes glistening with a sort of childish sorrow. With one dramatic movement he found his arms tingle with warmth, catching the aroma of chicken stock wafting from her tupperware bowl. He staggered backwards, almost toppling over with the unprecedented weight now testing his feeble joints. “Here. For you, to get your strength up.” She whispered, more to herself than to him.
He stood leaning against the frame of the doorway, transfixed by the image of her fading into a curtain of pouring rain, head drooping, hands in her pocket and soaked.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Days had passed, and he now sat in the frayed armchair perched in front of the television, racked with indecision. The heater had started to spit out grey smoke every so often, followed by the smell of burnt dust. He pulled on another pair of socks, wrapped the scarf around his wrinkled neck and picked up the empty container. The hot liquid had soothed his stinging throat, and his aches, like sap, seeped from his feeble bones. It was the equivalent of childhood, and he seemed to be transgressing. He flushed as he replayed Illy’s visit, remembering his eagerness as he opened the lid.
A silent caress offered by a stranger was concealed within.

He quickly exited, heading up the path towards her caravan. Her front door was painted a rustic orange, with tiny flowers bordering the handle. In some parts, the metal underneath was exposed, a result of weather and cheap paint. He peered through the window and squinted in an attempt to see through the grime.

“Morning, sunshine!” she chirped, placing down several shopping bags and beaming towards Harlowe. “You’re looking vibrant, just vibrant! Is that my bowl? Oh fabulous, and look what a little rest can do!”
He had failed to notice her creep up behind him, and stood slightly swaying as though uncertain whether to step forward or scurry back towards the office. “Uhh…yeah. Just, returning that bowl.” He backed away with an uncertain gaze and slight nod of the head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

And so, there she remained, gracing the grounds like an unsettled spirit. He often saw her linger past in her state of excited solitude, patting the now vibrant shrubbery as though it were a small child. He lowered his head as she waved fanatically for the good part of a minute. She was marked with lines of age, deep grooves bordering her capricious eyes, yet there was budding hope in that stare. She was that one figure, persistent and all consuming, watching Harlowe from afar as he watched her. After a moment fumbling aimlessly with his papers, he glanced back up, and like a timid toddler, gave a meek wave back.

Picking up the local magazine one morning, he began to aimlessly flick through the pages. A picture, in the top hand corner, suddenly grabbed his attention. That same tuft of blonde hair beamed at him. “Local resident, Budding Poet.”

“After receiving the 2006 ArtsRush poetry prize, for her composition of original poetry last year, Mackay Point resident Illy Bowen’s collection of work has been published by Farlex press. Works of winners are released in hardcopy publication on July 21 of the following year. ArtsRush ‘Urges all poets to get creative and submit before the 2007 competition closes next week’ ”

Harlowe placed down the paper, gaping. The phone interrupted, and he reluctantly held it between his shoulder and ear. He picked up the paper once again, as though to make certain.
“Mackay Point Tourist Park, Harlowe speaking”
“H-Harlowe? It’s just me, Illy. Before the inspection, I just wanted to let you know there’s smoke coming out of the light fixture, in the bathroom, and I can’t…I don’t know what’s wrong with it”
She was discretely invading his thoughts, and silence lingered on the line.
“Uh…gimme a few hours, I’ll be there.”

Gathering his tool box, he exited the office within the hour, onto the small pathway winding towards her. The bottlebrushes bordering her driveway were now bursting with rich reds, the neighbourhood seemingly lit as though paint had been splashed carelessly onto the surrounding shrubbery.

“Tea, darling?” She urged, as she ushered him into her cramped lodgings.
“Nah. I’ve…gotta go soon.” Harlowe scanned eagerly over every corner of the caravan. Old trophies and plaques laced kitchen cupboards, modesty rendering them dusty and unattended, adorned by trinkets, vials of outdated medicine, and ancient, yellowing china. Harlowe’s eyes continued to scan over the etchings, “Winner, 2006 ArtsRush Poetry Prize,” “FAW NSW 2003 Jean Stone Poetry Award,” yet shifted his gaze awkwardly before Illy could take notice.
“Oh c’mon, I’ve cooked buttercake! And who else will eat it?!”
Her flamboyant rages and emotional tides swept him away with intrigue, and he stood stranded on her shore, staring at her, as though amused.
“I, uh, just came round to…check the light fixture.” By this time, Illy had vanished into the kitchen, he could hear the clinking of cutlery, and it wasn’t long before she returned with piles of buttercake, as though in silent celebration.
“The award...I…it’s in the paper…I just wanted to c-congratulate…” his timid tone rendered the comment inaudible. He felt foolish for visiting, distinctly out of place, and it was this incongruency that reddened his cheeks, flushing ragged skin with a hint of colour.
“Oh, that silly thing! Don’t be absurd that was merely a fluke! I’ve been writing for years, nothing much has come from it.” She sat down at the kitchen table, prodding the slice of overcooked cake with her fork. Harlowe hesitantly sat down across from her, plastered to the seat by a growing curiosity.
“I…didn’t know ya wrote. Didn’t…didn’t know you did anything much…really” he shuffled uneasily, glancing up at her every so often and occasionally catching her gaze.
“Can’t expect to know anything about anyone, dearie, if you keep ducking every time they walk past your office.” There was a seriousness in her stare that unsettled him, piercing him.
Harlowe let out an uneasy laugh. The cat, which was intertwined between Illy’s feet, hissed suddenly. “Yeah. Uhh. And thanks for ya soup. Like, should’ve said it earlier, but ya know, better late than never they say aye!” Harlowe wiped his palms on his trackpants, and licked his parched lips, swaying slightly on the edge of the stool. Growing agitation had swept over him.
Why am I even here.
To Congratulate her?!
So what, she’s a poet. I can be tempermental too.
Gotta get outta here. Now.

Before he had a chance to rectify himself Illy had raced towards the kettle, skillfully breaking the tension that rose between them. Harlowe noted the heap of paper and scrawlings directly in front of him, slightly to the left of where Illy had sat. His plans halted, the same feeling of curiosity returned to hold him hostage. He quietly pulled the bundle towards him, still feeling frustration gnawing at his insides. He skimmed over the first stanza.

I long for the fervor to write.
The fire of imagination.
Sleep is no longer a blanket of futile thought and wasted hours.
How I cradle this new tapestry of hazy slumber!
My Saviour.
Smothering these sunken days,
Slowly asphyxiating me as hours press down on my chest until
I lay here heaving.
Dreams are restless and incoherent,
They yield no meaning,
They are no more irrational than everyday thought.
These never-ending days bleed into mere weeks.

“Put that away! What do you think you’re doing?!” howled Illy, as she raced towards Harlowe, the tea splashing onto the floor. A clattering of cups followed as she dropped them onto the table, violently pulling the paper from a startled Harlowe. The nights of endless scribbles lay dormant in her hands, awakened by the aroma of strong coffee subtlety etched into the course papers.

The endless pages of poetry, about no singular topic, were snippets of her life disguised through clever metaphor and seemingly irrelevant imagery, and he could almost sense the infinite hours of night passed. He visualised the soft light of her loyal bedside lamp escaping the confinement of her caravan, sneaking out of cold glass windows and blending into the prevailing darkness. It would radiate only momentarily, silently uniting with the whispers of the night and eloping across the sky under watchful stars. It was an almost fantastical vision, as though she existed in a realm so obviously separate from the rest; vivacious while all others lay smothered by a blanket of hazy dreams. He should be at work, attempting to salvage his business shambles, not in a daze, lost amidst those piercing words. He failed to comprehend the strange emotion gnawing at his insides, was it awe keeping his glare fixated on Illy, or was it a strange sense of pride rendering him motionless?

Illy sighed, frowning for a moment.
“Where’s the fixture then?” he muttered, dropping his head and leaving the table. He knew where it was, and made his way towards the bathroom. Several canvases were drying on the couch, absorbing the sun shining through the window. He roughly shoved the screen door open and she emerged after him, carrying the mugs.

Naked. I’m naked. How far did he get? Does he know?

His leather hands fumbled with the wires. Deft fingers made minor alterations, and she stared at his frowning features. “Should work now I reckon” he turned to her.

[continued in part II]