Hi :) I've been wanting to make a blog for ages, but I always think one of the hardest things with something like this is getting started. Do I jump straight in? Do I write a long intro post trying to summarise everything I (and probably this blog, too) am about? To be honest, I'm not even sure what that's going to be yet. I'm a complicated person, like most people in the world probably, and I've got loads of thoughts and ideas inside me that are desperate to get out. But I'm not sure yet how much I'm ready to share, or who's even going to be around to listen.
So I'll start with a short story I wrote about a year ago, for school. It's definitely not perfect - it was one of those pieces of homework I ended up finishing at 3 in the morning the night before it was due, so it's definitely kind of rough around the edges. And I tried WAY too hard, too. But I feel like it gives you a good idea of the sort of person I am, and the sort of things I'll be writing about. So I guess it's as good a post to start with as any.
On The Wall
She is sitting perched on the wall
directly across the road, watching. How on earth she managed to get up there is
a mystery – it’s high enough to block the house behind completely. The very
fact that she knew how to get up means that she must know the street, and know
it well – and yet no-one recognised her when she walked over.
But here she is, legs dangling, staring ahead,
school bag set down next to her. A few minutes ago, she took a camera out of
it, took a snap of whatever it is across the road that she finds so
fascinating. Apart from that, nothing. She just watches.
No-one really notices. They’re all too busy,
like they always are, walking past back and forth, getting on with their own
lives. One snapshot moment is all that she gets of each of them as they walk
by; just one frame of a whole world. But they’re not really what she is
watching, anyway.
Isn’t it strange to know the whole
history of a place, the entire story even before you existed? To live it for
years and then, simply to leave it behind. Because suddenly, it’s not yours
anymore. It’s shifted, from your world to someone else’s. It can be hard to let
go, harder than you might think sometimes.
It doesn’t matter, anyway. No-one stops long
enough to notice her.
Only I do.
She’s been there a while now, a longer while
than would make sense, just sitting and thinking. I couldn’t say what about,
exactly. I’m not a mind reader. But I know enough to make a good guess.
She was always interested in the history of that
house, the one that she’s staring at. How it came to be. Or – her mother was,
really. I remember how she always used to teach her about it. She’d complain at
first – it was like school, and she hated that. But the stories always
interested her. I found them interesting, too.
You can tell, even by walking by, that
it stands out from the rest of the houses in the area. They’re all grey cement,
built 40 years ago or so, at a time when convenience was most important.
They’re nice enough – perfect, really, a row of identical grey houses, side by
side. It’s just a shame about that one odd one in the middle, spoiling the
pattern.
It was a shame about the old woman who used to
live there, too. She was off her head, people said – age seemed to have
stripped her of all sense. The housing developers offered her everything – her
pick of any one of that lovely row of identical houses, along with a nice sum
of money. An offer you couldn’t refuse. Only, of course, she went and did.
So they sighed and cursed and built around
her, leaving her stranded in the middle, between what had previously been nothing.
And there she stayed. Until, of course, she passed away, just months the
building was finished. Typical. It made a good story, though.
And at first, I do wonder if that is what the
girl is thinking about – she did always love a bit of drama, especially
anything to do with the past. If she’d had her way, she would have turned back
time to watch the horses and carts go by, drivers in top hats speaking in
voices and accents no-one will ever know again. She loved the unknown, too. Any
good mystery.
But in the time that she has been away, her
interests have died down. She’s been starved of the stories too long. There is
more on her mind now – another story, another world that I only know the
beginning of. The part before she left.
I would love to know more, find out how it
ended. I don’t know whether it is to satisfy my own curiosity or because I
genuinely care, though. Part of me, like her all those years ago, just wants to
be entertained – and it feels wrong to feast on someone’s sorrow like that.
Even if she did the same to me.
But she doesn’t know why she came. I can tell.
She was looking for something, I think– that is why she is here. But she
doesn’t know. And sitting on a wall where no-one sees you, staring at the place
that was once your home, can only get you so far. She is about to leave, I can
see. I suppose she is starting to realise that this is real life – real life,
where there aren’t always any clear endings, any conclusions. Sometimes, things
just go on and on. Until they stop. And a stop is not always an ending.
She doesn’t notice me walking over, not at
first. Even as she’s reaching for her bag, she’s still looking ahead, her eyes
glassy. It’s only at the point that I come closer than the others did, the ones
who just walked past, close enough for her to know she’s been seen, that she
looks up.
Alice
is taller than I remember. Her messy blonde hair, which constantly skimmed her
shoulders as she was growing up, now hangs well down her back. And she’s
started wearing make-up – a touch of mascara, reshaping her eyes just slightly.
She never used to.
She recognises me right away, though, so I
can’t have changed that much. Doesn’t really react much – I suppose, for her,
I’ve always just been part of it, part of the background – but she nods.
She speaks first: “Hey.”
“I haven’t seen you around for a while,” I
say.
Alice
shrugs. “You wouldn’t have.”
“So… why are you here now?”
“Dunno. I just felt like coming back. Seeing
what it was like.”
“Makes sense.” I look around, find the
familiar niche in the wall, the perfect size for a foothold. Like her, I know
exactly how to get up.
“So…” I hitch myself up to sit beside her; then
pause, wondering whether I should go on. “How have things been lately?”
She shrugs again. I guess that says it all.
“Same,” I say. She nods.
I look ahead, across the road from us. The
house really is the same as ever. Reddish cobbled bricks, the gaps between them
grey with dirt and age, but the same old windows, chimney behind a mossy roof.
To an outsider, it might not look like much. Just a home, like any other. But
it’s ours. Or, at least, it used to be.
People go past. A man in his 30s, in a
black business suit, briefcase in hand. You see less and less of those nowadays
-people seem to dress more casually each year. A mother pushing a pram with one
hand, phone pressed to her ear with the other. Two middle-aged, middle-class
women, chattering about politics, and whatever new bad decision has been made,
and how it’s going to mess up the world this time.
Alice is still staring ahead with those
same glassy eyes.
Another man, tapping away at his phone. That’s
the second we’ve seen so far. I’m sure if I stayed here long enough, counting
phones, we’d get to double digits pretty rapidly. An elderly woman goes by,
whistling under her breath. She is one of the few who notices us.
“She’s the only one who’ll have a happy
ending,” Alice comments; she still stares ahead, eyes fixed. “Well – she’s
already there. The others are all just too busy. It’s that phone guy who I feel
sorry for. You can tell his whole life is just online. And the worst thing is,
he won’t even realise what he’s missing. It’s that baby who has it worst,
though – I wonder just how many years it’ll be before his mother buys him some
expensive electronic device to keep him out of bother while she gets on with
her own busy life. He’s probably got some baby tablet already, just waiting for
him at home. And whatever those two women were complaining about, you can just
bet they won’t bother doing anything. They’ll be sat at home on their couches,
blaming everyone else.”
“I didn’t realise you noticed them all.”
“How could I not?” she asks. “They walk around
in front of your nose, absorbed in their own little lives. They’re so
transparent – everyone. You can tell exactly where they’re going, what they’re
going to do. I just like predicting it.”
“And you’re good at that?”
“I dunno. But, you know, there’s usually one
fairly safe bet which fits them all. Precisely nothing. There’s not much point
in it, but how is that different from anything else in the world? It just gives
me something to do.”
“Fair enough.”
I take another look at it – the house she’s
been staring at all this time. It’s still just exactly the same as it always
has been. You can just see it the way it once was – a worker’s cottage on the
outskirts of a farm. It still looked the same all those years ago – red cobbled
bricks, chimney, door. Just slightly cleaner gaps between the bricks, a roof
slightly clearer of moss.
“That photo you took,” I say. “Can I have a
look?”
She passes me the camera. It’s a good photo –
for once, the background is free of people. I like it that way. All there is is
the red brick house, sandwiched between the thousands of identical grey blocks.
They’d be easy to cut out of the frame, somehow. Then that shot of the house,
alone, could come from any time when it existed. That’s the good thing about
old buildings. They never really age.
“It’s probably changed,” Alice remarks,
looking over my shoulder at the photo. “Inside. Someone will have moved in, redecorated
it.”
“We don’t know, though.” I don’t know whether
I’m upset or triumphant about this. “It’s not your home anymore. This is the
only part you get to see.”
“It will have, though,” she says, looking over
again. “I do wonder, sometimes, who bought it. Dad moved us away before he sold
it. Probably one of those nothing people.”
“Probably.”
“It sucks, though.” she mutters. “Right?”
I nod, again. She hasn’t had the easiest of
times, that’s for sure.
“It’s just so unfair,” she continues, still
staring ahead. “That old woman… you know, the one Mum always used to tell me
about. She lived there for years – ever since it was still part of the farm.
Did you know?”
I knew.
“Her father used to work there. Ever since he
was 17. He was an orphan, Mum said. But the farmer – who used to own that manor
house round the corner, the one that got knocked down years ago so they could
build those flats – he took him in. Gave him a job as a farm hand – and that
cottage. When he had his daughter, he wanted to marry her off to someone rich,
at first. Wanted a better life for her, even if it meant he’d have to sell the
house when he retired.”
She
raises her voice. “But she wasn’t having any of it. She got a job as a
seamstress, so she could earn her own money and keep living there, even after
her father died. And then all those years later, she refused to move out.
Refused to let some money-obsessed building company knock the place down.
Because it was her home, you know? A piece of the past. And she didn’t care
that it didn’t fit in with some fancy vision, no matter how much cash it might
bring in. It was worth more than money.”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Alice this
animated. Suddenly her glassy eyes are lit up. It’s like she’s come alive.
“She did something,” Alice continues. “She
never settled for complaining. It was her home, and she clung on to it. But all
that, none of that mattered. Because she died. She had to leave it all behind.
None of it made a difference.”
It did, though. That’s what I want to tell
her. Only, she’s staring right at it – hasn’t torn her eyes away all the time
she’s been here. The old worker’s cottage, an island of worn red brick between
the greys. But she only seems to see the things she has lost.
“It was years before it finally went to someone
who cared about it again,” she says. “Us. And I lived there my whole life, just
like she did. I was happy there – you know I was. But I’m still alive. I’m
still here.” And now, finally, she turns around, tears her eyes away from the
house. Looks right at me. “Only, I’m not.”
And she sits on the wall, and stares and
stares ahead, and people go past and don’t see her, and time is the only thing
that passes. And the world changes around us as we sit.
“Next to Mum dying,” Alice tells me,
“Losing the house was nothing. I shouldn’t care. So… why do I? It doesn’t make
sense.”
“Not much does,” I say.
“Tell me about it.” Suddenly, Alice just looks
drained. “We ruined it. We ruined the story. It didn’t used to matter that some
old woman died, because that house was still there. We still cared. Me and Mum.
We made what she did matter. But now we’ve made it all for nothing. Everything
gets washed away.”
The house is still standing, right now; and
Alice and I are still on the wall, looking at it, at least, from the outside.
One day, I suppose, someone will pull down that house, bring it back to the
rubble and bricks that it once was. And just like the woman who held on, just
like Alice, it will no longer be there.
I don’t know what will be left for me then. But
I won’t be around much longer, anyway.
“There’s this thing I read once,” Alice says,
finally. “About how, in old buildings, echoes of people who once lived there
linger on. Not like ghosts, exactly… just little things. Whispers of sounds you
swear you can hear. Of words said long ago. Phrases and voices that seem to
linger in the walls, sometimes, when the time is just right. I remember, when I
was a kid, I used to spend all my time listening. Lying in bed, or home alone,
I’d try to make something out of the silence – I wanted there to be something.
I never heard anything, though. The silence stayed silent. The past was gone.
So I suppose… I don’t know. It just feels like
that was the only place that would have stayed like it was, at least for a
while longer. It would have had something left of her.”
“That’s what you’ve been doing, then?” I ask
her. “Since I last saw you? You’ve been listening for the past.”
She doesn’t reply. Just looks ahead again;
back at the place that was once her home. But I don’t need to hear an answer. I
know. Of course I do.
“Do
you remember when I was little, I always used to be obsessed with the idea of
time travel?” Alice says. “I thought it would be so cool to walk the old
streets, see how people used to look and act. But actually, I always thought
the concept of it was stupid. I mean, surely if people arrived from the future,
we’d be able to see them, right?”
“How do you know you haven’t?” I ask, half-jokingly.
“Maybe they’re just in disguise.”
“Yeah, but…” She gives a dry laugh. “To be
honest, even as a kid, I didn’t believe in the concept of time. It just doesn’t
work like that. We’ve got this world, that’s all. We build on it, people change
and grow. But you can’t reverse that. It just happens. And the old things –
they don’t just disappear. They don’t just stay in their own separate time
frames; they stick around. Like my old house. It’s still there, just like it
always was. Only now… it’s not mine anymore.”
I get it. I do. I just don’t know what I’m
supposed to say.
“Look, Alice,” I tell her in the end. “You’ve
said it like it is. You can’t turn back time. Things do change – and all you
can do is move on. You keep talking about taking control of things, not just
complaining and doing nothing. But here you are sitting on a wall, wishing for
something impossible. All you’ve got is now. So wouldn’t you want to do
something real with it, rather than just living in the past?”
“What’s the point?” Alice asks. “Everything
gets washed away in the end. Things just… don’t last. That’s life.”
“No, it’s not. Things don’t go away – not
everything. They just change. Like your mother, your house – and that old
woman. They might be gone, but you’re still there. You remember. And, okay,
most things don’t last forever… but shouldn’t we make the most of the new
things, and everything that’s still there, rather than wasting the time we have
on wishing back what’s gone? And right here, right now, you’re still there.
You’re one of the lucky ones.” I think about Alice, the story that didn’t end,
the way she listens instead of living. And of all those people, the nothing
people, who walk by without noticing us. Until, one day, they stop walking.
“Isn’t that what you wanted?” I ask her. “If
everything just stayed the same, there’d be nothing to life – just like you
said.”
She pauses, thinking about it. It can’t be
easy, letting go. It’s not easy for me, either.
And then, slowly, she nods. Looks ahead
again, one last time – at the house, red cobbled bricks, same as ever. Only this
time, she squints, peers further, through the windows. She can’t see much, not
from here. There’s some green curtains in one of the upstairs windows, a
pattern of teddy-bears all over them. She supposes there must be another kid
living there, again. Another window, a big piano visible through it. A study
with a computer. She can’t see much else. But it’s something. It’s a new home.
All the while, someone, somewhere, was getting
on with their life, doing something. Which is more than she was.
So she jumps off the wall, puts on her
backpack and begins to walk home. She doesn’t look back. Just turns the corner,
up the next street, back towards her school. She knows the way by heart. And
from then, it’s an easy walk home.
Just before she gets to her new house,
there’s an empty street. So she stops for a moment. Allows herself one blissful
moment in the past, before it’s time to move on. She supposes she can’t blame her
father for moving away, now she really thinks about it. After all, that’s all
he was doing – moving on.
But still, just for a moment, she closes her
eyes, blocks out the faint sounds of traffic around her. And with her eyes shut
and her ears tuned out, just for a second, nothing exists to tell her she
couldn’t be anywhere, any time in the world. She could be back in her old
house, nine years old and searching for the whispers of the past. She could be
that old woman, standing in the place she’s been rooted to for years, trying in
vain to cling on to this world. She could be the farmer as he built the house,
long ago, thinking thoughts she could never even dream of, making plans no-one
ever made again in all the time from then until now. The silence is still the
same. And with her eyes closed, her ears wide open to nothing, it is impossible
to tell the difference.
And then, finally, she opens her eyes wide,
and walks forward. And as she turns the corner into her street, she laughs.
Wonders if anyone did notice her; and wondered what on earth she was doing up
on that wall, talking to herself.
