Crossing

By Philip Matthews

Are these happy times? Why not? We make our own happiness after all, don’t we?
At least, once we know how to do that.

How a daughter undertakes to do what her mother cannot do.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip Matthews
• Release date: Apr 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798215542996

Philip Matthews

Writer's life, hidden, frugal, self-absorbed, no TV or social media, a few good friends - but the inner life, ahhhhh. Recommend it to anyone.

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CROSSING

PHILIP MATTHEWS

τα παντα ρεί  everything flows

εν παντα είναί  all things are one

    Heraclitus

ISBN: 9798215542996

©Philip Matthews (2024)

NEAR

Only as the train approaches Saint-Charles does she rouse herself from her reverie, alerted by the sombre prospect of the stark apartment blocks with their gaudy graffiti on rocky escarpments above the tracks. She’s not fully aware of these, but responding instead as she always does to the contrast she finds with Paris, between an enclosure that reassures and an openness that is always ambiguous. This is how she sees these apartments and the poverty on display there: how people in the south here can see what they may never possess. In Paris, on the other hand, you need never see what you don’t want to see.

And yet that is not what preoccupies her as she shakes her dress loose, balancing against the sway of the decelerating train. It’s not easy to prepare words for a person who might not hear them, but who might yet sense the uncertainty of the emotions that underlie them. This is the trick she has learned over the last thirty months: for three hours she rehearses all the words she might utter as the TGV hurtles through the crowded land, draining herself in preparation for two hours of complete silence. A rehearsal of a life that was never lived and a future that might never be. And the lesson learned? How close a daughter can be to a mother who offer no resistance whatsoever: like a wind over an ocean at night. That’s what she has learned – how to be nowhere with her mother, when there was never anywhere else.

The station always seems cramped and crowded, a press she finds hard to cope with. The Metro is not much better – the tightness here even more pronounced, compared with Paris – the migrant poverty creating a strange intimacy, like bearing a boding, an enticement. Very strong this time, if only because the summer heat adds a voluptuous quality, the dark flesh of both the men and women livid. It is a repellent spectacle, of course – even flagrant – but tempting in such a confinement. At the Rond, she stops out at the very edge of the broad pavement, ignoring the fumes of the heavy traffic, looking up at the lustrous sky, the cicadas clicking away in the trees at her back, the bright sun shining on everything. She’s not looking for relief, more another kind of infection, one she can more easily resist. It could be called happiness, as though this Southern sky could render the burden of her reality no more than a context for self-congratulation, but she knows with some intimacy that everything the sun shines on dies – sooner or later. Though she is confident that she can always resist this temptation, she is nonetheless always almost seduced by it: self-love, of course, thinking well of herself. Isn’t it enough to be an attractive young woman, successfully educated and comforted by modest wealth? Not if you relate to your mother through a shared emptiness.

Well, the bus journey at least is pleasant, spanking along in the bright light by the bright sea, crowds basking with evident contentment on its shore. For her, the greatest gift of this city is to allow her pass among its inhabitants on a day like this, to experience the honest contentment of a people that knows it has earned this simple satisfaction. And if she is not tempted to join them – making a commitment similar to theirs – it is because she knows she is not innocent in the way they are. Not that she is impure – her own word on these occasions – only that she knows too much, this knowledge ambiguous as to source and objective. Put simply: she knows she can be tempted, though the source of this temptation is so far unknown to her.

The bus leaves her short of her destination. But this she knows already. First time coming here she waits for the number 19 bus for almost half an hour. In the meantime, two number 19A services load up and set off for Pointe Rouge. An elderly woman standing just behind her finally asks her where she is going. Only then did she discover that Montredon was no more than a ten minute walk from the 19A terminus. Next service was a number 19, but the woman points out the 19A stop, so that she could see for herself how far she would need to walk. This is a story she tells herself each time she walks up to the clinic, a deliberate subterfuge that allows her re-establish connection with the emptiness she has created on the train journey. And the effect is always the same, a curious feeling that each footstep leaves part of her behind on the pavement, until she arrives at the gate of the park feeling like a ghost, transparent in the golden light of the early afternoon.

All she need do then as she walks the pathway in the shade of the mature trees is keep herself from crying, knowing that she would then really disappear too, just like her mother.

Her mother is always sitting quietly in her room, on the third floor of what was once the mansion of a nineteenth century merchant. There are two windows, one looking north towards the stony hills that surround the city, the other looking east along the coast. Her mother always sits looking out the north-facing window, staring blindly across the tiled roofs of the intervening suburbs at the bare terrain on the horizon, bleakly lit now by the facing sun. She sits quite erect on a straight-backed chair, hands resting in her lap, palms up. Always a plain blue dress, somewhat loose on her slender figure, her dark hair brushed till it shines – the result of the strange attachment of a young carer, who works mornings only but who attends to her with uncalled-for devotion, calling her Eamati Julie with a curiously doting fondness. She has never met this carer, only piecing together passing anecdotes of the resident psychiatrist, a woman who remarkably resembles her mother in so many ways: both lean and active, driving forward without real direction, both afraid to look back.

A straight-backed chair has already been placed alongside her mother’s for her, so she lays her backpack on the bed and comes and sits down beside her mother. It will take her a little while to engage with her mother’s absence, so she passes the moments as always by glancing out the other window, there to her right. The question she always asks herself is this: if the tall apartment blocks – situated at the terminus of the number 19 bus – did not obscure the view east up along the coastline, would her mother have elected to look out that window? She feels that the view of the sea would have better suited her mother’s disposition – as she understands it – than the sight of sterile rock might do. And yet: perhaps not, she suspects, though she can’t quite reach her mother’s understanding here, the acuity of her legal mind evading her, as it does in so many other areas of her life.

No matter: the silence is here now.

Her watch tells her that precisely forty four minutes have passed. She pushes her chair back and stands up. Her mother immediately stands up, turning away from the window to face the door. It is a routine – no doubt part of her mother’s range of routines now in the clinic – and it is such that she can walk precisely alongside her down the corridor, then down the broad stairway and out through the great doorway, out under the sun and its heat to the top of the steps, the golden limestone there shining so bright. They pause side by side, both blinking, both alike in adjusting to the tremendous presence of the outside world, both as though coming from another world.

Then it’s down the steps and along a side path to the little gate that leads into the park. She settles quickly to walking with her mother under the broad trees and their cool shade, passing picnicking groups, school-children with their teachers doing their lessons in such a friendly place. There are two thoughts pressing on her mind, and she deliberately chooses to think about the often remarked quality of her mother’s condition. She has never spoken to anyone in the clinic, never even acknowledged the presence of the staff, professionals or carers. Yet she acts precisely – and always – as they wish her to: sittings for meals, dressing and undressing, bathing, even submitting to medical examinations of various kinds, both physical and psychological. It’s not that she watches for some sign or other, to give her direction, more a kind of preternatural sensibility she has, that is aware of – and responsive to – her surroundings to a quite exact degree. She herself has witnessed this during her many visits. No eye contact, no physical contact – she has never knowingly touched her mother in any way…

And immediately that second thought: should she be jealous of the young Arab woman who can touch her mother with apparently such freedom, even with what seems like an honest affection? But this situation is too strange to be marked by mere jealousy. And the question is begged – this time if never before asked – why can’t she touch her mother? And the other side of the question: can she remember ever been touched by her mother? No, she can’t. Oh, she can remember her mother telling maids what to do. Can remember these maids handling her, sometimes rough, sometime smooth, but never with the affection seemingly lavished on her mother here. And still she is not jealous. But she does ask herself if anyone has ever touched her with affection. The nearest to a genuine love she has ever experienced was with her Aunt Alice, though here she sensed always the curious helplessness her quick embraces expressed, as though she was a substitute for the real beloved, who she knows was a childhood friend who died shortly before she married Rosmun Allak.

Their destination is the café over by the tennis courts, and even when her mother has seated herself at their usual table off to one side, and she makes her way into the café, she still is trying to remember if her mother had ever touched her, like acknowledging she has a daughter. Then she knows it is not jealously that she feels, but disappointment: that familiar sadness that loneliness engenders – like she is waiting, forlornly waiting. She needs to order the coffees at this point, a slice of lemon meringue for her mother and a plain shortcake biscuit for herself – the meal on the train still heavy on her stomach. And she is meanwhile surprised once again at how used she is to sadness, like it provides a soft focus on her life. Three of them achieved first class honours, and while Hannah and Gregory immediately followed up the plans they had made to undertake research degrees, she simply walked away, out along the narrow streets of this part of Paris, feeling that she had fulfilled an obligation to her father and so was free now to live her own life. That what she understands about the sadness she lives with: it has no future, only an abiding present.

Her mother – as always – waits until she has returned the tray and taken her seat at the table before she lifts the cup to her lips. She watches her, how exact her movements are – really a curious balance, she senses, like she has only one way of acting now. This is a novel insight for her: seeing her mother as though determined now in some way, though what determines her is unclear. She knows she is staring across the little table at her – knowing her mother will not react – watching the movement of her eyes. They are locked on the cup as she replaces it in its saucer, not the slightest flicker otherwise. This is not natural, that much she knows, understanding how human sight works: a multitude of rapid re-focussings combined by some mental agency into an artificial composition we believe is a true copy of the reality outside us. And now the stunning insight: her mother’s attention is actually elsewhere, that curious sensibility she lives by now acting in her place.

It is a pleasant afternoon all about her, people relaxed in the warm air, chatting freely with their companions, but she feels chilled now, goose-pimples along her calves, a flicker in her own mind – as though she might actually be able to reach into this world her mother now inhabits, the world of what she called the Crossing the only time she spoke to her since coming here. And she finds herself saying to her mother, before she can stop herself:

‘Rosmun is dead. Died suddenly three months ago.’

Her mother takes up the fork and breaks off a piece of the cake, spears it on the fork and puts it into her mouth. Not a flicker of her eyes: nothing at all.

‘I was there, mother. In their bedroom. I heard him say that it was true. That is all he said, then dropped down dead on the floor.’

The evening train gets her into Toulouse in time to connect with the last local service, after which it is a short taxi ride to the cottage. The air is musty until she gets all the windows open, the heat of the day here like that of a furry animal, a bear maybe. And she can see the bear, tall and welcoming, imagining this beast with some bemusement. It has brown fur and a black nose, rimless sunglasses for effect. She laughs, quite a sudden laughter, a tension she had not been aware off being released. Yet she doesn’t think it strange to imagine Rosmun Allak as a big cuddly bear, even though he was afraid of women, so much a source of pain for him. She can see him clearly at once: arms raised as though in exultation, calling out that it is true. Then collapsing as though punctured, folding down until he sat in a curious slumped way, his head lolling off to one side – to his right, as she remembers now. And the fairies withdrew immediately, a keening cry issuing from their beautiful mouths.

What fairies?

Not another thought until she has found the jar of fennel leaves and has made a tea for herself. She is hungry, but knows she won’t eat this evening, a kind of penance perhaps, or like creating a vacancy in herself. Then: they are so beautiful, such a grace and yet so cold. And Aunt Alice had said, shouting in a way she had never seen her before do:

‘Where is Petrus? Why has he abandoned us here?’

And Petrus? Her whole body shivers, an actual chill that makes her skin crawl all over. An old man, fussy as might be expected, his mind always absent. And yet even now, not having seen him for these three months, she can feel what is like a hot rod in her body. She had been sitting, but now she starts to her feet, a curious kind of dismay clouding her. She is remembering something she has managed not to remember for a very long time, even since she read Adam Auber’s biography. Her grandmother, Angela Bryce, her father’s mother, had been some kind of witch – a demon witch. She used her anus to bewitch men, leaving them slaves to her master. No. She knows this is not true. It horrifies her that she knows it is not true, because she can feel in herself what her grandmother did to men.

She walks out of the cottage, though in truth she wanted to run. But it is easier to think out under the dimming sky, sun already set, some stars coming into their brilliance in the greeny-blue sky. So quiet, only a bird cheeping deep in a nearby bush, the grass cool against her ankles. She stands quite still under this glorious sky and asks herself:

Am I a witch too?

Yet she sleeps soundly through the night, awakening early to the sound of a fox yelping in the nearby wood. Her first thought is simple: they’re wrong about the geraniums. Just like that. It had been on her mind for a week, the proposal that the tulips this year be replaced by red flowering geraniums. This insight persuades her: rose petals lose their colour because the rose falls away from the Soul, while the geraniums never lose contact, proven by the fact that their petals retain colour and their leaves never loss their fragrance. She couldn’t argue this, of course, with the contractor – so she must find another rationale.

She’s about to get out of bed when she remembers something: being dried by Petrus – whoever he is in reality – up at the spring. How carefully he did it: the arousal is sudden and very powerful, feeling again the towel pressing up between her legs, his eyes closely following the movements of his hand. It’s like there’s a place – just below her stomach – that is entirely empty, that can be heated until it glows a low red, like a glowing coal. She need not touch herself at all, just arch her body slightly, feeling the muscles clench around that hollow: then she whimpers as she is released, like she expands to fill a universe and then she is flowing like boiling water, the sensation of burning so real right down her body, right down to her feet.

She sees something so familiar, though she knows she has never seen it before: it might be an eagle, or a red star, or a trident, even red candles in a church somewhere.

She falls asleep again.

Only as she speaks to the contractor – today the older man with the blue peaked hat – does she finds out how to explain herself:

‘The geraniums would be too bright, Marcel. Might show up the pink and yellow roses nearby. If you could get some alstroemeria, especially the paler variety, they wouldn’t get in the way. Even mixed would do. Whatever you can get.’

He looks very doubtful even as he nods, obviously with the geraniums already ordered. So she adds, pointing back at the house:

‘You could plant the geraniums at the front. They would work there in the shade. They’re such a brilliant red, yes?’

He looks less doubtful now. He wants to ask a question, but she knows he will not ask it, knowing his preferences don’t signify here. But she does say, not that it will comfort him:

‘Do you realise, Marcel, that almost twenty thousand flowers bloom and die here every year?’

And that does affect him, see his mouth tightening. Like reminding a farmer that all his cattle are so much beefsteak and casserole. She could add: where there’s life there is always death. But she won’t. She just turns away and heads across the yard to the kitchen door, thinking as a rejoinder: and what does beauty brings us?

Mrs Eland, the housekeeper, has just finished clearing up after breakfast and is in the process of making coffee with the big shiny machine they have here. She smiles, the familiar expression of familiarity and yet that restraint, marking her status here: family but not household. And she can handle that, as she usually does – knowing that someday she will be mistress here:

‘Bright morning, Monica, good to be alive and well.’

And Mrs Eland can respond with equal ease, already filling the second cup for her, saying as she does:

‘Good to see you looking so well, Rachel. And how was your mother yesterday? Any improvement in her condition?’

Knowing she has met her mother only once – and she already stoned thanks to Uncle Rosmun’s drug – it’s hardly likely that the housekeeper has any real interest in her mother. But she does say, nonetheless, knowing that it will be reported to Aunt Alice:

‘Oh, she is keeping well, Monica. The clinic provides excellent care, especially given the circumstances.’

She takes the filled cup offered her, the aroma overly sweet, the fake foam like dishwasher residue, and passes on across the hallway to the library. She knows she is moving too fast today, appearing blithe but really a sense of being overstretched, reaching unsuccessfully for something. She both hates and loves the library. Hates the books but loves the armchair over by the fireplace, always placed as she arranged it: facing towards the tall window. She sits down, sips the very hot liquid, sucking air in to cool her mouth, but already looking avidly out the window. The trees are beech, old trees that have achieved that riotous quality the beech is capable of. Adam never allowed them to be pruned and neither has she, and that despite pressure from Aunt Alice, who values neatness above all. And even as she thinks this about her aunt, the voice from over by the door says:

‘Any improvement with Julia, Rachel?’

She doesn’t turn her head as she feels the approach of her aunt, the slow rustle of the silk dresses she prefers in summer, so much packaging on her full figure, but says only:

‘Much the same, I’m afraid, Aunt Alice. Still incommunicado with the rest of creation.’

Yes, it rings false. She knows this, as does her aunt – who is now coming into view, though keeping to one side of the window, knowing her niece’s predilection here – her fear of confinement. She waits a number of seconds before turning away from the shiny beech leaves to look at her aunt. The ambiguity can at times threaten to overcome her detachment: whether she loves or merely resents the older woman. She’s well aware of her aunt’s interest in her – why she was given the cottage on the estate, why she has free run of this house, why she will inherit all of it. It is on the surface a family matter, she the only