Writing for Fun
April 2019
Chain of Events - Pete Norman
The warm summer sun beats down upon my back. From this lofty vantage point the sky is immense – an artist would describe it as a ‘big sky’ – indigo blue from horizon to horizon without a single cloud to interfere with the pristine monochrome symmetry. A warm breeze shimmers across the surface of the long grass, tickling my ankles as I walk the cliff top, with a hypnotic swish, swish, swish. The mournful cry of the seagulls in the distance completes the ambience. It truly is a day to feel good be alive . . . if that is your inclination at this particular moment in time.
At the cliff edge a small area of well trodden ground defines the popular local landmark – Lover’s Leap. Legend has it that the broken hearted would gravitate to this isolated spot to take their final comfort, to make their departure from this miserable existence.
Unlike those on the east coast, these cliffs are solid chalk and have stood up well to the pounding of the ocean waves, here it is quite safe to stand close to the edge, on the trampled earth, without fear of the ground beneath your feet suddenly subsiding and hurling you down onto the rocks and the surging water . . . unless, of course, that is your inclination at this particular moment in time.
* * *
Life is a peculiar thing. Each and every one of us starts off with a whole set of expectations, ambitions and burning desires and our lives, in most part, are dedicated to the fulfilment of those dreams. However, it is human nature for us to settle instead into a comfortable life which, though far short of the anticipated perfection, provides us with a predictable and acceptable existence.
This was the kind of life that Sarah and I shared – predictable and acceptable.
The experts say, quite chillingly, that our society is only ever but a few days from chaos and anarchy. In much the same way our own individual lives are no less vulnerable. We run on tramlines through our lives, safe within the confines of the track that stretches out almost to infinity but for the unfortunate few, once in a lifetime, that tram takes a corner a mite too fast and the consequences are catastrophic.
Sarah and I had a comfortable life, nothing exciting or exceptional. We have a son, Robert and I love him dearly. My shift pattern meant that I did not spend as much time with him as I would have wanted but then, I suppose so many other fathers suffer in the same manner. I was not unusual. I had a job which was routine and mundane, on a production line making Japanese cars. The pay was reasonable and we had a . . . well, we had a comfortable life . . . until, that is, our tram came off the rails.
* * *
I reach the cliff edge. How many times have I walked these cliff tops with Robert? It is my favourite place – a place where I can wander freely without interruption and put the world to rights inside my head . . . but this time I know that there is precious little chance of anything ending up right for me, ever again.
I reach the small area of well trodden ground, at Lover’s Leap.
I stare out to sea, to the horizon where the grey of the sea melts into the azure blue of the big sky.
I stare down, straight down the vertiginous white chalk cliffs, down to the point where the waves surge against the rocks with their repetitive, seductive, insidious susurration, ‘Whoosh . . . shhh. . . j-uu-mmm-pppp . . . whoosh . . . shhh . . . j-uu-mmm-pppp . . .’
The pull is magnetic and in my weakened mental state it is so hard to resist but nevertheless I take a step back away from the edge, out of harms way, away from temptation.
* * *
There had been rumours that the factory had been losing money for some time but when it closed, without warning, thousands of workers were made redundant, thrown onto the scrap heap, lost their livelihood, lost their pride, lost their future.
I was utterly devastated. At my age and with my limited skills and in an area where the Job Centre was collapsing under the immense pressure, the prospect of work was almost non-existent.
We struggled on. For some months we struggled on, working together, trying desperately to find a way to make ends meet but the strain eventually drove a wedge between us and the marriage fell apart. I had suspected for some time that she might have had interests elsewhere but I knew for certain that when I could find the right job then things would get better, our life could re-start, that life could once again be as it was.
But that was never to be. One day I returned home from the Job Centre to find that my key would no longer open the front door. The obvious reason never once crossed my mind, instead I blamed technology. I rang the doorbell to attract her attention but through the closed door I was greeted with a curt and unequivocal explanation. I was no longer welcome in my own house. She did not care where I went, just so long as I went. I could pick up my belongings at the weekend.
Of course, it was never going to be quite as simple as that; I argued against her, I lost my reason, I screamed and I kicked the door but it was all to no avail. When the neighbours came out to remonstrate with me I abandoned the cause and left. I needed time to work out my options and I came here. I came to the cliff top . . .
. . . where I lay for some time in the soft grass running over and over the events which had led us to this point, a chain of events which, had I extrapolated them at the time, had I taken heed of the direction in which we were heading, might have had some effect on the outcome. However, it did not take a genius to work out that there was nothing that I could have said, nothing that I could have done which could have staved off the inevitable because when the big wheel started to roll and gather momentum there was nothing that could have stopped it. I now had to resign myself to the future, however bleak that future might appear to be. I had to remain calm, cooperative, supportive, understanding and work towards some form of compromise – particularly where my precious Robert was concerned – however difficult that might prove to be.
* * *
I returned at the weekend to collect my clothes and was surprised that it was her brother who opened the door to me. It seemed that she had no desire to see me at the moment. I was allowed to take very little, just my clothes and a few personal things but as I had nowhere to put anything else I abandoned everything else in the house to her.
As I left I told him that I wanted to see my son.
He said that Robert needs a father not a loser like me.
I said that he couldn’t stop me seeing my son.
He just smiled.
* * *
Good friends, Brian and Margaret, had offered to put me up in their spare room until I could get things sorted and I was so grateful that they had chosen to remain neutral in this awkward test of loyalties.
However, that did not even last a week.
The police called at their door. They arrested me. There had been an allegation. An allegation that I kept child pornography on my laptop computer. An allegation that I had molested my own son.
It was, of course complete and utter fabrication but nevertheless they arrested me and they seized my computer and I was interviewed repeatedly until finally I was released on bail with strict instructions not to go anywhere near my child or my wife or our home.
I quickly discovered that I was no longer welcome anywhere near the sanctuary of Brian and Margaret’s home either and that night I found myself sleeping in a shop doorway. My whole world had been reduced to a couple of black dustbin sacks. In the discomfort and the cold and at the point of despair, sleep eluded me. However, I must have finally succumbed at some point during the stillness of the night because when I awoke in the morning the bags had gone. I had been robbed while I slept. I searched my pockets and pulled out a small handful of loose change, all that stood between me and survival.
I had reached rock bottom. There was nowhere further I could go. I resolved to put the money to good use. I had to visit several shops to achieve it but I soon had a handful of Paracetamol and a bottle of water – how inexpensive the price of oblivion.
However, some do-gooder must have watched me take them because the next thing I knew I was in hospital with the contents of my stomach being pumped out. As I lay there with an orderly standing guard to prevent any further stupidity a figure appeared in the doorway. He introduced himself as the Hospital Chaplain. Now, I am not in any way a religious person but this man was so kind, so gentle, so persuasive that I found the possibility of hope in his words. He referred me to a Night Shelter to give me protection for my physical self and to a counsellor to support me through my psychological difficulties.
It was not by any means a turning point in my life but at the very least it was a start and I grabbed it with both hands.
* * *
My counsellor’s name is Rosalind – which is the only name her name badge displays. She is a lovely lady, warm, caring and sympathetic and I genuinely believe that she is the only person in the whole world who thinks me innocent of the malicious slander that hangs over me like a shroud, that keeps me from seeing my precious son. Every time I leave her office in the church hall I feel optimistic, empowered, worthwhile . . .
. . . but then I have to go back to the Night Shelter.
The Night Shelter is a means to an end, it keeps me out of shop doorways, it keeps me safe and relatively warm but there the comfort ends – it is a place of desperation, a place of last resort and in the space of each night the slightest optimism fades into oblivion like a mythological torment.
* * *
‘Whoosh . . . shhh. . . j-uu-mmm-pppp . . . whoosh . . . shhh . . . j-uu-mmm-pppp . . .’
I have strayed back to the edge – the repetitive, seductive, insidious susurration has lured me from the safety of the grass onto the Event Horizon, the point at which all positive thoughts are leached from the soul. I close my eyes and I begin to sway gently in the breeze . . .
‘Whoosh . . . shhh. . . j-uu-mmm-pppp . . . whoosh . . . shhh . . . j-uu-mmm-pppp . . .’
‘Come away from there, you silly man!’
The voice is very small but with an insistence that is hard to ignore. By pure instinct I comply. I take a step backwards, away from the edge.
The boy is as small as his voice and his face has the earnest conviction of a four year old. He stands defiant with his hands on his hips. ‘If you fall you will break every bone in your body and you might even die!’
I stare at the child, utterly bemused, my brain struggling to rationalise the interruption but, as I have apparently failed to meet his exacting criteria he brings up the heavy guns. ‘Mummy said.’
How can I resist the cold logic of a small child? I take three more steps and await further instruction but my mentor finally appears to be satisfied, because he turns away, throws a ball and then runs off after a small scruffy dog, the moment with the silly man clearly forgotten.
My mind is numb. Such a simple act has brought a smile to my lips – such a rarity in recent days . . . but the child is about the same age as my Robert and quickly the mood slips and desperation sweeps over me again.
I turn back to the cliff . . .
A hand touches my shoulder. I spin around but it is not the child that has returned.
‘I thought I might find you here.’
The face that confronts me has a look of concern and confusion but there is an underlying determination which I cannot resist.
‘You didn’t show up for your appointment.’
Rosalind slips her arm through mine and gently eases me further away from the edge.
With a smile she says, ‘You must not never miss your appointments,’