Solid Walls

In the movies, December in England is beautiful. The sharp edges of dry stone walls built by men as hard as the stones that made them and tended by sons and grandsons and great grandsons as precisely fitted to the niches of generational inheritance as those same stones, are softened by gently undulating mounds of clean, fresh snow, smoothing over the fissures, an absolution in white. Cottages as lived in as the most comfortable jumper in your wardrobe chuff smoke from chimneys that might, once upon a time, have hidden a priest or two from discovery, and even in the cities, sky-strung fairy lights dance with falling flakes of wistful wonder, sprinkling the wool coat clad pedestrians as they make their way in pairs and laughing groups down streets peopled just heavily enough to saturate the cobbles with cheer, but never so much as to impede any who might wish to spin spontaneously in circles, scarf flying and snowflakes falling into a mouth opened to wonder at the bounty of love. In the movies, December in England tastes like warm cinnamoned pastry and cream, and the English perform a ritualistic battle with their cynicism, which they will win, of course, to suspend their disbelief for a few precious days as the light creeps imperceptibly back into the mid-afternoon sky, and for that interval in time, they will experience the transcendence of peace on earth and good will to all mankind. Even the French. Maybe not the French. It’s never featured in the movies.

They’re good, the movies. Anna had seen twenty seven of them by the time she was thirteen, though some of those had been set in America where it’s even snowier, and more heavily festooned, but less romantic due to the dearth of dry stone walls. Sitting on the bus, she played one through in her mind, attempting to tune out the cacophony of the boys taking up the back third. It was worse on the top deck, where the cool girls squabbled and shrieked and sometimes came to screaming blows over things that seemed as incomprehensible to her as Chaucer. Why would you choose to sit next to someone and then write something mean on their exercise book? One thing suggested friends, the other suggested enemies, it made no sense. Downstairs, the boys were more raucous as a rule, but like puppies it rarely spilt over from play fighting into genuine aggression, and if she ignored them, they ignored her by and large.

Outside, the light was fading fast. Anna checked her watch. 3.47pm. Two minutes to sunset, not that you could tell. The grey of the day had simply fallen in on itself like a dirge building to a crescendo, notes falling away to leave a dampened D minor, as if a final breath had been the aim all along. She stared out the window at the Christmas lights, every third or fourth house holding out an olive branch to enthusiasm and willing it to return by flashing lurid LED bulbs on and off in an array of rhythms, all of which seemed designed to induce a feeling of aggravation. It was steamy and hot on the bus. She had used her sleeve to wipe a peephole in the condensation and she watched as on the pavement, under the sallow monochromatic streetlight, a man in an oversized plastic mac lowered his foot into dog shit, glanced down, and lifted it again before starting to shout. He might have cursed, but the boys on the bus drowned out any sound from beyond, protecting her ears with their overlaying “fucks” and “fuckings”.

At least she was warm. Macie and her cronies had shoved her coat down the toilet at first break, and she had pretended she didn’t care and left it there, even though her house key and unsullied conduct card were still in the pocket. It was a new coat. A hard won coat. She had shuffled, hemmed in by layers and layers of other shuffling bodies, through the Christmas wonderland that was London, gaudily lit rickshaws blaring pop music in sudden onslaughts of bullish fun, dark cars edging the crowd into compressed stasis before passing into a dark obliterated by lights and somehow all the deeper for it. “It’ll be nice, to see the lights,” Mum had said, “do a bit of Christmas shopping. We’ll see a matinee.” It had been ghastly, but Anna never said so, and she had needed a new coat, after all. It was going to be a cold walk home without that coat, but still, she couldn’t wait for her stop. She closed her eyes and thought about the movies.

By the time the bus lurched to a halt, Anna had already shouldered her way past the rustling jackets and bulging backpacks to stand with her toes just over the line that marked the passenger limit. DO NOT STAND FORWARD OF THIS LINE WHILE THE BUS IS IN MOTION. She was the first one to cross it once the doors hissed open though, and as she stepped off, she felt the cold home in on the sheen of sweat across her face. As icy as the air was, her heartbeat, clamouring in her chest for the last fifteen minutes, began to slow as she started walking. “Any colder and it would be snowing” she heard a man tell a woman as they crossed her path, and she noticed it was raining. She fought the urge to break into a run. Not because of the rain, but because she had heard there were people around who snatched children. Perhaps it was that thought that made her jump and twist her ankle skittering off the kerb when the snowman outside 32 West Drive burst into song. She walked on the outside edge of the pavement after that, hoping not to trigger any further jollity.

Down the road, turn right, up the hill, left at the top then right again, Anna fell into a rhythm, the bounce of each footfall the number of a town bus. 5, 23, 48, 17, 112, 5 again. 5, 23, 48, 17, 112, 5 again. The cold was peripheral now, frost on a leaf edge, and her mind left behind Macie and maths and tomorrow’s woes, and settled into train track regularity. 5, 23, 48, 17, 112, 5 again. First left, past the grate, first right, round the bend, over the hump and home. Anna put her key in the door, felt the cool air singe her nostrils, and went in.

Shoes off, bag off, empty the bladder. Wash hands, stroke the dog, into the shower. Pyjamas. Breathe. Anna felt the knots unfurl, at last. “How was your day?” was never a question she could answer, but her mum asked it anyway.

“Fine.”

“Any news?”

“Lost my coat.”

“Your new one? Where?”

“Just lost it, ok. I don’t know.”

“Ok. Will you look in lost property tomorrow?”

“Ok.”

“Snack?”

Anna put her head phones on, nodding curtly. It was always snack, there was no need for more. On the sofa, she wrapped her blanket tight around her legs and opened her laptop, choosing the movie she had thought of on the bus. She’d seen it eight times, she’d seen them all eight times, probably, but this was the one she wanted tonight. She was vaguely aware of the plate that appeared beside her, four slices of apple, one chocolate biscuit, seven raisins and a piece of cheese, and vaguely aware of her mum, closing the curtains on the drizzled dark outside, vaguely aware of the Christmas tree coming on, the baubles she had hung every Christmas since she was old enough to hang them bathed in the steady glow of the lights. She was vaguely aware of discomfort in her ankle and dampness in her hair and the ticks of the central heating, of the cars, one every few minutes, that swished through puddles outside, and of the hum of the town beyond, beyond her concern, now that she was home.

Inside, Anna’s muscles began to soften, first her legs, squeezed by her blanket, then her stomach, her shoulders, her jaw, her eyes. Her breathing slowed, and deepened and her heart settled in her chest. Anna was in a land of stone walls as constant as rivers, and snow smoothing every jagged edge, a place where friends were friends and love affairs progressed through predictable stages and ended, always, where you wanted them to be, a place where mothers brought seven raisins and the lights were soft and the Christmas tree reminded her of herself. Anna was home.