The Widow's Tale (20 page)

I
'm considering buying a map of Britain, and marking on it all the places that have significance for me. Where I first fell in love … the artist's studio where I used to be a life model … the chapel at the American Cemetery … and so on. My own personal stations. I could put a few weeks aside and walk around them, barefoot – to honour them.

I remember standing in the civic square of some English city when I was ten or eleven, in front of a street map in a big glass case. Along the bottom there was a row of buttons. And when you pressed one of the buttons a series of little bulbs lit up across the map, to tell you where the churches were. Another button would illuminate the theatres … the libraries and museums … etc. All these different little constellations. These necklaces of light.

I fully accept that the stations in my life will mean virtually nothing to the next person. But that doesn't demean them one bit. And when I bring to mind what really gives me pleasure: my walks out across the marshes, for instance, or what brings me joy, like Holbein's Christina of Denmark, then I can say with absolute conviction that these things improve me. Heal me, even. And, when combined, that their power multiplies. Those days I spent on retreat when I was in my twenties … the
memory of me hanging out the grass to dry … even those old ships scratched on the backs of the pews, not far from here.

I'm not quite right yet. I understand that. I suspect I'll never be quite right again. But I also know that if I keep on focusing on all the horrors then I'll do nothing but dig myself an early grave.

It may well be that there is indeed some terrible entropy at work. That everything that is, and ever was, is slowly torn apart. But human beings aren't built for living under those sort of conditions. We need to draw things together. We need to decide what is precious to us. What is sacred. And hold onto them.

A
pparently, I just pull the door to and drop the keys through the letter box. The agency has a spare set and will let themselves in.

I've been told that there's a charge for leaving the place unhoovered. But I'll happily pay it. I'm not about to get down on my hands and knees and mop the floor, or clean the fridge out. I haven't got the strength.

I've decided not to mention the severed TV cable. I'm sure when someone notices it they'll get in touch. My only other concern is that I now have two cars in the car park and tend not to drive more than one at a time. I was tempted to ring up dear old Ginny and ask her if she fancied jumping on a train and driving one of them back for me. We could head back to town in our own little convoy. But I'd much rather just turn up on her doorstep and surprise her. I'll decide which one to drive back when I see them. And maybe come and get the other one later on.

Of course, I could just leave the other one up here full-time, and have it as my north Norfolk runabout. For when I visit. I might yet buy myself a little shack. Who knows. Like pretty much everything else these days it's still too early to say.

I shall just get through this week. Then the next one. And see how things look from there.

Mick Jackson is the prize-winning author of the novels,
The Underground Man, Five Boys
and
The Widow’s Tale
. He also published, with the illustrator David Roberts, two acclaimed curiosities,
Ten Sorry Tales
and
Bears of England
.

The Underground Man

Five Boys

Ten Sorry Tales (illustrated by David Roberts)

Bears of England (illustrated by David Roberts)