Tollesbury Time Forever (27 page)

“If you continue to be abusive, I will have you ejected from the store,” the woman managed at last, her voice absolutely quaking.

“And the ‘O’,” continued the man, “does that stand for ‘Oh fuck am I going to be doing this job for the rest of my life?”

A couple of young lads behind me giggled. Part of me wanted to also. It had been a while since I had laughed in any fashion and I stemmed the impulse, not at all sure as to what my giggle would have sounded like.

“That’s it! Now put your money in the slot, take your change, take your lemon and please leave!”

“And ‘T’,” said the man, as he put his money in the slot, took his change and picked up his lemon, “I bet that stands for ‘time of the month’ - although on second thoughts, you look like you’re past all that.”

The woman stormed off, entirely enraged. Seconds later, a call came over the loud speaker system; it was her voice but amplified. She needn’t have bothered with the microphone; she was clearly shouting.

“And ‘S’ stands for ‘Security’! Security to the self-serve tills please.”

The guard that had been standing at the entrance, appearing more in his own little world than I had ever been, sprung into action. He walked quickly over to the man with the
lemon and escorted him to the exit. And just before they disappeared from view, I heard the lemon man shout,

“And ‘R’ stands for ‘aaargh that hurts, you bastard!”

I kind of liked him.

I paid for my bread and cheese and left the store. I was beginning to realise that not all the weird stuff in this world revolved around me. There’s plenty to see if you just get out a bit!

And as I walked across the car park I saw the man who had been thrown out, sitting on one of the benches by the bushes. He was leaning forward with his elbows upon his knees and his hands propping up his head. The lemon was beside him on the bench. Neither moved as I approached and sat down on the bench opposite.

The man didn’t even look up. I put my bread and cheese beside me. It was as if his lemon and my bread and cheese were our errant children. I would not have been at all surprised if the lemon had rolled off the bench, to be followed by my bread and cheese before they all skipped off to the little playground hidden in the bushes reserved only for food; leaving us adults to it. I think they would have been alright. The bread looked to be a sensible kind of fellow.

Then, what do you know, the lemon rolled off the bench and landed at my feet. I put out a hand to stay my bread and cheese as I leaned down and picked up the lemon. You just can’t be too careful with little ’uns. I let the lemon balance in my open palm. The man looked up with his eyes but his head remained lowered. He took the lemon and cupped it in both his hands.

“Cheers,” he said.

“It’s ok.”

We sat for a while in silence as shoppers came and went, cars parked, empty trolleys were filled and cars left again - commerce in action before our very eyes. The wheels on the bus went round and round, round and round, round and round. All day long.

“Made a tit of myself in there, didn’t I?” he said at last. “Don’t reckon they’ll let me back in for a while. Bugger really.
I only live round the corner. It‘s just things like that make me so angry.”

I nodded and tried to look sympathetic, which wasn’t too difficult, as I could imagine how he felt. Once you’ve been Sectioned a few times, you develop an affinity for people that are excluded.

“Came out for a bloody lemon and end up getting chucked out by security.”

“At least you got your lemon.”

“There is that.” The man smiled and looked down upon his bitter fruit.

“You going to have a sandwich?” he asked, nodding towards my bread and cheese.

“Yes.”

“Nice. Can’t beat a good old fashioned cheese sandwich.”

I felt good. He was absolutely right.

“What is your lemon for?”

“No idea. The wife says to me - ‘I need a lemon. We haven’t got any lemons. I need a lemon!’ So just for a bit of peace and quiet and to shut the bitch up, I came out to get her a precious fucking lemon.”

He shook his head ruefully before continuing.

“You married?” he asked.

I nodded.

“She alright?”

“Wonderful,” I replied. “Wonderful.”

God, it was all beginning to make sense to me now.

“Lot easier not to get angry when you’ve got a good ‘un I reckon.”

I nodded again.

“Do you believe,” I began, faltering a little, but gaining the courage to continue. “Do you believe that anger devours the soul?”

“Where did you hear that shit? You’re not one of those religious lunatics are you?”

I smiled.

“I suppose you’re half right.” I replied.

He smiled too.

“Well I guess it don’t do me any good. It’s not pleasant being angry all the time. No fucker wants to be around you. Where did you hear that devouring the soul stuff anyway?”

“A small boy pretending to be an angry barber told me.”

He sat back and looked at me with some intent.

“Figures,” he said. “Well, fuck it. I’d best be off. Bloody wife’s gonna kill me when I get in.”

“You got the lemon though. You got what you came for.” I said, in as reassuring a tone as I could muster.

At that, he stood up and hurled the lemon towards the shop window.

“Fuck the lemon. It was her fat arsed sister got me thrown out - her and her bloody stars. She’s always been the fucking same ever since my mate did her round the back of the Bookie's for a bet. See you mate. Have a good one.”

Ah, life - I do believe I am falling in love with you at last…

Tollesbury salt marshes are a land in their own right. As the earth doth appear from the sky so do the marshes appear from where I stand. It is all life - in large and in miniature. From on high we are but specks yet in truth we are gods. And beneath the salty water and the vegetation there are further worlds and greater universes of which we may never be aware; lands within lands; life within life.

The sky cleared and my musings were disturbed as a bouncy golden retriever barked a welcome. Its striding owner murmured ‘hello’ as he followed the line of the sea wall as if it were a railway track and he were the train. And I watched, enthralled, as man and dog merged into the indeterminate horizon, slipping over the edge of this world only ever to remain, like all things, in my consciousness.

It was Old Jed - the man with the lolloping golden retriever whom I had seen the day I had submerged myself in the water, that day when everything had changed for me. For there had followed Zachariah Leonard and the FRUGALITY children, The Walrus and W.G. Were Old Jed and his dog more of Julia’s army of spies or was he just a Tollesbury man who forever walked his dog around the edges of the Blackwater? I couldn’t be sure and I really didn’t mind. I nodded as he passed and soon he and his dog were gone.

Sitting down on the grassy bank, I looked into the salty marshland water, with not death, but learning on my mind.

So I sat down on the bank of the marshes and tried to focus on all that had happened to me. The last time I had been here my only intention had been to end my life. Yet now I had but hope on my mind. Hope - is that not one of the most beautiful of feelings? It is a sadness of life that when we are born, hope is not even in our constitution - it is all about sleeping and feeding and safety and warmth. But as we grow, the concept of hope is understood by the innocent child only at the time when the adult world intervenes. Hope has no role
when you are in the perfect childworld. It raises its head only when you are convinced by others that this world is not as wonderful as you first imagined. And thereafter disappointment is always lurking.

BUT THAT IS THE GREAT DECEPTION.

FOR THERE IS ALWAYS WONDER TO BE HAD!!!!!!

There is a wonder in each and every moment; it’s just so often we miss it, intent as we are on bemoaning our misfortune, the cards we are dealt, the burden that is ours alone. Wake up people! Wake up as I have awoken! For what is around us now is majestic, marvellous, magnificent!

Of course, I am in the countryside of old England, but wherever you find yourself, whatever your deep eyes do fall upon - look deep, look deeper.

And behold.

Have you ever heard of the Hen Harrier? We get them in Tollesbury and they are incredible. They glide over the marshes silent like breath, their V-shaped wings just a little more refined than that of the Marsh Harrier - smaller and slimmer and maybe a little more elegant. The male Hen Harrier is a ghost of a bird, the spirit of the Marsh Harrier, for it is not brown but almost completely white. It shimmers like a wave and is cut from the cloth of the morning mist. The only sign that these birds are of this world is the coal black wing-tips that leave darkening embers smouldering along the wing as they fly. And the markings on their tail go round and round in rings and rings of roses.

But that is not all. Suddenly, they fall and go a-tumbling from the sky, rocketing to earth like a parachutist whose chute has failed to open - yet there is no distress! Even in such a descent there is a beauty. And then - wham - the chute opens and the birds roar back up into the heavens - but just for a moment! This tumbling and rising goes on and on until the little Hen Harrier finds its way and wafts into the very firmament upon the breath of angels.

I am a man yet I am a Hen Harrier also. I am a drunkard and a dreamer. I am a Beatles fan and a lover of cricket. I am a
husband and I am a father. I am all these things and more. And I am a friend of yours. I am the world’s best friend. Just think of me not as a schizophrenic but as a Hen Harrier only. A Hen Harrier.

For there is no schizophrenia and there is no depression; no bi-polar disorder, personality disorder or post-traumatic stress disorder. There is just life and trying to get through it. That is all. Look past the drugs and past the diagnosis, look deeper than the despair and higher than the highs - and what you have is a soul that needs embracing, a mind that needs cradling and a heart that needs to beat its beat without condemnation.

Some weeks ago, I was at the marshes with just darkness on my mind. I was rushing to the depths. Yet now I float and I rise. The earth is the same yet I see with new eyes. I have learned that the world does not change. All that alters is the way we choose to see it.

I am not a schizophrenic.

I am a Hen Harrier.

And I’ll have no more of your injections if that’s ok.

Thank you.

As I walked up Station Road to The King’s Head, I strode in the footsteps of my heroes - the farmer, the wheelwright, the baker, the blacksmith, the watchmaker, the carrier, the shoemaker, the thatcher, the seawaller, the saddler, the miller and the labourer - all are heroes to me.

I tingled as I made my journey for it all began to come home to me. AS THE BIRD IS OF THE SKY, SO I AM OF THE EARTH. I have grown from it as a seedling and become part of this Tollesbury. The oak tree is my father as the yellow-horned poppy is my daughter. The little tern is my baby as the marsh is my soul. And there is but a vibrant
 
greeny green green churning through my throbbing veins.

I am no more a man than I am a schizophrenic. I live only in Tollesbury Time. And I will live in Tollesbury Time forever.

But if you just repeat the cycle, you go round and round yet unmoving like the spinning wheel of an upturned bicycle. So I stopped short of the pub and went instead into the corner shop. And moments later, I was on my way back home with eight cans of Scrumpy Jack and a bottle of Jack Daniels. I had looked deep into the earth and now it was time to confront those demons within myself - the two Jacks.

After tonight, I vowed as I walked the last few steps up to my front door, no more a drunk will I be.

No more a drunk will I be.

So I sat at my old wooden table, the drink lined up before me and surveyed the scene like Napoleon looking upon the landscape of Waterloo. And I knew not whether I would win the battle. Eight cans of Scrumpy and a bottle of Tennessee Whisky is a devious opposition indeed. But I had courage within me and a wife and a son ahead of me. What man could not win a battle fought on those terms?

I wanted to feel every cut, examine every scar and experience each moment of my victory. This was my last big drink and I demanded of myself to know why I had fought such a battle almost every day of my adult life. But don’t get me wrong. I am not physically dependant on the stuff. I have just needed it to survive. I won’t need a detox programme. I won’t even have a headache in the morning. For my mind will be full of angels.

I drank the first can. Nothing. It may as well have been water. I set it back from the rest, full now of nothing but stale air. A corpse only. The second followed soon after. I began to feel a stirring in the base of my neck and my breath was a little more audible. I was being attuned to my senses by the rotting apples in the cider. Sweetness rose innocent in my throat.

With the falling of the third can, a lightness entered my head, splashing open into my mind, illuminating the dark corners of my soul. If I could have awoken each morning of my life having consumed three cans of strong cider in my sleep, I swear my time on this earth would have been more tolerable. But that was the trick of the enemy. It sucks you in
on the second and kisses you with the third. Thereafter you are only ever its victim.