Monday 19 November 2007

My Mother telephoned today. I didn't take the call.

Yesterday afternoon, I sat down on the stairs for what I thought was only a moment. When I tried to get up, my legs wouldn't work. I had been sitting there for three hours.

Immediately after Ann's funeral, I went to France: a few weeks with just the dogs. Tomorrow, the three of us are going again. It sounds churlish, but I can't bear any more kindnesses. I can't understand why my friends aren't totally fed up with me.

Fuck all this.

I have an image of Ann from when she was learning to sail.

We were in a Wayfarer (a dinghy), when there was a sudden, vicious squall. Boats all around us were knocked down. We were slammed right over but, somehow, we didn't capsize. The wind ripped our hoods from our heads and boxed our ears, while the rain stabbed at our faces with a thousand, numbing botox needles. I shouted to Ann.

"We need to get to the shore!" She nodded her agreement. I watched as she fumbled with the tiller and mainsheet, her lips framing silent instructions to herself as her slitted eyes gauged angles.

"I think I'd better take the helm" I yelled, struggling to be heard above the cacophony of wind and cracking sail. Ann shook her head; once, emphatically.

"I can do it!" She responded, her voice failing to disguise her indignation at what she perceived to be my patronising suggestion. A second later, she had the little boat under control and was bringing her up into the wind, the bow swinging round to point at the distant clubhouse.

The Wayfarer heeled hard over and accelerated like a released gun dog.

I swore under my breath and quickly slid my feet under the toe straps, leaning out backwards over the side in an effort to balance the little craft. Ann hauled in on the mainsheet and we flashed past a straining motor cruiser, her lower decks bulging with sodden day-trippers. Ahead of us, choppy wave crests exploded in spume as the stem of the boat punched through them.

I swore again and leaned out further, my arms outstretched and the back of my head in the water. Recklessly yet deftly, Ann helmed the narrowest course between exhilarating speed and disasterous capsize.

We had covered perhaps half the distance back to the shore when, suddenly, I heard her scream.

Immediately, I raised my head and glanced to my right. Ann sat high above me, her body angled towards the bow and the wind. Her back was arched and her chest was thrust forward like an art deco figurine. Her hair and waterproof jacket streamed out behind her. Her cheeks glowed a vivid pink beneath the wind-whipped tear tracks which fled from the corners of her shining eyes. As I watched, she threw back her head and cried out again.

But this time, I knew it for what it was: a scream of sheer, elemental, joy.

There was a real, physical pain in the love that I felt for Ann in that moment.

And now... and now, that same pain is with me every moment of every day.

I have no pictures of Ann in a storm. Here she is on a boat though.


This will be my last Blog until I return from France. I don't have access to the internet there.

34 comments:

Hilda May said...

take care Philip while you are away...
rachel x

Kitty said...

I know you're not writing this blog for other people, but I also know it does touch and help other people.

Look after yourself and the dogs in France. 'See' you when you get back. :-) x

The Honourable Billy Blunt said...

Safe Journey.......

K x

Leanne said...

take care of yourself Philip, and thsoe lovely dogs.

Leanne x

Philip Sinclair said...

Thank you all. I shall take care.

P

Tracy x said...

my boy
take care
travel safe
speak soon
we all love you all
t x

Scimitar70 said...

And you will go sailing again dear friend with Ann ever beside you.

alice c said...

A safe journey to you.
Your friends will still be here when you return.

Katie twinkles said...

It is perfectly understandable and fine to express strong and disturbing emotions at a time like this and to expect to keep your friends too-who will be nice-because they are your friends. Who knows maybe some of them may even be good enough to mirror those strong emotions and normalise them sometimes!
staring into space, also normal, all very normal.
I think travelling's often good for helping to deal with huge lifechange.
Maybe it'll be good to just be with yourself and not your blog for a while.
I love France too. if you have time read my last post, a proud part of my heritage!

Go well, you are doing just fine. It's all fine except, of course that Ann is gone. Take Care

Aqeela said...

Hope you enjoy france Philip, and give the dogs a kiss from us all too!

françoise said...

Philip,
Prends bien soin de toi.

Anonymous said...

Be safe,thought's with you, Ripley and Hudson.x
Tracy's Mum.x

trash said...

travel safe.

Minnie said...

Let it rip, flower:O)))) x

Ali said...

I Learned to sail in a Wayfarer and I know exactly what you are describing (the sailing joy, not the rest).

Travel safely.

Unknown said...

Hope you and the dogs hve a good rest, and come back when you feel able

Jane said...

Hope your visit to France goes well, a la prochain fois Jane x

Cowboys and Custard Mercantile said...

Heartbreaking.

teacakebiscuit said...

Enjoy la france! Please eat a croissant (or several) for me- they always taste better over there :)

Cowboys and Custard Mercantile said...

sorry Philip.. I didn't mean to just write one word in my previous comment.. it was an immediate and honest reaction to your beautiful and tragic tribute to Ann.
Words cannot do justice to how I feel about your loss..
I am sorry is all I can say for now..
Michelex

Donna said...

Sometimes, there's just nothing to say...bless your heart. Lots of light coming your way.

Aqeela said...

Are you back yet Phillip?

Tracy x said...

just to let you know that Philip is still in France x
tracy x

Kitty said...

I was thinking of Philip today, so just wandered by to see if he was back from France. Thanks for the update Tracy. :-) x

MaMa said...

Hope you're alright Philip. I miss reading your blog.

Vee said...

I keep hoping...

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Anonymous said...

Wherever you are, Philip, this is a time to endure. Tomorrow the nights begin to shorten, and, cliché though it may sound, your darkness, too, will imperceptibly lift. Some waking moments will be, if not happy, then not miserable either. Your life will take form again, your mind will become engaged in in new thoughts, new tasks giving you short respite from grief.

Since you may still be in France, I'll give you the words of Albert Camus, "In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer." My thoughts are with you in the midst of your winter.

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Vintage to Victorian said...

Thinking of you, Philip, as we approach Christmas, and hoping when you return to the UK you will be able to return to your blog.
Sue x

Katie twinkles said...

Hi Philip

Hoping that you are managing to stay bouyant like the wayfarer and that Christmas will be not too unbearable.
Francoise puts it best anyway.

Look after yourself x

Leanne said...

I too came in to offer some yuletide wishes to you, wherever you are. I wish for you the very best christmas yuo can have under the circumstances, and hope that the coming new year will bring you some peace too.

All the people who leave comments here care about you Philip.It doesnt matter that none of us have met. may that care invisibly wrap around you now, and help you through,

In love and light, Leanne x

Kitty said...

Hi Philip - I just dropped in to say 'Merry Christmas' and to let you know you are in my thoughts this Christmas time.

A day at a time ... you will get there.

Take care of yourself :-) x