Clean Walking
Short Story
When Petra broke her arm and couldn’t do the housework her students clubbed together to find her someone who could. To begin with Sula who wasn't Greek but preferred that name to Sue, kept straightening rugs laid diagonally across the floor to make them parallel with the skirting boards, then piled up scallop shells that had been specially positioned around the rim of the bath into a thoughtless heap.
After a while she got the hang of the striking impression made by the off-symmetrical angle of the golden-red Afghani rug and after scrubbing the enamel bath rearranged the shells to deck its edges with intimations of the sea. Then she got the hang of the whole house. Where previously she'd only completed half of the cleaning in three hours, now she did it in two, finishing with touches Petra liked. Not only that. They’d got to talking about places nearby with literary connections. Sula knew a lot about the landmarks Petra’d be visiting on the walk she was to lead which, despite long spells of heavy rain, wasn’t to be cancelled.
For when the darkness of seemingly permanent black clouds got replaced by spritely passing squalls edged with blue, the walkers seemed happy to give it a go. Between squalls would be sunshine they unanimously agreed and they’d brave the circuit following in the footsteps of many a luminary that would take them through the old town, along the cliff-top and down to the sea.
“Here”, Petra projected her voice and pointed to a large flint and brick building, “the artist John Constable dropped his children off at school and afterwards painted clouds.”
“Here lived the saint Eanswyth, founder of England's first nunnery, granddaughter of King Ethelbert who welcomed St Augustine to our shores”.
“Here the saint, whose suitor failed to rise to her challenge and lengthen a beam, performed a miracle herself causing a watercourse to flow uphill from a valley to this trickle of a fountain beside us”.
“Here over-looking the sky and silver-blue sea, ‘crisp wave-tops’ breaking and rolling towards him in a framed picture full with movement, Dickens sat writing of ‘dazzling gleams of silver far out at sea’, subtle changes of light flecking ships’ sails or streaking wakes of steamers”.
“And here she went on taking a deep breath while the plodding rain that’d turned into a squall still dribbled and pattered on walkers' umbrellas”, Beckett worked on Happy Days.
Suddenly there was a pause in the shower, ‘Intervention from the saint’ piped up one of the walkers. But Petra wet and cold, arm aching, thought of home. How warm and dry it would be there, how ordered and clean. But she’d lost Sula’s number. She’d have to find the invoice with her broomstick- in-a-washing-machine logo if she wanted to get her number and ask her to come round again. ‘I’m the witch whose broom goes into the washing machine so I can get a clean sweep’, Sula had said by way of explanation.
Petra had been nervous before the walk and now she was breathless. But soon it would be over. Soon, and she shuddered now to think of the carpets of Wilfred Owen’s hotel as thick as the mud in his trenches, they’d be at its finish on the beach.
As the pace and the laughter of the others quickened the group reached a stretch of promenade where the Lord of the Manor's men had policed the area for riff- raff. Petra made her usual joke: to avoid being mistaken for one they’d get away as quickly as possible, taking a zigzag path downwards, down to the frisky sea. One by one not falling like lemmings but flying like gulls with wings slotted securely into invisible thermals they plummeted it seemed over the edge of the cliff, gravity taking them down. They came to a spot half way down which Petra said could be idyllic when the sea was as still as a pond and thoughts were idle as the painted ship upon the painted ocean.
At the bottom Petra cleared her throat and projecting her voice again pointed to a writer’s quote etched in wood: “It was one of those clear bright days this town sees so much of, every colour incredibly bright and every outline hard”. An awed hush was followed by a guffaw or two from the men as they strained to look away, out across the gusty sea. Then the thirty odd walkers set off again thundering on down the last stage of the path like droplets from a cascade far bigger than Eanswyth’s fountain.
Into gardens landscaped between cliff and beach they landed as another squall loomed threateningly to one side of the sky. A small girl ran into them from the trees, then away towards a woman hiding behind a trunk. Landing her a slap on the leg she circled round and caught her mother who was so transfixed by the drama of themselves centre stage, she didn’t notice their audience, the walkers who had come to a halt, grateful to be distracted. “What a coincidence” said Petra recognising the woman now looking up to be Sula. Everyone laughed just for the sake of it, not knowing when Sula and Petra exchanged phone numbers, what their connection was, then tumbled down through tamarisk and eucalyptus trees, pouring like agile goats with firm footholds on to the wide and windy beach. Sula and her daughter waved goodbye and seeing Sula’s brightness Petra thought again with a laugh of her broomstick.
Breathless and taken aback by the fresh and open newness of the littoral, a rainbow arched over a squally black cloud and seemed to reach right down behind the harbour hotel. Seeing an opportunity for an impromptu joke as unpredictable as any rainbow Petra said the hotel must be where Dorothy was staying. Only one person laughed for suddenly as if from nowhere but the bosky copse, a man with a hump appeared expectantly before them.
Petra acknowledged him but continued with second wind to explain that the landscaped woody area they’d just tumbled through like waterfalls and streams to the sea had once been the ‘half-domesticated wilderness’ of a writer called Brooke. The pleased looking hunchback, newly identified by one of the group as Sula’s uncle, came towards them. Petra shrank a little. If the group would excuse him he said as if referring to the chip on his shoulder, he’d like to tell them about the correspondence Seigfried Sassoon, whose extended family had property nearby, had received from Wilfred Owen. Though this beach was Petra’s piece de resistance, she was still distracted by the unexpected conjunction of her literary group with the cleaner, even a poet’s with happiness, and let the man go ahead to deliver the last bombshell for that walk.
Wilfred Owen had been treated for shell shock but was passing through the town for a second time before crossing the waters again to the front, he told them. Sassoon had received a letter from him saying he’d come to this beach because he wanted to enter fully into the spirit of misery that Shelley had portrayed in Dejection. But he wasn’t able to. A serenity Shelley never dreamed of crowned him here. The sun had shone 'too supreme' and he'd been far too happy. But two months later on Armistice Day Owen’s parents got the news that he had been killed.
If the group was speechless the seas still chucked and the stooped man now standing upright had unfurled as if he’d never been bent in the first place - unless like the fragile flinching spectrum of the rainbow - which, though vanished, had given the walkers and Petra now heading off in different directions home to escape the new threat of rain, a moment when the winning word or a wipe and a wash could banish that unspeakable chaos, the horror of the trenches’ imprint on the mind.
Short Story
When Petra broke her arm and couldn’t do the housework her students clubbed together to find her someone who could. To begin with Sula who wasn't Greek but preferred that name to Sue, kept straightening rugs laid diagonally across the floor to make them parallel with the skirting boards, then piled up scallop shells that had been specially positioned around the rim of the bath into a thoughtless heap.
After a while she got the hang of the striking impression made by the off-symmetrical angle of the golden-red Afghani rug and after scrubbing the enamel bath rearranged the shells to deck its edges with intimations of the sea. Then she got the hang of the whole house. Where previously she'd only completed half of the cleaning in three hours, now she did it in two, finishing with touches Petra liked. Not only that. They’d got to talking about places nearby with literary connections. Sula knew a lot about the landmarks Petra’d be visiting on the walk she was to lead which, despite long spells of heavy rain, wasn’t to be cancelled.
For when the darkness of seemingly permanent black clouds got replaced by spritely passing squalls edged with blue, the walkers seemed happy to give it a go. Between squalls would be sunshine they unanimously agreed and they’d brave the circuit following in the footsteps of many a luminary that would take them through the old town, along the cliff-top and down to the sea.
“Here”, Petra projected her voice and pointed to a large flint and brick building, “the artist John Constable dropped his children off at school and afterwards painted clouds.”
“Here lived the saint Eanswyth, founder of England's first nunnery, granddaughter of King Ethelbert who welcomed St Augustine to our shores”.
“Here the saint, whose suitor failed to rise to her challenge and lengthen a beam, performed a miracle herself causing a watercourse to flow uphill from a valley to this trickle of a fountain beside us”.
“Here over-looking the sky and silver-blue sea, ‘crisp wave-tops’ breaking and rolling towards him in a framed picture full with movement, Dickens sat writing of ‘dazzling gleams of silver far out at sea’, subtle changes of light flecking ships’ sails or streaking wakes of steamers”.
“And here she went on taking a deep breath while the plodding rain that’d turned into a squall still dribbled and pattered on walkers' umbrellas”, Beckett worked on Happy Days.
Suddenly there was a pause in the shower, ‘Intervention from the saint’ piped up one of the walkers. But Petra wet and cold, arm aching, thought of home. How warm and dry it would be there, how ordered and clean. But she’d lost Sula’s number. She’d have to find the invoice with her broomstick- in-a-washing-machine logo if she wanted to get her number and ask her to come round again. ‘I’m the witch whose broom goes into the washing machine so I can get a clean sweep’, Sula had said by way of explanation.
Petra had been nervous before the walk and now she was breathless. But soon it would be over. Soon, and she shuddered now to think of the carpets of Wilfred Owen’s hotel as thick as the mud in his trenches, they’d be at its finish on the beach.
As the pace and the laughter of the others quickened the group reached a stretch of promenade where the Lord of the Manor's men had policed the area for riff- raff. Petra made her usual joke: to avoid being mistaken for one they’d get away as quickly as possible, taking a zigzag path downwards, down to the frisky sea. One by one not falling like lemmings but flying like gulls with wings slotted securely into invisible thermals they plummeted it seemed over the edge of the cliff, gravity taking them down. They came to a spot half way down which Petra said could be idyllic when the sea was as still as a pond and thoughts were idle as the painted ship upon the painted ocean.
At the bottom Petra cleared her throat and projecting her voice again pointed to a writer’s quote etched in wood: “It was one of those clear bright days this town sees so much of, every colour incredibly bright and every outline hard”. An awed hush was followed by a guffaw or two from the men as they strained to look away, out across the gusty sea. Then the thirty odd walkers set off again thundering on down the last stage of the path like droplets from a cascade far bigger than Eanswyth’s fountain.
Into gardens landscaped between cliff and beach they landed as another squall loomed threateningly to one side of the sky. A small girl ran into them from the trees, then away towards a woman hiding behind a trunk. Landing her a slap on the leg she circled round and caught her mother who was so transfixed by the drama of themselves centre stage, she didn’t notice their audience, the walkers who had come to a halt, grateful to be distracted. “What a coincidence” said Petra recognising the woman now looking up to be Sula. Everyone laughed just for the sake of it, not knowing when Sula and Petra exchanged phone numbers, what their connection was, then tumbled down through tamarisk and eucalyptus trees, pouring like agile goats with firm footholds on to the wide and windy beach. Sula and her daughter waved goodbye and seeing Sula’s brightness Petra thought again with a laugh of her broomstick.
Breathless and taken aback by the fresh and open newness of the littoral, a rainbow arched over a squally black cloud and seemed to reach right down behind the harbour hotel. Seeing an opportunity for an impromptu joke as unpredictable as any rainbow Petra said the hotel must be where Dorothy was staying. Only one person laughed for suddenly as if from nowhere but the bosky copse, a man with a hump appeared expectantly before them.
Petra acknowledged him but continued with second wind to explain that the landscaped woody area they’d just tumbled through like waterfalls and streams to the sea had once been the ‘half-domesticated wilderness’ of a writer called Brooke. The pleased looking hunchback, newly identified by one of the group as Sula’s uncle, came towards them. Petra shrank a little. If the group would excuse him he said as if referring to the chip on his shoulder, he’d like to tell them about the correspondence Seigfried Sassoon, whose extended family had property nearby, had received from Wilfred Owen. Though this beach was Petra’s piece de resistance, she was still distracted by the unexpected conjunction of her literary group with the cleaner, even a poet’s with happiness, and let the man go ahead to deliver the last bombshell for that walk.
Wilfred Owen had been treated for shell shock but was passing through the town for a second time before crossing the waters again to the front, he told them. Sassoon had received a letter from him saying he’d come to this beach because he wanted to enter fully into the spirit of misery that Shelley had portrayed in Dejection. But he wasn’t able to. A serenity Shelley never dreamed of crowned him here. The sun had shone 'too supreme' and he'd been far too happy. But two months later on Armistice Day Owen’s parents got the news that he had been killed.
If the group was speechless the seas still chucked and the stooped man now standing upright had unfurled as if he’d never been bent in the first place - unless like the fragile flinching spectrum of the rainbow - which, though vanished, had given the walkers and Petra now heading off in different directions home to escape the new threat of rain, a moment when the winning word or a wipe and a wash could banish that unspeakable chaos, the horror of the trenches’ imprint on the mind.