A Shadow in Yucatan (8 page)

Two days have
been walked with a sandal step, lighter for inconsequence and the
competent salad of hands.

Busy enough to
free the mind to turn turtle in the wind.

The wind was
unexpected, gusty and fresh off the sea, following her puppy skirt,
sneezing, with overlarge feet.

The crossbred
runt of a pedigree, remote in the frame of time, fickle precocious
companion, joyfully reprieved from grief, to snout papers up the
street.

It may come
alright in the end.

*****

Solitude is the
centre of sane, in a circle of meaninglessness.
Activity transcribes an arc, that returns to itself when spent.

Alone I can move
without shifting
Alone I can see and stay blind
Alone I can float paper boats down the tramways of cataract
mind.

Only talk, and the
flick-knife question
the nailed boot, and sprayed shot of converse
leaves me insensate, raw, and pleading for a word to end all
words.

I must learn to wait
for the water. I must free my ear to vibrate.
I must accompany with moistened tongue, the voices of time and
space.

But do not ask me to
talk to the people, for I cannot discern what they say.

On the third day, quick as a fox,
came a woman in a brush of wind.
Soft-spoken and expensive, the scarf that fell to the floor was
silk, and she recovered it, before she perched near the door.

She was
directed soon to Stephanie, relieved by her air of haste.
She would not want trivial talk, and that was a relief.

Familiar from a
distance, but more composed than before...
She looked...well, neater?...economical? It was hard to
say...
Her crows-feet deepened when she smiled.
Younger, half-ironic?

No, more like
half amused.

Stephanie tied
the gingham cape, and gently sat her back.

The hazel eyes
in the mirror observed as she tidied the crown with the tail of a
comb, before voicing a plea, with a click of deprecation and a part
apology...

‘
I don’t have too
much time, I’m afraid, so could you just wet and trim it, and leave
it to blow dry...It more or-less takes care of itself, and there’s
a good strong breeze outside.’

Stephanie
followed the arc of the natural curl, by letting it fall from the
comb.
Without further fuss rotated the chair, commenced to balance hot
and cold, and deftly used the shower.

The pointed
shears tapered the hair down to the nape and the cheek. Spicules of
the glossy cap fell steadily and thick.

Fingers sifted
a good loose scalp...

A palm pressed
the neck into flex so the unswerving eyes in the mirror were
extinguished in their sockets by the angle of the brow....

‘
It’s sometime since
you’ve had it cut; the ends are starting to split...’

‘
Yes, I’ve been so
caught up with the baby...I just haven’t had a chance to venture
out, to work upon myself.’

Stephanie
slowed but continued, forcing herself to speak,

‘
They always say a
baby plays havoc with your hair...still you wouldn’t have it
otherwise...and I guess having him compensates.’

The woman at
these simple words suddenly seemed to expand, her thin shoulders
that had sat four-square, melted into her lap.

‘
Oh he’s a perfect
angel, no real trouble at all...only he’s asleep all day, and far
too cheerful at night...Say would you like to see him? He’s in his
carriage outside. I try so hard not to be the proud mom...but I
need the smallest excuse...’

‘
I don’t think I
should step outside. I haven’t been back long...’

‘
Oh pay no heed to
Renee, I’ve known her quite a while...Anyway I’ll bring him
in...don’t worry now, you’ve finished...I reckon that’ll
do...’

Already she’d
leant forward and was fiddling with bows.

Stephanie bent
over to retrieve an irrelevant pin, straightened up decisively, and
finished dusting the neck...
She untied the apron, swung the chair, taking two steps back...

‘
I’d love to see
your baby’

‘
Good, I’ll go fetch
him’

Still she hung
like a marionette, suspended from a hook. No matter how she
struggled she could not touch the ground...
while all around swum silent fish, on the other side of glass.

Mrs. Armstrong
retreated, in a slim brown summer suit.
Her ankles were pared to articulate bones, her feet cherished in
calf.
She bent for a word with Renee, who nodded, and then smiled... Laid
her leather purse upon the desk, and disappeared outside.

The door swung
to behind a crisply pleated skirt.

*****

She returned a
second later, with a sari of a shawl in the heart of which was a
lily rose, leafed in finely spun lace...

In spite of
confusion and panic, Stephanie gazed at the face, as smooth as a
Flemish virgin, cool as the skin of a grape.
It had flushed on a winter of strawberries, and woken out of
sleep...

It drew her
like a truth in the night, and her feet into slow approach.

Renée bobbed
and clattered

Idle girls all
shuffled round

‘
Oh isn’t he jus
darling!’

‘
Ah really think
he’s cute’

‘
Say, he has the
littlest ears...’

Mrs. Armstrong
turned to Stephanie

‘
Well tell us what
you think?’

‘
I think he’s very
beautiful
...’ a small hand gripped her thumb,
’what name
have you called him?’

‘
Well his name is
Christopher...but that wasn’t up to us...that’s what his mother had
him called...we adopted him you see...
But you’re my precious darling, aren’t you my sweetie?
She must have been a wonderful girl, you can see that he’s been
loved...she even wrote a letter... Wait, I have it in my
purse...say, could you hold him a minute?’

She raised her
cradle shoulder and dropped the child into his mother’s waiting
arms.

*****

His glance was
calm, uncurious.
He perused the new found face.
His pagoda gaze was a sage of sky, reflecting ancient pools,
encompassing all, and un-perplexed.
He stilled bewilderment.

She, spiralling
larks, and a hover of hawk, sank down upon a chair...

Christopher lay
like a frond of green fern, across her lap of light, gripped her
finger tighter, and paddled both his legs.

Nobody noticed
the mother and child, communing and entranced.
Nor how reverently she stroked his cheek, and softly kissed his
brow.

They were held
in the palm of an upraised hand in a circle of blessedness,
alone in a triptych of frescoed gilt...

While the
letter was passed round.

Bandied for
curious scrutiny, and a passage read aloud.

Stephanie
flowed with infinite love which infused the golden child, who
gently turned against her breast, and seemed to fall asleep, his
long dark lashes feathering a curved and peerless cheek.

His breathing
rose and filled her need...
She touched his blossom hand that had caught a minute finger
through a hole in the spider’s web.
His matchless peace invaded her.

She knew that
they were one.

Mrs. Armstrong
paid her bill, and suddenly looked round, disconcerted by the
stillness of her son, asleep in the lap of a child.
Still as milk in the shadowed churn of the closing apricot day, the
simple gingham overall evoked a nursery rhyme...

The goose-girl
settled in feathers, by a barn, in the day’s half light...
Her bare feet streaked with new cut grass,
her arms across sleek white backs...
Try as she might to suppress it, the image held her eye.

She clipped her
purse decisively, threw words in mock alarm,

‘Well it’s no use falling
asleep young man. It’s time to take you home
...’

Stephanie
stood, and without lifting her eyes from his face, said

‘
There’s no need to
disturb him. I’ll carry him outside.’

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About The Author.

Philippa's many
lives read like fantasy fiction. Born in South Africa in 1941,
fatherless before the age of two, she experienced the wildest parts
of rural Africa in the care of her grandfather, on safari for weeks
inspecting rural African schools with a cook, a tracker and a
folding table. The other extreme was imprisonment in boarding
schools studying the Metaphysical poets, Theology and the English
Monarchy, and always hungry Related to Elizabeth Barrett Browning,
it is perhaps not surprising that she should arrived at a poetic
narrative for vivid economy and travelling light.

The 'leitmotif'
of her writing is a celebration of the individual, often eccentric,
always out of the mainstream

She has lived
on (culturally) deserted islands in the Indian Ocean, fishing for
supper; at the Max Planck Institute in Bavaria; lectured to mature
University students; designed buildings; single handedly built her
home, an arts centre and concert hall; raised four daughters, and
failed to master the cello. Always reading and writing first.

She lives in
Somerset in her converted barns with an old collie and a
long-suffering husband.

She would be
delighted to hear from readers through her website
http://involution-odyssey.com
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