The Horse without a Tongue.

I had agreed to meet Stef in town, and it seemed then like I would remember every step of the way, as I crossed the open market place. Every weak and heavy step, every kick of that invisible boot behind my knees. I wished I could be just a little less conscious. I wished I could faint in the spotlight of the midday sun.
It was Thursday and the stalls were open. I found a space among the crowds and sat down under the statue of the horse with no tongue. I clutched my bag to my chest for protection. My feet and knees were together, my back straight. I aimed a fixed at stare at… well, at nothing.
In a film or a totally made-up story Stef would have appeared immediately and we would have hugged and cried and gone to Caffe Nero’s. Either that or some other catastrophe would have sprung up in our path and I would have to be brave and saintly, putting my own troubles to one side in order to resuscitate Stef’s baby brother or something. Neither of those things happened of course, firstly because - overwhelming as it may all have seemed at the time - my life is not interesting enough to be a film. And more importantly because Stef could not possibly have a baby brother, her mother being sixty-six at the time. What did happen was as boringly stressful, unexpectedly bizarre, and unpredictable as anything else in life.
But first came the waiting.
As I waited I was aware of people around me; kids in school uniform with sherbert fountains or bags of chips or chewy things. They came out in swarms on their lunch hour; the rolled up skirts and loosened ties, the laughing and chatting and snogging. The sun was out. Students were sitting on benches with open files, or with closed files. Old with men with their pipes sat and soaked up the sun. I noticed a lot of people sitting on their own waiting for someone. If you watch them like I do you’ll notice that people on their own always pay a lot of attention to their mobile phones. I think it’s because they don’t want people to think they have no friends. I watched them then, and couldn’t believe that I was even thinking such things. I closed my eyes and longed for blackness. What I got was that bright orange that comes from closing your eyes in the sun.
Somewhere on the bridge a busker I knew called Paul was playing something by Andrew Lloyd Webber on a kind of harp, and the music spread out like water ripples through the market. I opened my eyes and familiar faces drifted past me; me saying hello and smiling at them from some place under water. I don’t know what was in my head. I think I was thinking how I would tell my friend Charlie that I wouldn’t make it to her birthday party.
Or maybe I should go to take my mind off things.
I quite fancied going out drinking.
Bad idea
I touched the hard bench beneath me, reminding me that the world was still solid. Held onto it. For once the wood was dry and the sun was brilliant. I looked up at the perfectly cloudless, thirstily-blue sky and words came into my head. I felt them form there, solidify in their curly shapes like molten wax dropped into water. There’s a tumour in the sky today, they said, there’s a tumour in my afternoon. It’s bleeding poison into the air, feeding it into every blade of grass. It’s turning light into sickly chemicals. It smells of bile. A tumour.
I held onto my phone and bag. Blackness is seeping into this afternoon’s blood and lymph. Black as the inky circles floating in the corner of my eye. Black as oil on feathers. Suffocating. There’s a swollen rain cloud no one else can see. It’s blocking everything else out, filling every space. It won’t let me think of anything but that. Anything but the tumour in the sky – there’s a tumour in the sky
I gripped the bench. The sun shone on.
The Tumour in the sky.


Flowers

I’ve no idea how long I sat there but I know it was a long time. I sat upright like that, looking ahead, praying for Stef to come along. Bless her, she’s wonderful person and a loving friend, but she’s not the best of timekeepers. So here I was, on that bench, under the horse trying not to hear the voice that whispered “abnormal growth. Abnormal growth”.
That and that tumour in the sky
After some time a man sat beside me. I was aware of his heavy presence and his smell of cigars and leather jacket. I was aware of a heat and solidness even though I didn’t quite acknowledge it. of course I paid no attention to him, but after a while I couldn’t help but notice the way he was beginning to inch his way closer to me.
Piss off, I thought Not today. But I could feel his body pressing up against mine. He was looking at my right side that didn’t have a tumour. He would change his mind if I turned around.
The man began clearing his throat, realising he would have to start getting less subtle. “It’s a beautiful day!” he said.
I had to look at him then. I turned and saw that he was dark-haired with strong features and a pitted complexion like lots of acne scars. He wasn’t bad looking – though at least twice my age – and I thought he might be Middle Eastern. I couldn’t be more specific than that. His accent was quite heavy. I’m surprised how much I can remember.
“Sorry?” I said trying to see through that black blockage. “What did you say?”
“It’s a beautiful day”, he repeated.
Beautiful day? What was beautiful about it? From a long way off I heard myself say dreamily “Yes it is, isn’t it”, and (amazingly!) “first time I’ve seen the sun this year!”
The man cleared his throat again. If you speak I’ll hit you, I thought. “And this is a beautiful city as well”.
“Yes it is”, I agreed. I think I smiled at him.
There was a pause.
“Do you live here?”
“I do,” But you needn’t think I’m giving you my address. And then because I felt guilty, I added “do you?”
“No,” the man said regretfully, “I live in the Newcastle.”
“Ah”.
“But it is such a big city, the Newcastle! You cannot really know people. The people there, they run around, they have no time, they are not kind. I am looking for a kind person.”
I heard you.
“A kind woman.”
Oh no, I thought, oh no you don’t. “Really?” I said mildly, nodding my head. “Well I’m sure you’ll find one.”
The next line was predictable. “I think you are a kind woman”, he said.
“Well I wouldn’t say that,” I told him with a little laugh. “You don’t know me do you?”
“But I can tell”, the man said knowingly. Triumphantly. Oh God, leave me alone! He nodded a few times for emphasis. “I can tell. You can look at a woman’s face and say ‘ah that is a kind woman’!”
I wondered if I should tell him what Mr Samuel had just told me at the clinic. I could tell him the whole thing, just pour it out. Why not? I had a feeling that if I did he wouldn’t be able to get away quick enough, and that suited me fine. But somehow I ended up saying “Thank you, that’s very nice of you”. Maybe those women up in Newcastle were unkind to him or had some stupid ignorant idea he was going make them stay at home and wear black. Maybe they were judgemental, maybe they didn’t like his spots. Maybe they were cruel and intolerant. Or he had been abused in some way.
There again, maybe he was just annoying.
“Do you have a mobile phone?”
Again I could have guessed this was coming. I briefly thought of saying that I didn’t, but you could be sure that if I tried that one it would start ringing the next minute. “I do…” I said slowly.
Already the man had got his own out. “Can I have your number?” he asked.
I had to be firm here, I told myself. No giving in like I usually did. If I couldn’t think of a decent excuse there was nothing wrong with just saying no because I felt like it. I had a perfect right. It wasn’t unreasonable was it? Remember Peter from the prison, Anna! And what about the “Ancient Egyptian” and his “English grammar lessons”? Always a big mistake. This is not a time in your life when you can be doing with any of that nonsense. Cautiously I said “would it be okay if I took yours instead?”
He looked disappointed and began to say something. “I’ll call you later on in the day,” I cut in. “It’s just that I’m in quite a hurry at the moment. I have to meet a friend.” (Where the hell are you, Stef?…) “I’ll call. Promise!”
He couldn’t really argue with that. Not reasonably anyway. “Well…” he began reluctantly. I wasn’t going to say anything to help him out. I wasn’t going to change my mind. I sat silently with my phone at the ready, eyes scanning the crowd for Stef.
“Okay,” he said eventually, realising this was the best he was going to get. He gave me his number. I put it in so he could see me pressing the numbers, and saved it under “man on the bench”. It’s still there in my phone book. Maybe I’ll ring him up someday for a laugh. Remember me…?
“Thank you,” I said, “I’ll call”.
Then suddenly I saw her. Stef! At last! Standing right across the square outside Woolworths. I stood up abruptly saying “I have to go”.
Maybe he said something, maybe he didn’t – I wasn’t listening any more. I waved frantically at Stef and started moving. I didn’t look back. I ran across the market place as she turned and caught sight of me. Her arms opened. She was holding some kind of branch covered with big white blossoms, which she held out awkwardly as I ran into her embrace and squeezed my arms round her neck. Twigs poked into my boobs; fragrant, lush, wide-open petals tickled face. And Stef had her arms around me. She held me there, the branch poking both of us, my head against her shoulder. I didn’t cry; this was way too scary to cry.