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A gentle knocking echoed from the hallway and into the sitting room. Tom lay stretched out on the couch with his hands casually linked together behind a head propped up by some fluffy, cloud-coloured cushions. The curtains in the room were not fully drawn, so shafts of morning sunlight pierced through the gaps where the faded fabrics didn’t quite meet. Illuminating the shabbily decorated interior quite well. An idle notion struck him as the din of the door knuckling ebbed away. It was the day of the vernal equinox.
A day balanced perfectly between sun and shadow.
The radiance slipping through the window along with the recent noise emanating from his front-door - threatened the tranquility of Tom’s dreamily constructed visions of the future. A near-time, he hoped, filled with Midsommar nights dreams sourced from the book of love. A most interesting book, he thought. Yet, as songwriter Peter Gabriel noted, one where the most profound learnings about transcendental love were curiously stored alongside wisdom quite spectacularly dumb. Page for page. One needed to be fathomlessly deep and transparently shallow to fall properly in love, Tom concluded. A state of being not easily accomplished in one life-time, Or, perhaps many, he feared.
A drop of water fell to the floor from the far-edge of a crack in the magnolia tinted ceiling. He had a leak somewhere. Indeed, people gossiped that he had many. Another droplet fell and then another. Still, though, he returned focus to the long, thin fissure in the plasterboard and one he had been meditating on for the previous fifteen minutes. That was, of course, until he registered the harsh invasion of sound marching into his defenceless kingdom of quiet. Tom didn’t immediately move from his position on the sofa at the arrival of the knocking but instead waited to hear if the first stanza of audible vibrations might be followed up by a second verse.
While he waited he slung out a lazy arm towards the coffee-table and reached for his cigarettes, a sign his peace was disturbed but, perhaps, not fatally so. He lit one and inhaled the sweet toxins. Shards of light stencilled a facial silhouette into the floorboard shadows. His senses doubted the sun-tipped brushstrokes were painting the portrait of his post-man. Tom cursed silently under his breathe but cheered himself up slightly by noting he was wearing different coloured socks again. He circled his lips and blew a lonely smoke ring towards the crack-line above his head before resignedly swinging his hips and feet towards the ground. A second, stronger, rapping rode a wave into his ears-drums at which point he gingerly lifted himself off the sofa to meet whatever troubles were coming his way.
He opened the front-door to find an attractive, elegantly dressed woman’s quizzical eyes greeting him. She was tall and lean and wore a figure-hugging grey woollen dress. A charcoal scarf stylishly encircled her neck. She wore no coat and Tom wondered if it was because she didn’t feel the cold. He invited her in without preamble. As much to avoid any stench breezing in from the industrial nettle factory as anything else. Or at least that’s the record he played in his head. She looked good if a little tired. The same as in other times and other places, he felt. Her fragrant scent was immediately recognisable to him and confirmed his pleasant suspicions. A unique aroma of mixed berries, her calling card through the ages.
Dark, wavy hair fell from her crown neatly and settled comfortably on her shoulders. The paper-thin lines etched across her forehead indicated a woman who cared enough but not too much about people in general and her appearance in particular. All told, the lines added to her beauty, Tom decided.
Finally, he recorded that the light footprint of crows feet tracing around her emerald eyes were inked with a mixture of kindness and sadness but offset, a little, by a steeliness locked into her angular jaw line. Altogether, an enchanting blend of features. Seizing back control of his wandering mind Tom wondered if she might be one of those seductive nettle-doctors in this world or something even worse. Not that he could think of anything worse at that moment, mind you. Objectively, though, the full vista painted a picture of a balanced, alluring Irish woman standing on the door-step of a mightily unhinged Irishman. One wearing oddly coloured socks and not quite sure if his boxer shorts were on his person or hanging from a bannister upstairs. He seemed familiar to her too, and as he ushered her into the kitchen she puzzled if she might have recognised him from an earlier period of her life. Her mind played tricks on her in recent years and much of her old knowledge seemed blocked off to her now. Perhaps, they had met in an earlier life-time but she wasn’t quite sure. One in which he was the beauty and she was the beast.
“ I got the call today, I didn't wanna hear
But I knew that it would come
An old true friend of ours was talkin' on the phone
She said you found someone”
Heart of the Matter
Tom poured the tea and then sat opposite her at the kitchen table. The wooden table was adorned with the bare essentials. A jug of milk, a bowl of brown sugar, a tub of salt, a slab of butter, and a wooden chopping board with half a cake of brown bread encircled by its own breadcrumbs. The woman took a sip from her mug and seemed satisfied with its taste.
“ People say you’re a fierce scut of a man, Tom Rafferty “ she stated plainly and as a matter of undisputed fact.
The unexpectedness of her opening startled Tom first into a spontaneous fit of chortling. The choice of the word “scut “ seemed so odd yet also strangely reassuring. Especially, emerging as they did from the lips of so glamorous a woman. Hers was an accent West of Ireland in origin although Tom couldn’t quite place which county. The cumulative effect that rapidly manifested was one akin to receiving an unanticipated donkey-kick to the gut. But, instead of being left gasping for air, a burst of convulsive laughter trampolined out of the depths of his stomach and mixed in with the tea swirling down his throat. The two combined and briefly threatened to waterboard him to death. He hadn’t heard that word in over thirty years. A scut, a very Irish used word, and similar, in ways, to the more English utilized scoundrel. Similar but not the same. If a scoundrel had one or two more redeeming qualities he might pass muster as a scut, and Tom, to give him his due, did have the one or two.
“ If, I’m such a scut of a man why did you come knocking on my door, Mrs…Miss……"
“ Nora, you can call me Nora”
“ Okay, Nora, would you care tell me why exactly you are here? “ Tom replied.
His turn now for a little directness. Although, while his laughter had faded away his smile had not. Nora, considered the question for a moment. Considered whether or not she should trust the man across the table from her with her story. She didn’t have much choice, though. Nora looked at him again, now scratching his stubbled jaw while shoving a slice of buttered brown bread down his throat. The doubts in her mind magnified but his general relaxed energy magnetized her a little.
She deliberated and wondered if he understood people have public worlds and private worlds. A face they put on for the world and then a more tender visage reserved for close friends, family and occasional lovers. Norah’s dilemma, and a dilemma she feared she now shared with the nettled world at large, was related to this subject. Her private world was starting to react and speak to her in exactly the same way as her public world. Increasingly there was no comfort to be found in her private world any longer. But, there was another world beyond those two. A patch of land rarely spoken about. A man or woman’s secret jungle. This most savagely intimate playground revealed almost to no-one. Norah, worried that she might need to dip into this inner sanctum to proceed. Maybe dive into it with him.
“ Tom, I think the town’s memories are dying “ she began a little awkwardly.
Tom stopped chewing and slurping and risked glancing over into her eyes. Be careful, he warned himself. It was difficult for him to look into her eyes without getting sucked into her energy, or drawing her completely into his own. He suspected as much before he answered the door and now his fears were confirmed. Strong, vulnerable, ancient and personal memories were locked in her aura, and his too, and not just worries of a town losing its connection with the past. In addition to, perhaps, the loss of its soul. Yet, he revealed none of these concerns when he opened his mouth and his parting lips began to move.
“ I know what you mean, or at least I think I do “ he replied gently.
“ I did everything I was told. Everything. But I’ve no-one to talk to about any of this since Peter passed away. Peter’s my husband, I mean was my husband. He worked in the Nettle factory. But, I couldn’t even talk to him for a long time before he died, Tom “
Tom nodded his head slowly in reply but remained silent. Bí cúramach, he reminded himself once more. This time in the more powerful native tongue. She had more and so he waited. He held her eyes or she held his. He wasn’t quite sure.
“ People in the town say you still talk to people. Is that true? - First, I thought they just stopped talking to me because I’m a physician or because of Peter’s death and old job. But, sure it’s been a year now. But, I think everyone has stopped talking to one another as well and not just me. Have you noticed that? “
Sure how could anyone not notice it, Tom mused. Hushed thoughts littered every pavement and every street corner in the town, helplessly strewn on the ground unspoken and lifeless. He observed Nora closely for a few moments. Her energy flamed out a familiar raw honesty but a little naivety too. Probably, a good woman in this life-time but you could never tell for sure, on first impressions.
“ What did Peter do in the nettle factory, God rest him? “ Tom enquired although he knew the answer.
“ Well, he was a……..he was a……..“
“ A prick? “ Tom offered helpfully.
A flash of anger flared up in her eyes and Tom momentarily looked away a little ashamedly.
“ He was a scientist. Their chief scientist actually. How dare you call my husband a prick. He was a brilliant, brilliant man. Maybe you’re the prick, Tom “ she shot back hotly. Hot but not white hot, he noted, relieved a fraction.
Tom smiled and raised his open palms up in apology. He rose from his chair and then stepped over to the small kitchen island. He picked up a small jar of marmalade, placed it on the table, and sat down again. He switched back to her original question.
“ I have noticed the talking thing, Nora. How could any sane person not. But, I also noticed your husband was a chief prick in the prick factory. I suspect this concept, if not the word, has dawned on you before today. It’s important we find some common ground on this point, I think……Some marmalade? “
She was startled by his second iteration and use of the word and more so that her fiery reaction to its utterance had not unduly unnerved him. He uncapped the jar and placed it in front of her. Part testing the ground and part peace offering. Eventually, she picked up a knife and willed him to stare into her eyes. After a moment of doubt, Tom locked into her challenge and she placed down the knife.
“ How many stings of the nettle did the artist formerly known as the chief scientist of the nettle factory take himself, Nora? “
“ Six “
“ And you? ”
“ One “
“ Interesting, why only one? “
Nora, tried to hold his cool blue eyes but they began to thaw the burning fire of her own, little by little. Tom, detected a new uncertainty had crept into their energy and wondered what it meant. Nora, slowly began rolling up the right sleeve of her woollen dress. Her arm was consumed by an angry red rash.
“ Ah…..” he said quietly.
“ Ah, indeed “ she replied.
A balm of stillness fell lightly upon them both but their eyes remained locked in place on one another. Some gentle soft-heartedness and humour joined the energy.
“ And your brilliant husband kept wiping his arse with nettles after he observed this damage to you did he? “ Tom enquired while bobbing a finger up and down at the wound on her damaged arm. She nodded cautiously with a tight smile. His warming gaze held a soothing understanding and penetrated a little deeper. A tear welled in one of Nora’s eyes. She shook her head slowly and refused to allow it an exit to drop to the floor. He watched on in admiration at her strength.
“ Why don’t people say what’s really on their minds anymore? “ Nora asked.
“ Well, it started around the time you got that rash on your hand, Nora, didn’t it? “ Tom answered simply.
“ Did it, really? “
“ Yeah, I believe so. In a sense, I started to lose me right around the time when you started to lose you. It’s been the same the world over. I should have seen it coming. The nettle factory is where it all began, I think ” Tom sighed a long wearied sigh.
He drank in the look of confusion that passed over Nora’s face and tasted just a hint of bitterness. Good, he thought. Not too much and not too little.
“ and Peter was a prick who concocted nettles in the nettle factory? “
“ No, Nora. Peter was the stinging prick that made the dock-leaves “ Tom replied a little too testily. But Nora rose above it and ignored the inherent jibe.
“ How do we navigate out of here. Can we save the memories of the town “ she asked afraid to hope yet refusing not to.
“ Hmmmm. I don’t have many of the answers, Nora, I’m afraid. But it starts with forgiveness, I think. I’ve tried almost everything else. We somehow need to admit and then forgive ourselves for the things we have done to the town before we can apologise to one other. Then maybe the town and its memories can be rescued? “ he wondered aloud not quite sure of his own words.
He searched her pupils for a sign that she in any way resonated with the words he had just spoken. She did a little, he thought. She had always been a quicker learner than him. Silence, once more snugly descended around them like a comfort blanket. While Nora and Tom considered all the things they thought they once knew but needed to learn again about the world and the town around them.
To be continued………
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Lol.. I love this style of yours 😅.
Tantalising ..will they get into the heart to get to the heart of the matters of the heart ?
In part two Tom gets the plumber in to fix the leak while himself and Nora get it on together.
Great story don't have us waiting too long for part two, Does it end in love or tears lol.