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The sky is torn across

     Why is it that the coldest days lend to us the warmest
nights? An ancient soil, scabbed with coppice, swollen and
mumped into hills, varicose rivers creeping randomly all
enveloped in downy cloud. Lying, staring at the mottled
indigo of night time shadows, waiting for the sky to clear and
then maybe catch a glimpse of the residue of a passing
heavenly body.

     The comet was passing close to our atmosphere this
cycle, not as close as in 1342, but the effects would be
spectacular, the astrophysicist had promised. A sky ablaze
with shooting stars. In order to get the best view it is
necessary to escape the artificial light of the city. Head for the
country, head for the hills.
     A year and a half ago a comet had appeared in the sky.
It was strange for a child who had stared fruitlessly for Halley
to see this smudged star, nearly a fixture for a fortnight.
Tonight however, there was to be no sighting of the weary
traveller, merely the dust, the shedding skin of an elderly
friend returning to find, different occupants in the old place.

     The boot of my car was littered with nearly empty cans
of de-icer, coats and bags of newspaper waiting to be
recycled. The sky was still overcast, but there were hopes that
it might clear in the early hours. Two fold away deckchairs
were dropped in, along with blankets, coats a pair of my dad's
old binoculars. A thermos of white coffee (for her) and
another of black (for me).
     "Is that everything?" I asked the multilayered Judith.
     "How about some snacks?" came the scarf muffled
reply.

     So we stopped at a petrol station and picked up some
kettle chips (really greasy crisps, made in Norwich, where I
was born) and a pack of chocolaty rolls. The attendant was
listening to the chart show on the radio, forty songs by forty
different boy-bands.
     It was my plan to head for the Clee hills, which short,
clear drive away. The car wound around each bend, struggling
up the steady inclines and reminding me how desperately it
needed servicing. The hedgerows rolled by in a blur,
punctuated occasionally by the silhouette of a Norman church,
stuck out in the countryside, which might witness one service
a month in which  two old ladies, the verger and the local
farmer sporadically worshipped.
     The clouds deep blue, swept like a vast canopy across
the sky. The wind might just clear it away in time for the
expectant masses to catch sight of the celestial fireworks. But
Judith was very quiet by my side. Her gentle breathing was
forming condensation on the rear window and I only banished
the fog from the windscreen by turning the heated air vents on
to full.
     "Looking forward to tonight?" I asked her.
     "I suppose so, I've never really spent much time
stargazing. My grandad had a telescope which he used to get
down from the loft and show me the moon. It was the only
damn thing big enough in the sky for him to aim at. You could
make out hundreds of little craters and plains, but if your eye
dipped just slightly, the whole view would disappear and if the
telescope was nudged I could take ages to align it again. I
think he really bought it to spy on the neighbours, but that was
even duller than the astronomy."
     "There is something intriguing about peering behind
closed doors, the hope that you might see something illicit, or
interesting. Maybe just find out if your daily routine is normal.
I've never seen that voyeurism film by Hitchcock,  Rear
Window', but I thought that it sounded fantastic."
     "The only thing he ever said was that the people
nearby seemed to make and drink an inordinate amount of tea.
One young man was a bit of a connoisseur it seems, had a
whole row of jars of different kinds of tea. Always Earl Grey
in the morning and Darjeeling before bed. Actually, I never
really thought about it, but telling you this it sounds as though
my grandpop was a bit of a perv. He was a sweet old man. I
promise."
     "I believe you, it's just the inquisitive human mind.
Some people set about finding out the order of DNA or the
physical laws which govern everything, and some, like your
grandad try to find out about people. He was an artist."
     "Well, no he was a sheet metal welder, but then again
I suppose that would qualify him these days."
     I nodded sagely and slowed down for a chevroned
corner. Judith moved her hands from her lap and gently
gripped the seat.

     The car park was empty and muddy from the light
drizzle of the day, sunken limestone crackled under the car
tyres. The little brick snack bar had shut some time earlier and
the only sound was the cold splutter of my car. I felt mildly
surprised, and mildly suspicious that there was no one else
here. Surely there would be other people in Worcestershire
with the same idea. But it seemed there were not. I turned off
the engine and the headlights and Judith left the car. A blast of
cold night air bit my face. I pulled the deckchairs and assorted
home comforts from the boot while Judith fell pensive once
more. The hill sloped tree draped behind and the city twinkled
like glitter dusted soil beneath us. I handed her the rucksack
and with a chair under each arm and a blanket across my neck
we started up the footpath. In the artificially illuminated city
it is so easy to forget the gentle glow of night. The soil was
soft underfoot and our shoes sank and slid in the mud. A
muted splash and a creeping damp cooled my right foot. We
reached the observation point and caught our breath for a
moment. This vantage point gave a 270 degree view, labelled
on brass plaques, but at night only a purple swathe of clouds
and silhouetted trees could be discerned amongst the
streetlights far below. Fifty yards further and we reached the
hilltop, the path was sandy and the wind had died down just
slightly. We set up the deckchairs, wrapped ourselves in layer
upon layer of blankets and waited, gazing at the sky.

     "I hope the clouds clear."
     "They better bloody had." Judith snapped, "This
seemed such a good idea in my warm, cosy front room. Pour
me a coffee."
     Handing her a plastic cupful of lukewarm white coffee,
the smell of which poisoned the fresh night air, I noticed that
she was frowning ever so slightly.

     Half an hour passed, the sound of cold coffee
splattering on the floor stirred me from my thoughts.
     "It's nice to do something different, isn't it?" I asked.
     "Maybe, if these clouds clear."
     "The weather forecast reckoned it'd start to move on
by two, so it's not long now."
     "That's over an HOUR away!" she cried. Then,
struggling to her feet, "I'm going for a walk!"

     I saw her walk away, into the speckled grey. Even the
darkest places here weren't black, just grainy, multicoloured,
like staring too closely at a television set. I lay back again and
gazed upwards. Was there a beautiful multitude of shooting
stars beyond that veil, or were the oft ignored stars just
pulsing away as they had done every night before? I felt a
strange mix of excitement, disappointment and impatience.
Why don't the damn clouds clear? Where the bloody hell had
Judith got to?

     "What the FUCK am I doing here?" came a call from
an indeterminate distance.
     I glanced around, and although it was Judith, I
couldn't see her, or tell where she'd shouted from.
     "I follow you around like some demented duckling
chasing it's mother! Do you think that being your stooge was
what I wanted from life? Ten years ago I had it all planned so
differently, I was going to have a job that I was good at and
cared about, I was going to get married, hell, one day I even
might have had kids. But what do I end up doing? I'm up a
bloody mountainside, listening to Mark sodding Sexton use
me as a sounding board for his bollocksy ideas, most of which,
I hate to tell you MEAN NOTHING AT ALL!"
     I saw a shadow, standing in the path, waving (a fist?)
at me. 
     "Judith." I exclaimed, astonished at the outburst. The
clouds scudded above me.
     "What?" she screamed, her voice reedy and weak,
dissipated, "What do you want from me, freak? You don't
want sex, although all our friends seem to think we've been at
it for years. You don't seem to want to do anything, go
anywhere with your life. What are you waiting for? All our
friends are coupled off, but I end up spending all my time with
you. I don't WANT you Mark, but then I don't suppose that
would bother you much. Why? Why don't YOU want me?"
     "Judith," I said, I could see her now, she wasn't
backing away but she seemed to be sobbing slightly. "What is
this all about?"
     "What are you waiting for, Mark? Who are you
waiting for? You spend your time pointlessly waiting for
nothing. I just want something to happen with my life, not
wind up standing on a hillside gazing at a foggy sky, waiting
for something that won't arrive or will be over before I see it."
     I touched her arm, it juddered as she sobbed.
     "I. . . I don't know." I confessed.
     "What nemesis pursues you?"
     "None. Well, none that I'm aware of."

     The sky had cleared and the temperature dropped, an
icy chill bit my toes.

     "I've got to do something, I know." she sighed, then
hiccupping again, "But what?"
     I hugged her gently, and not too familiarly.
     "I don't know, I don't know."

     As we walked back to the car there was a momentary
flash, arcing around the great plough there was a slender dash
of light. We both looked at each other and smiled, not
knowing to begin with whether it had happened or not.
     The meteor seemed an omen, a tiding of good news,
and maybe it was. In retrospect I believe it was a warning.


©1998 Mark Sexton