21/11/08
I headed for home when I began to feel the sun sink. The walk is colder and longer after dark. I dragged my feet to avoid more argument and hurried to put things right.
B. was already in the kitchen cooking away and listening to some crazy jazz thing.
Another change in mood.
He was in his element - two houses explored and then revealed to me in gleeful detail. One spell-binding in the tacky nicknacks, stack of unwashed washing and cringeworthy items hidden under beds and in drawers. The other a tantalising store of treasures, from the delicatessent delights being prepared for tea, to the pile of records ready to provide the evening's entertainment.
His eyes shone and he laughed as he described his tours of the houses, room by room, cupboard, by cupboard, box, bag, tin. The moment he found the 'mint jazz' - original Sun-Ra vinyl, Miles Davies, John Coltrane, Cecil Taylor. The rather unfortunate underwear, he'd kindly left draped where he found it.
Against my better judgement I got drawn in, wishing I'd been there on this first exploration into the secret lives of local folk we only knew as faces.
The need to leave was forgotten as a world of infiltration opened its doors and beckoned us in.
Friday, 21 November 2008
Thursday, 20 November 2008
31. Loneliness
20/11/08
I'm in the barn, on my own. Since we found out it was just the two of us here, we've done everything together, worked together.
But today B. was determined to start looking through the houses and I just couldn't bring myself to do it, even though I know we have to, can't just keep waiting for something to happen. He was annoyed with me. Says I should wake up, realise things have changed, that I can't worry about the feelings of people who left us for dead sealed up in our house. Says they won't be back.
But what if they decide the area's clear, open it up again? We'll be looters, trespassers and no one will feel comfortable with us again.
B. laughs. Typical of me to think of niceties when our lives are at stake. I shout that we're alive and we've got food and we'll be out soon. He shouts back: I'm a fool; he's going to get us out. And slams the door.
And then I cry. And I feel so lonely - all the people that I miss crash around me. How are they? What are they doing? And I feel the ache they must feel, thinking that I'm dead. And I cry because they don't have to feel that and I can't tell them. I imagine flowers up against the wall, final messages that didn't need to be written. It's all so stupid and I'm powerless.
But B. will get us out. He's not going to sit here like me. He's going to find something to help us. He's going to find a way out.
So I pull myself round and do my part. Start the 10 minute walk to the farm.
I'm greeted by goats jumping up at the side of the pen, they make me feel less lonely although I know it's only food they want from me. They indulge me in my need to pat their warm necks. The chickens are already scratching around in their coop - a miracle recovery. We're going to have to find them somewhere bigger to live. They're beginning to look more like adult birds, I'm wondering how many will be hens. I'd love to get fresh eggs.
I always go to the cattle last. They're my favourites. I still worry every time that we'll have lost one, but they keep getting stronger. Now they stand I know we've two heifers and a young bull. Goodness knows what will happen when he grows up. But by then, he'll be back with people who know what they're doing.
I'm in the barn, on my own. Since we found out it was just the two of us here, we've done everything together, worked together.
But today B. was determined to start looking through the houses and I just couldn't bring myself to do it, even though I know we have to, can't just keep waiting for something to happen. He was annoyed with me. Says I should wake up, realise things have changed, that I can't worry about the feelings of people who left us for dead sealed up in our house. Says they won't be back.
But what if they decide the area's clear, open it up again? We'll be looters, trespassers and no one will feel comfortable with us again.
B. laughs. Typical of me to think of niceties when our lives are at stake. I shout that we're alive and we've got food and we'll be out soon. He shouts back: I'm a fool; he's going to get us out. And slams the door.
And then I cry. And I feel so lonely - all the people that I miss crash around me. How are they? What are they doing? And I feel the ache they must feel, thinking that I'm dead. And I cry because they don't have to feel that and I can't tell them. I imagine flowers up against the wall, final messages that didn't need to be written. It's all so stupid and I'm powerless.
But B. will get us out. He's not going to sit here like me. He's going to find something to help us. He's going to find a way out.
So I pull myself round and do my part. Start the 10 minute walk to the farm.
I'm greeted by goats jumping up at the side of the pen, they make me feel less lonely although I know it's only food they want from me. They indulge me in my need to pat their warm necks. The chickens are already scratching around in their coop - a miracle recovery. We're going to have to find them somewhere bigger to live. They're beginning to look more like adult birds, I'm wondering how many will be hens. I'd love to get fresh eggs.
I always go to the cattle last. They're my favourites. I still worry every time that we'll have lost one, but they keep getting stronger. Now they stand I know we've two heifers and a young bull. Goodness knows what will happen when he grows up. But by then, he'll be back with people who know what they're doing.
30. Facing Facts, Hiding Truths
20/11/08
We hit another low yesterday, but we had to fight it. Facing facts, if we don't make them know we're here, then the inside of this wall is all we've got and the world is closed to us - no rivers, no mountains, no sea, no cities; no families, no friends, no neighbours. I won't go on, I can already feel the panic rising, the tightness in my chest.
No, we have to stay positive, to act. If we collapse, so do our chances of leaving.
So we pulled ourselves up, made each other focus, took it in turns to be strong. We planned. Each time a new consequence, problem, obstacle hit one of us, knocking us to despair, the other stayed calm, had a solution, helped the other back to standing.
We agreed. They must have had to clear an area around the wall. Must have to keep people away. To stop the infection they think is still here. So no one's there to hear us banging or notice the bell or pick up our notes. We need to think bigger. Start to search. Look for some kind of transmitter. Make the fire and sign we talked about. Get up high, find out what's on the other side, find out if we can get over.
We need to think about what we eat and what we're going to eat. No more snacking on what we fancy. Balanced meals. And we need to look for fresher foods. There must be vegetable gardens, fruit trees. We need to think ahead, be realisitic. We could be here another month and we need to stay healthy.
There's one more. But it's too enormous, too scary and it doesn't make sense. We're hiding it from ourselves. Keeping the focus on staying healthy and getting out. Hoping that getting out comes first.
We hit another low yesterday, but we had to fight it. Facing facts, if we don't make them know we're here, then the inside of this wall is all we've got and the world is closed to us - no rivers, no mountains, no sea, no cities; no families, no friends, no neighbours. I won't go on, I can already feel the panic rising, the tightness in my chest.
No, we have to stay positive, to act. If we collapse, so do our chances of leaving.
So we pulled ourselves up, made each other focus, took it in turns to be strong. We planned. Each time a new consequence, problem, obstacle hit one of us, knocking us to despair, the other stayed calm, had a solution, helped the other back to standing.
We agreed. They must have had to clear an area around the wall. Must have to keep people away. To stop the infection they think is still here. So no one's there to hear us banging or notice the bell or pick up our notes. We need to think bigger. Start to search. Look for some kind of transmitter. Make the fire and sign we talked about. Get up high, find out what's on the other side, find out if we can get over.
We need to think about what we eat and what we're going to eat. No more snacking on what we fancy. Balanced meals. And we need to look for fresher foods. There must be vegetable gardens, fruit trees. We need to think ahead, be realisitic. We could be here another month and we need to stay healthy.
There's one more. But it's too enormous, too scary and it doesn't make sense. We're hiding it from ourselves. Keeping the focus on staying healthy and getting out. Hoping that getting out comes first.
Wednesday, 19 November 2008
29. Perspective
19/11/08
This morning B. was awake first.
In fact he never slept.
He woke me up to talk to me.
Tried to break it gently - but you know when something bad is coming.
"You know it's been a week since we sent those first notes? I don't think anyone's going to come. Not because of the notes, or the banging or the bell. They'd have come by now. We've heard no helicopters, not one. We've got to face it. To get out, we've got to do more. And we can't just live one day at a time. We have to plan."
It came out in a rush. I know there was more in his head. What we should do. The enormity of being abandoned, completely.
But first I have to let this sink in.
No, admit what I've known all along.
Change my perspective again.
This morning B. was awake first.
In fact he never slept.
He woke me up to talk to me.
Tried to break it gently - but you know when something bad is coming.
"You know it's been a week since we sent those first notes? I don't think anyone's going to come. Not because of the notes, or the banging or the bell. They'd have come by now. We've heard no helicopters, not one. We've got to face it. To get out, we've got to do more. And we can't just live one day at a time. We have to plan."
It came out in a rush. I know there was more in his head. What we should do. The enormity of being abandoned, completely.
But first I have to let this sink in.
No, admit what I've known all along.
Change my perspective again.
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
28. Drop by Drop
18/11/08
B. and I have cared for sick animals before. A nestling robin brought in by one of the cats was given a warm nest in a bowl and took small worms from our fingers. It's 'peeping' woke us in the morning awoke us and filled us with parental warmth. A hedgehog picked up from where it sat dazed by the road ate dog food and the next day delighted us by trotting round the spare room.
By the end of their second days in our care they were dead.
So what hope for us of bringing 3 cows and 6 chickens back from the brink? Very little. Each time we've returned, we've approached with trepidation. Each time we're surprised to see 9 pairs of eyes still looking back.
The goats seem built for anything. That first day they gulped down the water we gave them and pushed each other out of the way to reach the food we threw in. We saw to them first. Easier than tending to the dying.
The chickens came next. We used pieces of straws as pipettes to drop, drop, drop water onto the side of each beak. The birds just blinked and let the water spill onto their feathers. But we continued. 3 drops for each. Guess work. Step by step, feel your way. We topped up the feeder with the grain and left them.
The cows. What do you do to save a starving cow? We went for water again, this time in the bottles left for the lambs. They were only small, perhaps they had been bottle fed too. As we stepped into the pen, they stirred, alarmed at the intrusion and heaved onto their knees. We froze. So did they. We made sounds, like seasoned farmers - sounds that come without you thinking. They stayed still. We took a step forward, then slowly inched toward them. At last we were close enough to touch. A tentative pat on the neck. Still they stayed. Too ill to move? Unsure?
We each took one. One hand gently on the neck, then slowly the bottle, all of the time making these strange sounds that we seemed to think would calm them. At first, nothing. But as the first drops left the bottle and touched their tongues, they sprang to life and sucked. The magic of water, instant effect, like a drop on an ink blot. The bottles were so small and the cows suddenly so strong, they were emptied in seconds. While I tended to the third, smallest calf, B. went to fill buckets.
Back to the chickens, 3 more drops. This time, from one a shake of the head, from another a swallow.
Next to keep them warm and clean. We found wheelbarrows and spades. Hauled out the bodies and the excrement. We dug a hole together. It was hard work, but important. Part of a mission.
The farm was well stocked - food for a full farm, so plenty for the remnants. We filled stalls with fresh hay, filled troughs with feed and water. We found a stock of UHT milk in the cafe - the cows drank it down. The chickens accepted some drops.
We slept on the hay bales that night under tablecloths. It was cold and scratchy. But it didn't seem right to leave.
B. and I have cared for sick animals before. A nestling robin brought in by one of the cats was given a warm nest in a bowl and took small worms from our fingers. It's 'peeping' woke us in the morning awoke us and filled us with parental warmth. A hedgehog picked up from where it sat dazed by the road ate dog food and the next day delighted us by trotting round the spare room.
By the end of their second days in our care they were dead.
So what hope for us of bringing 3 cows and 6 chickens back from the brink? Very little. Each time we've returned, we've approached with trepidation. Each time we're surprised to see 9 pairs of eyes still looking back.
The goats seem built for anything. That first day they gulped down the water we gave them and pushed each other out of the way to reach the food we threw in. We saw to them first. Easier than tending to the dying.
The chickens came next. We used pieces of straws as pipettes to drop, drop, drop water onto the side of each beak. The birds just blinked and let the water spill onto their feathers. But we continued. 3 drops for each. Guess work. Step by step, feel your way. We topped up the feeder with the grain and left them.
The cows. What do you do to save a starving cow? We went for water again, this time in the bottles left for the lambs. They were only small, perhaps they had been bottle fed too. As we stepped into the pen, they stirred, alarmed at the intrusion and heaved onto their knees. We froze. So did they. We made sounds, like seasoned farmers - sounds that come without you thinking. They stayed still. We took a step forward, then slowly inched toward them. At last we were close enough to touch. A tentative pat on the neck. Still they stayed. Too ill to move? Unsure?
We each took one. One hand gently on the neck, then slowly the bottle, all of the time making these strange sounds that we seemed to think would calm them. At first, nothing. But as the first drops left the bottle and touched their tongues, they sprang to life and sucked. The magic of water, instant effect, like a drop on an ink blot. The bottles were so small and the cows suddenly so strong, they were emptied in seconds. While I tended to the third, smallest calf, B. went to fill buckets.
Back to the chickens, 3 more drops. This time, from one a shake of the head, from another a swallow.
Next to keep them warm and clean. We found wheelbarrows and spades. Hauled out the bodies and the excrement. We dug a hole together. It was hard work, but important. Part of a mission.
The farm was well stocked - food for a full farm, so plenty for the remnants. We filled stalls with fresh hay, filled troughs with feed and water. We found a stock of UHT milk in the cafe - the cows drank it down. The chickens accepted some drops.
We slept on the hay bales that night under tablecloths. It was cold and scratchy. But it didn't seem right to leave.
27. The Burden of Responsibility
17/11/08
It's been a few days since I wrote. Our routine has changed. We've kept up the phone and radio checks, the perimeter walk and the church bell. The rest of the time we've been up at the farm.
When we walked in that first day, it was absolute horror that we felt. Revulsion. The barn was set up to appeal to children - cartoon character animals and their names around the wall, speech bubbles. Everything cute and colourful. Hay bales were set out amphitheatre style so the children could watch the lambs being fed and hold the smaller animals.
At one side were a group of hutches and cages and a large aviary, filling the other end, pens. Each had a little info card 'Tilly and Ludo, Dexter twins, born January 08'.
We heard a movement as we walked in, but couldn't immediately see where it had come from. It smelled bad in there, the usual farmyard smell mixed with something much worse. The cages had bodies in them. The bodies of some of the rodents told of an uglier scene past, as animals trapped with no food turned on each other. The rabbits had died a gentler death, laid out as thirst or hunger took away their energy. In the aviary, small birds were littered the floor, the incubator was horrible - tiny chicks dry and eyeless. But that wasn't the end.
The first of the pens was covered with mesh. Inside, 6 young bantams blinked up at us. Scraggy, motionless, but still alive.
Then then the source of the noise, the goats - a nubian, a pygmy and an angora made themselves known to us, coming straight to the side. Their eyes perhaps duller than they should be, but they were on their feet and expecting food. The next pen was still and the main source of the smell - a litter of piglets, perhaps taken to early from their sow. The same with the lambs - kept penned in and motherless so that children could love them.
We could see that the next enclosure would have held cattle, but as we approached we couldn't see or hear anything to suggest they were there. It wasn't till we looked over that we saw there were 3. Lying listless, mouths open showing teeth. Flies sitting on the stickiness around their eyes. But their bodies still rose and fell with breath.
And so we gained responsibility and with it purpose, meaning. No more marking time. Now we were working against it. When they bring us out, it will be with those animals who had been trapped to starve and we will tell their story.
It's been a few days since I wrote. Our routine has changed. We've kept up the phone and radio checks, the perimeter walk and the church bell. The rest of the time we've been up at the farm.
When we walked in that first day, it was absolute horror that we felt. Revulsion. The barn was set up to appeal to children - cartoon character animals and their names around the wall, speech bubbles. Everything cute and colourful. Hay bales were set out amphitheatre style so the children could watch the lambs being fed and hold the smaller animals.
At one side were a group of hutches and cages and a large aviary, filling the other end, pens. Each had a little info card 'Tilly and Ludo, Dexter twins, born January 08'.
We heard a movement as we walked in, but couldn't immediately see where it had come from. It smelled bad in there, the usual farmyard smell mixed with something much worse. The cages had bodies in them. The bodies of some of the rodents told of an uglier scene past, as animals trapped with no food turned on each other. The rabbits had died a gentler death, laid out as thirst or hunger took away their energy. In the aviary, small birds were littered the floor, the incubator was horrible - tiny chicks dry and eyeless. But that wasn't the end.
The first of the pens was covered with mesh. Inside, 6 young bantams blinked up at us. Scraggy, motionless, but still alive.
Then then the source of the noise, the goats - a nubian, a pygmy and an angora made themselves known to us, coming straight to the side. Their eyes perhaps duller than they should be, but they were on their feet and expecting food. The next pen was still and the main source of the smell - a litter of piglets, perhaps taken to early from their sow. The same with the lambs - kept penned in and motherless so that children could love them.
We could see that the next enclosure would have held cattle, but as we approached we couldn't see or hear anything to suggest they were there. It wasn't till we looked over that we saw there were 3. Lying listless, mouths open showing teeth. Flies sitting on the stickiness around their eyes. But their bodies still rose and fell with breath.
And so we gained responsibility and with it purpose, meaning. No more marking time. Now we were working against it. When they bring us out, it will be with those animals who had been trapped to starve and we will tell their story.
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