Elbows and Knees

Sleeping three in a bed, top to tail, was never an outcome that any of us wanted. But the flat was cold enough that whenever we spoke, our breath misted the air as if we were dragons.

Benedict tried for a while to sleep in the tin bath, but kept bashing himself on the sides. Besides, he reported that the tin radiated cold, which, naturally, it would do. We never bathed properly anymore as heating enough water was far too much effort and only the first of us to bathe felt much of a benefit. One less thing to argue about when we gave up on bathing.

Sebastian came home so drunk one night that he slept restlessly, so I woke with his stinky toes prodding my face. Not ideal. And the requisite close proximity gradually eroded our friendship, though we had been the best of companions since childhood.

Delicious to manage to be the piggy in the middle, inebriated with warmth to such an extent that the doubled chance of elbows or knees intruding or, worse still, noxious emissions which I am never guilty of producing can almost be forgotten. However, to be ensconced at either edge, one must cling to the blankets lest one find oneself exposed to the bitter cold for lack of them.

One day, as the long winter drags on, is very much the same as any other. The nights begin with huddling around the meagre coal fire in the hearth which, if we could, we would jump into and become contented salamanders basking in the flames.

Going early to bed in order to keep warm, we pile our coats on top of the assorted blankets and wear scarves, hats and gloves, though sometimes those fall off during the night. Occasionally, in a sleepy stupor and pitch darkness, we end up in someone else’s accoutrements or a mismatch of several, but we long ago ceased arguing about such a happenstance come the morning.

We sleep in fits and starts, frequently poked and prodded by elbows and knees, sometimes waking up in alarum from the hazard of a nightmare. Other times, we get a taste of paradise while dreaming. That, for me, tends to be a banquet spread from which I can pick anything I wish from plentiful viands. The fragrance rising from the food intoxicates me, though I never recognise everything, but dreams have the power to bewitch and bewilder the mind.

Benedict being Benedict, his heaven while he dreams is similar, but more focused on the bevy of beautiful ladies attending the feast, each wearing provocative clothing that reveals not only their ankles but much of their legs. This displays the depravity of his desires. He is obsessed with one that he calls Lady Scarlet due to her miniscule outfit matching the crimson of her lips and flaming roseate tips of her blonde hair.

Sebastian, on the other hand, has nocturnal fantasies of a warmer abode containing the fragrance of summer flowers and much improved by providing us each a soft and cosy bed of our own, pastel colours ornamenting walls with no trace of mould or mildew. Thick carpeting on the floors that his bare feet sink into and no lack of provisions in the pantry for midnight marauders.

Awakening to our dismal circumstances is unwelcome to any of us when we have these dreams. However, it is always a relief when morning invites us to escape a nightmare.

We tend not to discuss those, but suffice to say, the very walls around us shatter under the force of a bombardment which would not be out of place in a medieval castle under siege. Huge behemoths snort and rattle outside like the most fiendish of dragons. And every so often, the clarion call of a signal issues forth as though calling these creatures to be idle. They all stop moving and sit quite still until the alert sets them in motion once more.

Going out to work is a respite from the bitterly cold confines of our flat, but somehow my mind fails to focus on that much at all. Benedict, I can understand, eternally work shy, seldom bringing up the topic of the daily grind.

However, even Sebastian fails to mention his work. He purportedly loves scribbling in ledgers all day because this brings him occasionally into the orbit of the delightful Caroline. He is infatuated but has no hope of attaining any union with her as she is the daughter of the stern manager of the scriveners. Her task is to provide her father with cups of tea and delicacies which apparently improves his humour greatly but not so much so that he would accept Sebastian as a son-in-law.

The fellow’s intense adoration did not have the slimmest chance of being requited by the most estimable female incarnation of Aphrodite. Not that I had ever seen her, so his oft repeated description much suffice. Although, come to that, he claims she is more a Persephone, though I can not myself tell much difference between the goddesses whom the Greeks once worshipped long ago and far away.

One night, as I lay in the somewhat cosy nest made by blankets topped by our other clothing and warmed by the uncertain heat of our bodies, a different fantasy enveloped my mind.

First, I heard the distant summons of a most melodic bell which drew up my chin in that direction, much like a well-trained dog will attend his master’s voice.

It was not my turn in the middle, so I easily untangled myself from Sebastian’s unconscious embrace of my knees. He, most probably, was inhabiting some dream of his beloved Caroline.

I had lost my cap, but still had a scarf wound around my neck and wore gloves protecting my fingers from the awful chill, plus my usual long-sleeved capacious nightshirt.

Seeing nothing in the dark, I was about to give up and return to our nocturnal sanctuary, only then the bell rang again.

I turned around and inhaled a gulp of cold air for in the nebulous midnight of our abode, I saw a light. As my eyes squinted to bring it into focus, this turned out to be the beneficent glow of a candle.

And yet, I knew myself dreaming for that candle illuminated a slim figure cloaked and hooded in deep blue robes who perused by the soft light a large volume which lay open on a slim and elegant table which I had also never before seen.

This individual murmured some verses from the book in what I guessed might be Latin for I had heard enough of that tongue when attending Mass which all three of us did together every Sunday providing none of us was too much the worse for drink or sheer exhaustion.

A nimble hand reached out and, indeed, raised the bell sitting beside the book, and rang it once more with an expert swirl. The melodious pealing went through me and wrought a strange warming effect as though I was exposed to pure sunlight in the midst of summer, not the dank winter cold in the flat we shared.

I became aware of movement to my left and found myself able, though somewhat entranced, to turn my head to gaze at Sebastian who stood enraptured like I had been moments before.

Again, the murmured recitation commenced and, as I had come to expect now, the bell in due course provided counterpoint to the spoken words.

This took some time to take effect, but then Benedict was always the hardest to wake from slumber or, indeed, motivate to any other effort required apart from eating or drinking.

I wondered what would next come to pass, but could not have predicted what then occurred.

The figure stood and faced us, throwing back the deep blue hood to reveal long auburn tresses cascading over her shoulders. By that token alone, I would have liked to become closer acquainted with her if I had opportunity, but, in addition, her green eyes shone with a sort of glad mischief that also quite appealed.

I noticed the gleam of not some weighty cross that the tome and murmured verses seemed to necessitate. Instead, emitting a radiance of its own, a finely wrought pendant in the shape of an interwoven five-pointed star. I marvelled how it appeared not merely to reflect light but to emanate some inner power.

She raised both arms which turned the long blue sleeves of her robe into the shape of wings, her palms open toward us and spoke in an oddly accented English, “This is not your time. This is not your space. There is another realm that has long been waiting for your arrival. I set you free from the tangle of memories which holds you here. Suffer no more the long, cold winter of hunger and privation. A summer sun is rising over the fields of Elysium.”

I wanted to ask her about this place as I had never heard of it, but could not bring words to my tongue due to the next marvel. The dank, shadowy room around us began to warm perceptibly. Birdsong lilted as the walls crumbled away to reveal what I could only call paradise. A wildflower meadow surrounded us, home to contented bees and the frolic of butterflies.

I exchanged glances with Sebastian and Benedict whose faces held the self-same wonder which my own must be showing.  

I searched then for the blue-robed woman but saw no sign of her.

Her voice, however, came to us on a breeze full of summer fragrances, saying most sombrely, “Though your bodies have perished, your souls live. And it harm none, do as thou wilt.”

Sebastian began to laugh and then to run, elbows and knees in rapid motion, followed closely by Benedict who normally took more of a snail’s pace. I looked around for the intriguing woman and then, not wanting to be left behind from my fellows, pelted after them through the wildflowers, rejoicing in the blue sky above us and the warmth of the sun that penetrated my being entirely.

If this be only another nocturnal fantasy, I resolved to enjoy it. How strange it would be when another dismal morning dawned if all three of us might have shared the one dream.