Learning to breathe again

The solitary figure had been leaning on the wall across the road for at least an hour, with no company except for the lone jackdaw that hopped from one door to the next. Stella peered anxiously around the corner of her living room window, glad of the voile curtain that afforded her a little privacy. The figure’s head bent downwards against the deluge of rain that had set in earlier that afternoon, their face hidden beneath the tent-like hood of a yellow mackintosh. Their hands were stuffed into deep pockets, feet in long rubber boots, and there was nothing to discern that they were human other than their general bulky shape and the small movements as they shifted their weight from one foot to the other.

It was late October and the visitors and tourists were beginning to dwindle. Some more foolhardy ones would remain through the colder months, dragging themselves and their soaked, wind ravaged dogs through the hills and woodlands, setting out each day on new expeditions of discovery. But in general they were mostly gone, returned to their regular lives far away from the old hilltop village that they flocked to over the summer months. Stella treasured the turning and unfolding of the darker seasons, as the days shortened and slipped by in quiet monotony, she would contain her life in a careful routine. Mornings would take her on a short walk to the shop, a brief exchange with the people she passed and then back home, where she watched from a distance, regarding the comings and goings of the world outside her window.

Now she stood silently, looking out onto the damp narrow street, the wet cobbles shining under the malevolent sky. Her small cottage was surrounded by other brooding stone buildings, similar in age and build, though no two were the same, nor were the folk that dwelled in them. Many of the old familiar faces that now lay facing skywards in the churchyard, had been replaced by new ones from the cities, and the visitors who stayed in the increasing number of holiday lets were just passing strangers. Not like it was when Tom was here.

The mackintosh clad figure remained, water trickling off the peak of their hood and the ends of their sleeves, they showed no indication of moving anywhere or doing anything. Stella pulled her raincoat and umbrella out from the cupboard under the stairs, pushed on her sturdy boots that she kept by the front door, picked up her purse and keys and opened the door onto the rain soaked afternoon. She could go to the village shop for some milk and perhaps try and see what the yellow figure was doing, or maybe come across someone who was enlightened with information about the stranger. She closed the door carefully behind her, balancing her umbrella on her shoulder as she turned the key in the lock. The rain fell in straight rods of iron, not a breath of wind, and the sound of heavy drops drumming on the taught fabric of her umbrella, for a moment reminded Stella of the days she’d spent camping in her youth, the damp warmth of a small tent as the elements were unleashed.

She turned back towards the street to discover that the figure had moved on. Through the pummelling rain Stella caught a smudge of yellow turning into the lane a short distance along the road. A moment of relief passed over her, and she considered whether the feigned errand for milk was worth pursuing now that the object of her disturbance had gone. Stella motioned back to her door, hesitated, and then for no reason other than the rain was quite reticent of days long gone, she stepped out into the street where the rivulets of rain water were now forming deep puddles. She kicked at one, momentarily enjoying the sensation as the water sloshed around her boots and with a lightened heart she set off down the street in the direction of the village shop.

As she passed the end of the lane where moments earlier the flash of yellow had vanished, she stopped for a moment, clutching her umbrella with both hands, and peered between the trees lining the dirt track. All was quiet and empty, only rain and swelling mud filled puddles, reverberating as heavy globules of rainwater bounced on their dull brown surface, but Stella’s eyes were drawn to what appeared to be freshly made boot prints. Piqued by curiosity and something that she couldn’t quite define, she stepped cautiously down the track. Immediately, the sensation of the soft mud beneath her feet brought an unexpected thrill, unleashing a memory, as a child, laughing, running through the dirt and the rain, brambles reaching out, grabbing and twisting her hair, the thrill of the chase, hide and seek, games of tag, all the village children, so long gone, so long ago, when the world was theirs to discover.

Stella stopped for a moment and breathed in the moist air, filling her lungs, blasting away the stale air of predictable existence. The aromas of autumn, damp undergrowth, fallen leaves, beginning to rot and feed new life again. This peculiar feeling was something new and unknown and Stella focused her eyes through the rain that poured in waterfalls from the edge of her umbrella. Up ahead, a yellow blur turned silently behind the gleaming wet hedgerow, disappearing once again from view, taunting almost, ‘follow me’ and Stella’s feet fell into motion once more, squashing down the wet earth of the old lane and heading towards the small iron gate that led into the woods.

Stella hesitated at the gate, feeling the cold metal beneath her hands as she lifted the latch. The gate swung open freely and she followed through. Her heart quickened as from the long since trodden corridors of memory, she recalled how, beneath these trees, she'd once discovered an injured jackdaw, cawing and helpless as it tried to regain flight from the leaf-strewn floor. She'd carried it home, wrapped in her fairisle cardigan. Her father had wanted to put it out of its misery, but her mother had put it in a cardboard box in the garden shed, where by some remarkable turn of events, the bird recovered and Stella released it one fine afternoon when the neighbours’ cat was out of sight. She hadn't thought of the bird in years, but now the memory came flapping into the present, as vivid now as it had been then. As if reading her thoughts, the air above filled with a wild cacophony of sound as jackdaws squawked and shrieked, marking their territory, squabbling amongst themselves. The noise was unnerving, primeval, reminding Stella of nature's brutality and she shuddered, pulling the collar of her raincoat a little tighter around her neck. Suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable, clutching her umbrella, she took the shortest loop of the woodland path, out of the rain heavy trees and through the old gate that opened onto the eastern side of the churchyard.

 As she stepped onto the cobbled path, Stella savoured the feeling of firm ground beneath her feet again and peered up through the rain, tipping back her umbrella and straining her neck to see the water gushing down the church roof, belching from the ancient lead gutters and gaping mouths of gargoyles that had fascinated her as a child and now seemed like peculiar old acquaintances. She followed the path around the northern end of the church, between the hunched gravestones that watched her through the gloom. And then, not a fleeting moment this time, but across the grass, near the little row of wooden benches, stood the figure in the yellow mackintosh, silent, still and solemn.

‘Tom’s grave’, Stella's breath caught as she realised, and determined to discover who this person was, she quickened her pace, the mud from her boots washing away as the puddles splashed about her feet, soaking her ankles. But when she reached Tom’s headstone, the figure was gone, and nothing remained to show they had ever been there. Only the earthy scent of rain sodden trees and grass lingered.

Stella turned, gasping, her eyes desperately scanning the churchyard, looking for a hint of yellow, but there was none. She turned back to the black granite grave, all she had left of Tom, and though Stella’s tears had dried years ago and only the heavy drops of rain wept at the graveside, the weight of so many empty years pressed against her chest.

The figure was gone, but it didn't matter. Stella turned towards home, and then stopped, ‘there’s still another hour of daylight’. The drumming on her umbrella began to lessen, until the only intermittent thuds were from the dripping tree branches above her. She collapsed her umbrella and shook off the rain, feeling something shift, an easing, as though she might learn to breathe again.