The Muse is upon me

I expect Hera and Zeus are making love upon Mount Olympus enveloped in a pink pallet on the sky. Or perhaps Aphrodite and Ares, whilst Hephaistos waits reeking wrath. My mind wanders from my toes to my stomach up to my neck. How can he make me feel so small? I am Lucy Longcroft for god’s sake! Illustriously bold and self-assured. And yet the unique traits that used to define me, like running 10 miles in a skirt and laughing for no particular reason, have been subdued by him.  

I emerge out of the woods and meadows and see deer run a course down the valley. Within my view, I can see the seas are whipped to fury along the jagged slopes. Wild gales from the north gust this way and that.  In desperate attempt to avoid the promise I had sealed for myself to carry out on March the 20th, the first day of Spring, I had leaped out of bed and traipsed across the spanning fields. Amongst Rame lowlands plagued in cows and, sinking muds, meandering rivers, creaking trees and abandoned forts where Druids used to dwell, I kept asking myself, how the devil was I going to pluck up the courage?

Despite, spending my last ten summers here, my sense of direction fails me. No doubt, all my other memories of being lost haunt me. One particular always floods back; running in the midday 30-degree heat in Brindisi, away with the Italian fairies, off my rocket listening to Wuthering heights on repeat. Until the roads, I am gloriously running on reached no-where, and reality sets in. I have no option, so I stumble into a derelict looking villa in just a sports bra and a tiny pair of shorts.  

As I saunter in, with perhaps too much confidence, the only words that spring to mind were; “Ciao, Tengo problemo. I am about to faint.” The family reclining in the shade gleefully welcome me into their home. Hammering in high relief, I drink the glasses of water whilst they all talking at me in concern as if I am part of their family. once. The grandmother takes control of the situation with the authoritative voice whist I sit there drenched in sweat, sweetly smiling, perhaps on the brink of madness. The language barrier was certainly up to its old tricks. My thirst is quenched, so I muster together some seemingly relevant conversation about Roman history, “Caesar…Pompey….Habitas near coliseum?” They all seem to raise their eyebrows in unison. As Hesperus started to settle his evening light, they drive me to my current residence. I walk back in gentle evening mingling with the crickets.

Past mistakes shall not be ruminated over, Lucy. Focus on the promise, in the words of Seneca, ‘every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.’ Stoicism swimming through my marrow, and approaching where three roads meet, I resolve to fulfill my prophecy, but hopefully nothing like that of Oedipus. If I walk down the road turning right, I could delve into fantasy, fabricating fake conversations, flirting, dancing and drinking in my mind. If I choose the road straight ahead, I could try to re-establish my sense of self and strength. But the final road leads towards the wall, the wall where it all began. The latter is my only hope to fulfill this promise. Wavering for a few minutes, I steadfastly turn left, and stroll down.

My phone is out to battery. It is a relief to escape the shackles of the Internet, with the constant surge of COVID-19 updates. Texts from Whatsapp groups, such as “Omg, did you hear the Trump is giving a grand to every adult to conquer the loss of the economy?” Headlines like “10,000 fatalities in Spain,” and videos of Drones in Barcelona tracking social gatherings. Even worse at home, I am bombarded with rants from my boyfriend and his Grandpa, whom we drove down to look after before Lockdown. They revel in each other’s company, gearing each other up, with “Why in God’s name has fishing industry stopped during this outbreak?” Then, when I suggest it may be because the fishing requires close contact with others. He gives me the look that I dread, reminding me that I should never have spoken.  

No, Lucy you idiot. I’m an idiot because I have tested his intelligence, and of course he feels the need to assert his masculine intelligence over me.  We argue about how many people abuse the hospital bed system. BBC News states that The NHS has cleared out 330,000 beds, occupied by those waiting for operations. He blurts out “when Jake was in the hospital, I saw so many geezers leaving their beds and drinking a bottle of rum outside. I’m jolly well glad they are out.” Of course, my opinion, that many of these people need shelter, is disregarded and “a classic female perspective opinion.” 

Now here I am standing in front of the wall, at the birthplace of our relationship. The first encounter has set the narrative for our entire three-year relationship. A relationship based on the fact that I am wrong, never considering the consequences of my actions, always trying to taste the forbidden fruit with a pathetic sense of self-determination.  I have felt my confidence gradually ooze out of me like a pack of toothpaste. He loves to clothe his cheeks in being the responsible one, feeding his own ego over making me feel so useless. He wakes up every morning breathing in the marine air plagued with “natural serotonin” which he loves to exert over any mental challenges that arise for me. I like to think that he is secretly a self-hating maniac. 

At 9 pm on the 1st March 2018, eight coronas guzzled and surrounded by a group of men I hardly knew. I am completely out of my comfort zone. I make my excuses and got in the car. At this point, I am clinging onto the false hope that I am a responsible adult who had had a couple of drinks at a party and am now able to drive home. Deep down I already feel foolish. I start driving without giving myself time to question my decision. The roads along the valley back to Cawsand are bejeweled in windy turns. My stomach is screaming that catastrophe will rain down on me. But arrogance still runs through my veins, and the alcohol makes me feel invincible. Invincible until the car scrapes the side of a bush. The whole right side of the car is scratched with thin white slits.

As I take a sharp turn left through pitch-black roads, I smash into a brick wall. The collision collapses the wall into an array of chaos. My senses lost, hair bristling in shock, my brain managed to muster that Persistence is key.  There is no going back at this stage, so I gear up the car to stagger over the bricks into the next field. Panic-stricken, my hands remain firmly on the wheel until I crash into the next wall. Fantastic! I step out of the car erupting in steam into long shards of grass. My phone light reveals a path of grass demolished behind. In front, a husky alerting his owner with raging barks out from a gaily cottage, “What the bloody el’ is going on?” a disheveled, bearded man emerges.  My voice frozen in locked jaw, I mutter “Look, I am so sorry… I’m so sorry, I will fix this… I don’t know how this happened.” His nose snorted in anger, “Not before I call the police. You must be pissed as a fart.”

After sobbing into my pillow and cursing my blind audacity all night. Sleep not offering me any repose, I walk to the crime scene at first light. A beach blond, tanned, attractive man with an open shirt, cigarette in his mouth, beer in his hand approaches, with an air of arrogance I’ll cease to forget, “Crikey, what did the wall do to you?”  I spill out an embarrassed laugh. “Moron” he chuckled under his breath. “Right then, I’ll whack on some Dido, and let’s get to work shall we?” he asserts as if it was his duty. I found myself flirting a little, “that’s very kind, think I can handle this one, don’t want to burden a stranger do I?” “Sam Spark” whilst offering up a handshake, “So I’m no longer a stranger, am I? Let’s start with the bricks.” Sam, fresh in his wounds from being fired this very morning from the fishing boat, rants about his boss. We discuss local mutual friends and topics such as why the Rising Sun isn’t selling any decent stout anymore. The sun gleamed down on us as I was hopelessly being lured into his fishing net.

I fell into a trance staring at the wall playing this series of events out, again and again. Tears leaking uncontrollably. This is where Sam Spark became the sovereign over my mistakes. The origin of Lucy Longcroft slipping into a role, in which a much older man, has taken hostage of her emotions, and whom she now relies on for self-assurance. This is the sort of girl I used to abhor. It’s so easy. But it’s too easy. As the evening began to cloak the valley with opaque shadows of darkness, I finally relaxed. I take off my shoes and socks and run around the hills like I am performing Bacchic rites in the mountains amongst wild horses grazing. No great genius ever existed without a touch of madness! Thank you, Aristotle. The notion takes hold in my heart. I feel the Muse upon me.  I need to release this poisonous weight on my shoulders. It is 5:35 pm and pangs of hunger and thirst are hollowing up my stomach. But I am finally resolute. 

I walk back and promise myself I will leave Sam Spark forever. And that’s exactly what I do.