Soul of the River

It was dark and bottomless - and like a serpent twisted and turned, usually gently and calmly but when it changed, angry and unpredictable.  It wound around fallen tree roots thrown into the raging water when furious storms had lifted them completely out of the earth. They continued to live and grow from the depths of the river, and were reaching for the sunlight or just trying to get away from what lay beneath. Bent limbs from the lower branches creaked gently like an old wooden door in a slight draught and dipped in and out of the water, the weight keeping the up and down motion going, the spindly twigs and dark green leaves smacking the surface gently, sending small waves along the surface of the water. The canopies of the tallest trees were so high and thick that only dappled light shone through, patches of brightness peeping from high above.

There was hardly a puff of wind, so still and peaceful. A shrill cry from a bird a long way off and a cow mooing in a distant field shattered the silence.

When it rains look for rainbows and when it’s dark look for stars. I heard the words passing through the air. It wasn’t raining today but later when night fell I would look upwards towards the sky. I suddenly had a feeling of wanting to see my son. I could hear his soft voice from when he had given me the card with the words written inside “HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY MUM. I LOVE YOU TO THE MOON AND BACK. ROBERT XX

It was warming up a little bit and as it was the weekend, there would be families coming along soon, enjoying the countryside, the walks along the path and on reaching the end of the winding track, the picnics.

It was a good path to walk on when the weather was dry, but after the rain it was terrible. Sludgy brown mud, gooey like the icing on a cake would stick to the bottom of shoes. Where the path dipped into a bowl shape it was the worst, like quicksand, difficult to get your shoe or boot out of. Sensible and seasoned walkers would wear wellington boots and solve all problems of slipping and sliding, and sometimes falling.

When a family came along, usually visitors to the area, they didn’t realise just how wet and muddy it would be after the rain, and after the inevitable question of “should be still go?” the father usually asserted his authority with “Well we came all this way into the countryside for a walk, and a walk we will have. Now just watch where you’re going and walk slowly”, which was fine for him, but for the two youngsters walking with Mum and Dad, it was a terrible situation to be in.

They walked tentatively, as if life depended on it, afraid to fall over, knowing they would get into trouble, their eyes looking only downwards, ready for the big puddles and mud holes.

“Mum” a small voice said “Do we have to go much further?” but before the mother could answer, a loud voice cut in “Yes we do. There’s quite a way to go yet, but when we get to the end of the path there is a playground, so just think about that!”

On the days that the paths were hard and dry children skipped and ran along them, picking up sticks   to make guns from to shoot anything and everything, and other treasures they could see, stones and pieces of rock that would be taken home and cherished but promptly thrown outside when ‘little Johnny’ wasn’t looking!

As the path got deeper into the forest the air became cool, it descended suddenly like a damp blanket, which had some reaching into their backpacks for their jackets to put on. The path was wide enough that it wouldn’t be easy to fall in to the water but every now and then it became narrow and children had their hands held just in case. The other side on the path was fenced, an old wire and wooden post structure that had been there for decades and served no purpose really, for the bushes and trees that grew on the other side of it poked their head and bodies through all the way along. Not many people were aware there even was a fence.

I knew this forest and river well. I had grown up in the area, born and bred here, in a small cottage on the edge of town. I was the delight of not only my parents Tom and Margaret, but the rest of the family too. “First girl in twenty eight years” said my father proudly. All of my aunts and Uncles had produced boys, good for farming which is what most of them did, but we all knew that after a boy or two, most of the aunties longed for a girl. I was the toast of the town apparently - ‘How lucky are Tom and Margaret’ was heard for quite a while around this area.

I went to school here too, the local Primary school, a small five class roomed building, old and solid, and then I was bundled off to boarding school when I was twelve. But that wasn’t so bad. I made lots of friends and came home each school holiday – back to the familiar surroundings of the forest and the river. I missed that the most each time I had to go back to High School, the feeling of being alone under the dark canopy  of tree tops with just your own thoughts, watching your reflection on the still water until a nut or big seed pod fell from high above and made ripples that your distorted head.

I remember each summer holidays it was the same but also different. I always loved the smell of the forest, the damp leaves and bark, little black berries that when squashed smelt like lemon and sherbet all mixed together. It made you feel like eating them but you knew if you did it would make you sick. Mum told me when I was very little that if I ever ate the little black berries I would die, and I was so scared that if I even brushed again the bushes I thought I felt like vomiting. It was only when I was old enough that she told me they wouldn’t actually make you die but would upset your tummy. All that worrying I did for nothing!

I smoked my first cigarette, and my last I might add here in the forest by the river. It was an awful experience. My best friend from school, Abbey had come home with me for the summer holidays. We had been into town to the milk bar when she turned to me and whispered “Shall we get some smokes?” I had never had a cigarette before. My Grandad smoked but he was about the only one in the family. Gran was always telling him off about it, and he had to go outside to smoke, never inside. But when she went off for the day he was determined to smoke inside. She always knew when she arrived back home - every window and door in the house was open and the can of air freshener was half empty. She never told Grandad she knew but told us all on the day of his funeral when she stood up in the church hall and tearfully spoke about what a wonderful husband he had been and then added at the end “I just should have just let him smoke inside”.

Abbey was more ‘worldly’ than I ever was. Sometimes I felt like a baby compared to her but she didn’t seem to care. She had older sisters and brothers and was well versed in swear words and ‘interesting’ stories about what her siblings did. I liked her, and the fact that she was funny, very irreverent, but also very smart, so I said yes to the cigarettes.

As soon as we ‘lit up’ I could tell that Abbey was experienced – she put the lit match to the end of her cigarette,  and knew just when to suck in, blowing the smoke out gently  like a professional. I on the other hand didn’t even realise I had to suck in once the end was lit “suck on it or it’ll go out” Abbey told me, so I did. I kept on sucking. “Stop” Abbey yelled but it was too late. It felt as if smoke was coming out of my eyes and nose as well as my mouth. I couldn’t breath and began coughing – but the more I coughed the worse I felt. I tried to breath air in but I had no breath left…all that I could do was make a noise that sounded like a dying animal. Abbey rushed over to me and started banging me on my back but that wasn’t helping. I had dropped the cigarette at some stage but didn’t care. My breathing was quick rasps and I couldn’t suck much air in - I really needed a big gulp. After what seemed like ages, the rasping got longer and I could eventually get some air into my lungs but my chest was still tight and constricted. I could smell smoke and thought I was probably on fire but I turned to see Abbey putting out bright flames where I had dropped my cigarette onto twigs and leaves. When I realised that I could once again breathe and would live, I knew I would never ever try that again. We started laughing at just what I had looked and sounded like, trying to smoke. Our sides ached, so we sat down against a tree and Abbey had another cigarette.

The forest was a place of ‘firsts’ for me. I also had my first kiss here. Over by the broken wooden stile that was used as a step to get from one side of the rusting metal wires to the other. The years had passed so very quickly since then but I can still recall the feeling I had when Jacob pressed his lips against mine and put his big strong arms around me. It was a warm summer evening, the kind where it still seems like day time at 9pm, and the birds were still singing in the light. Families were out walking, trying to get young children who couldn’t sleep worn out with running around before taking them home as twilight descended.

When the families had gone home and it was silent once again we both sat down on the soft ferns, holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes. I think I could have sat down on a bed of nails and still felt the way I did. The river sparkled as the light from the moon danced on the surface and fireflies swooped down towards the shimmer before flying away into the quietly eerie forest for the night. This was my happy place, where I felt peaceful and at home. I was sure my heart beat could be seen through my dress, it felt as if it was pounding loud enough to be heard. I had never felt this way before but then I had never been this close to or kissed by a boy either. It made me happy so I leant over for another kiss.

This was the start of our romance, our three year relationship before Jacob asked me to marry him. Of course I said yes. We loved each other and it seemed inevitable that we would end up together.

Jacob and I had two children together. Of course to us they were beautiful children.  Our first, a baby girl looked like one of the porcelain dolls that you see in an antique shop. Her skin was pale and flawless. As soon as I pushed her out into the world she was whisked away by the nurses. I hadn’t heard her cry and had wondered why. We didn’t know what was going on until they brought her back to us a little while later, wrapped in a soft white cloth. She was still warm, but from the look on the faces of the hospital staff I knew something was terribly wrong. I put my head down on her head to inhale my baby’s smell and my tears just fell. The doctor began to explain that some babies don’t make it, or if they do, for sometimes reasons unknown, a short while later they die. I looked at Jacob and the words suddenly hit me and I screamed a long piercing sound of disbelief and shock. I looked down at the still, tiny bundle and watched in vain for her tiny body to move. There was no movement, there never would be.

We were told that it was no one’s fault, that it sometimes just happens, and that they would do tests to find out the reason for the still birth. I didn’t care at that stage if they did all the tests in the world. I just knew that I was going home without our baby. The bassinette would be empty in the back of the car; it wouldn’t be taking our new baby home. I felt responsible for delivering a child into the world that wasn’t alive, and when well-meaning people tell you ‘It was meant to be’ it isn’t what you want to hear. I carried a little being around for nine months inside of me, loving her more each day and in the end I gave birth to a daughter that I cradled for a few hours and then left the hospital with just an empty heart. I couldn’t get the feeling of her warmth or baby smell that I had experienced for just seemed like a few moments of what would have been her whole life, out of my head.  It seemed impossible to let go of the grief that shrouded me like a black cloud. I had failed myself, Jacob and Rosie. I cried until I had no tears left.

I hadn’t thought too much of how Jacob must be feeling, I suppose I was just centred on myself and how I felt. Then a few weeks after Rosie’s birth – and death, he told me that he was taking me out of the house that had become my refuge from life, and that I needed to breathe some fresh air. He couldn’t bear to see me like this anymore.

He brought me to this place, the forest and the river. The calm and the peace of it enveloped me like an old friend giving me a warm hug. We sat down on the ferns, where it all started from and Jacob told me “You can’t start the next chapter of your life if you keep re-reading the last one. You have to let go. We will never forget our first born, our little girl but we need to be brave and look to the future”.

People say it gets easier with time, which I never believed, but after the birth of Robert, our ‘beautiful’ son, it did get easier. The grief never leaves you completely and we wouldn’t want it to but the crying gets less and the memories have round edges, not sharp square corners. And life does move on, everyone gets older, builds up experiences and recollections and stores them away in the book of life.

I see Robert now with his own children on the path down by the river. “My beautiful boy, I miss you…..and Rosie” my spirit calls out silently.

The track is completely dry today, the evidence of the busy school holidays seen in the trodden and flat edges of the ferns and the number of sticks that children have snapped off branches and left lying around. There is the occasional piece of litter that’s been thrown away and as I watch, Jacob comes walking along slowly, then bends to pick up the rubbish. He stops at ‘our’ spot; the place where we had our first kiss and knew we would always be together, and sighs. “Hey Tommy, this is the exact spot where your Grandmother’s ashes were scattered. It seems such a long time ago now” he adds quietly, rubbing his brow. “Yes I know Grandad. It’s yours and Grannie’s special place. You actually tell me every time we come here!”