Excerpt from 'Over the Hill'

Looking back, there had been extraordinary peace and loveliness in those first weeks together that I will always associate with high-ceilinged rooms. I will always remember how strange it was on those fresh-faced mornings, waking up next to a warm, pulsing body, faintly angling my eyes upward as they acclimatized to the glare, that I never once felt anxious or afraid. For the only time in my life I can remember, everything seemed friendly and calm.
As the light poured in through the spacious bay windows, fear was noticeable only for its absence. Faint melodies from the music we fell asleep too would mingle with the incense in the air. The white, crystal patterns on the ceiling would sing with joy. And the world was self-contained and perfect as we honoured each other through our strength. That we had leaned on each other too heavily, perhaps, was never a genuine concern.

I never wanted to leave the room on those happy occasions, but I’d always be the first to awake. I’d lie there watching her morning breath impress itself lightly on the duvet, her jaw slackened to allow flecks of moisture to settle on her perfectly formed mouth. Her red hair would spread itself winningly across the pillow, as determined and passionate as she’d ever been. Sometimes I’d stroke her back and shoulders or gently kiss her cheek and she’d roll over and smile. Mostly, I enjoyed examining her furled body with my own, nestled tenderly among the mattress and the bed sheets, content to let her sleep right through before we tackled the day together.

I’d often wander out of the house on those mornings, down the sloping road which seemed to usher you forward with something greater than the force of gravity, and onto the fields that rolled alongside the house. One could get an unrivalled, panoramic view of the city on these occasions with only the rare passer-by walking his dog and nodding expeditiously.
It was certainly rewarding when, after hacking through the undergrowth covering the alley, the sun broke out through the ruffled clouds and a golden haze unfurled itself over the cathedral spire and the roof tops. As the people merged consummately into one, millions of sparkles would burst effervescently on the water’s surface, standing on tiptoes like bright pins dropped from the sky.
The old house sat atop the hill above the city, demanding respect for the incomparable nature of its gaze. The bedroom I’d recently departed was right at the top of the building, commanding all those who had the good fortune to observe it.

Dragging my baggy jeans through the grassy verges of the alley, I’d often growl at the droplets of moisture that dabbled intrusively at my shins. It was only later that I’d recall these exact same sensations with faint, amused pleasure.
I believe the sense of freshness I noticed when breathing the supple, fleshy air combined with the biting chill about my ankles to summon shivers of delight. I have cause to reflect now that these were among my finest hours. I’d care less about getting my clothes dirty when I knew I’d come back to see her in the warm after-burn of a spring noon with a mug of hot tea and those open, loving arms.

I’d always have to make myself erect and squeeze through the rickety gate to prevent the household dog escaping when I returned home. Brushing up against the cold surface, I’d strike a button or a zip and make a pleasing sound. The commanding oak door was garlanded with creeping ivy and gnarled branches, something I’ve forever associated with the bottoms of gardens and the threads of country lanes, which seem so mysterious and wild in their quiet intensity.
On those occasions when we went out together, hand in hand, our steps were married and our movements shared. She’d always remind me to wrap up warm, generous in her supply of woolly hat and gloves. We’d walk down the hill past the boathouse on the bank, our footfall firm as the dog tailed off to paddle in the reeds, our happiness recognisable for all to see.
A few signs of the pleasure-seeking escapades of the night before would decorate the empty benches in cautiously hazardous ways. Early walkers would pass back over the steel bridge, placing a seal on the calm, unbroken morning. And the light would barely move as the sun rose, soaking up the mysterious, melancholy water below, absorbing our love in a breath.
There was always something wonderfully hopeful about her general air on those mornings; in every look and tone a sense of frankness and honesty. It was not because I could be relied upon in times of stress, but that she could, I thought, that I never ran away. She gave that impression instantly. That it has touched my soul in going by, I know full well.

Making up her hair in the bedroom, a crescent impress of human body on the sheets, I’d half-consciously savour the smell of incense as it filled up the air, forever mingling with memories of the morning.
The items in the room would rapidly take on a different aura from the day before. Slightly askew, they appeared poised to assume different shapes, shedding their solidity and formality. I’d stare at her longingly from the corner of the room, unable to overcome an aching desire to walk over and rub up next to her, touching her smooth skin and so reaching her soul. Her face was pale and soft, an elegant, precise oval, supple, and ever so slightly withdrawn.

One night in fulsome embrace, she’d managed to climax like never before, trembling as if she’d been shot. It had been the spur for a renewed sense of connection between us, one that demanded we have names for each other, songs to share, and memories of games, dreams and childhood to muse over.
On another occasion when I came to visit, my mind slightly subdued, she greeted me at the door with such innocence and enthusiasm that I thought I could spend my entire life there. Somehow the little niggles didn’t seem to matter.
The ghostly figures I passed on the metal bridge seemed to indicate that my happiness would continue, blessing me as if in a dream. I felt strangely light as I approached the house, aware of the sound of my shoes on the pavement going by.
“You couldn’t have come at a better time,” she said, beaming gregariously.
“But you should have called. We could have come and picked you up.”
As she remarked on the weather I’d hardly begun to notice, I entered into the old house once more, prepared to make a good and lasting impression. She always looked for an opportunity to celebrate, no matter how insignificant the occasion. It demonstrated, I thought, her stubborn desire to snatch from life more than it could give. And this time - like any other - the change I’d been expecting hadn’t come.
Long after, I still remember the times when I stood on the granite step and listened to the doorbell ring, smiling as I heard that gentle patter of footsteps in the hall. I’d always check my hair by running my fingers through it, turning the bottle of wine I held in my hands completely around. As I waited there eagerly, the promise of a pleasant, uncomplicated evening would fill up the air, dissolving any sadness I felt inside.

The dog would jump up erratically when I entered the hall, rallied by the striking smell of wholesome food from the kitchen. Warm pools of light would arrange themselves discreetly across the lounge and filter into the dining room, interrupted only on occasion by a weak blaze from the analogue television. Ancient breath from the coal fire would whine and hiss and crack through the evening, and ashen logs would fall like snow flakes through the iron bars of the grate.
I’d often wander about downstairs on these occasions, my steps timed to coincide with the free, gentle chimes of the radio. The whole effect of the house was one of nonchalant wildness. That this reflected on the people who lived there, I firmly believed. I constantly felt the need to secure the house from floating off the ground, to tame it, restrain it before it all got too much. These days I am sometimes caused to reflect that I may have been the one who needed tying down, my sense of vanity grounded too late.

I remember clearly to this day the first time I saw her - her soft, delicate face caught in a flash in the sky. The impression made an instant mark, enabling me to form an image of her I could love. It’s the first thing I think of when I look back at our time together. If I hadn’t turned around then at that particular moment, in that particular place, things might have been different. I may not have caught her staring at me when she thought I wasn’t looking. I may not have savoured that minute sparkle in her gently straining eye. Looking back, in fact, the whole course of events may never have happened were it not for that single selected, memorable day. For that much, the gods are to be thanked.

That night in the apartment, so invested with fortune, so complete with rich and teasing depths, we spent all night watching films in bed. It was an occasion we’d return to in our dual remembrance, sharing our mutual interests and goals. We’d spend hours re-imagining those happy moments when the birds began to sing in the rising light, their optimist’s cry filling up the morning emptiness.
Perhaps we’d repeat those memories too often, our appreciation of them becoming dim. If our thoughts were frequently elsewhere, perhaps we forgot to realise it. As chance dictated, so it would be. If it had been any other way, it would not have been as unforgettable.