Balancing Act

BALANCING ACT

Chapter One

Right now, here watching Ana, you are convinced that she is looking for a way out.

She stands on the cliff-face staring out across that stunning wild coastline. Her handsome freckled face is taut with tension. She is oblivious to the slapping and spitting of the spiteful wind and the murderous taunting screams of the gulls on the rocks. She rages at her own stupidity. She breathes in the rhythm of the tide, struggling for control. What had she been thinking when she said she would come? She should leave. Now. She moves hurriedly away along the path, struggling to keep her balance in the growing storm.

Yes, you are right: Ana is looking for a way out, but not in the way that you are assuming as you watch her.

At the next bay you see her pause. She crouches, touches ground, sensing the ghosts slither away. She glances around, sighs with relief, feels a sense of letting go. To her right, a familiar angular rock ascends from the beach twenty of more feet to the sky; a mad-man’s sculpture of babel. Her gaze rests on its ragged careless journey upwards, to the gulls bending, diving, and surfing the bolstering winds. An island of shark-teeth stones paves the way from the beach and furious waves crash behind.

Ana catches a slight motion, a shadow of something on the rocks. Surely not? She squints, focusses in on the movement against the static black. Somehow, unnoticed in the reckless climb to reach there, up the ancient scramble of sharp-toothed piled rocks, a boy stands atop the pinnacle.

He is eight, - ten maybe? – thin, but compact. Curly black locks flail in the wind, his white face luminescent against the grey seas. Like a gambling ballerina, he pitches this way and that in the churning air. Waves roar below and the rocks’ teeth sharpen ready to tear and snap if his balance fails. He slowly he raises his arms to the skies and stretches upwards, victorious. Ana shivers at the sight: the audacity, the danger, as he sways before her, framed by raging nature. She feels a bolt of unadulterated joy at existence. She is enthralled.

Ana stretches her hand to him-out towards the sea and across the vast chasm divide between them -as if she can catch him in the ether, as if he would float down and be carried in the wind across the separation and be gently deposited in her open palm to safety. His tiny body writhes and curves atop the precipice. Her arm remains suspended, begging. She is entranced as the boy slowly turns and he holds her gaze. Seconds pass. Her hand still reaching. Then as they remain locked, his lip curls knowingly. His expression twists, spews disdain, loathing, mockery. He is offering her a repulsive challenge. She feels burnt. Maligned. Condemned. She lowers her hand.

In a bid for reason, to make sense and to take control, she reaches for her camera. She will capture him in her lens. She will trap him in his triumphant dance of freedom -if he exists that is. And if he does, and after he falls - which is surely inevitable - he will be forever hers, caught in this moment. She will own him. It takes Ana mere seconds to remove the case, check the settings, and consider the framing. The lens focusses in to where he stood. Nothing. There is no one there. She checks again. Again: nothing. She scans the summit, the wild sea below. Nothing. Not there on the winding ridges. Not there as a black spot in the angry sea. Nothing. Nothing anywhere. She loudly sucks in air, drowning in anger. Of course. What did she expect? This is what happens when she returns here. She must leave. Now. She must go.

She had returned here on a whim. She had been travelling since the early hours and the sensible thing would have been to continue the drive on the main road, the fastest, the direct and obvious route. But somehow it felt too controlling, a metaphor for his hold on her across the years. The urge to rebel, to avoid him, that house, had been too strong. So, she diverted from what she knew was about to come, from the shrill anxiety – and took the road that spun off to the north, to the wilder places, to this the vast raw horizon and these raging elements: this coast that she had so often longed for. But somehow, in spite of herself ­ - to spite herself - ­she had arrived at this specific spot: this awful ocean of remembrance.

As Ana turns away, she catches a flash of movement; a glimpse of a hand grasping at rock. A child’s limb fleetingly appears over the other side of the structure. A small foot as it touches down on the crusty surface of the shore. A fragile figure scampering across the beach below. Then nothing. He is gone. But where? Ana realizes she has been holding her breath and slowly releases it. She lowers her camera, bends at the waist and drily retches.

She sits a while as the coast rages at her. No other sign of the boy. She tells herself it had all been her imagination. The sprite’s pirouette a torn fragment of childhood memory. A consequence of what had been and what was ahead. Facing it. Seeing him. It is time to continue her journey. She will do this. She can do this. Weary now, she makes her way towards her car and heads West.

You watch. She is out of your reach now. You can only hope she will return.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

Ana had been at the house less than an hour but already felt smothered. It was as if the very walls pushed in at her. Her mouth was dry, and the air felt brittle at each intake of breath. He sat quietly in the corner regarding her, assessing her. He noted that she at thirty-four she still carried her beauty unaware: that fresh face, sharp intelligent eyes, the angular jaw and that innocent sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks and that tumbling chestnut hair that so reminded him of her. He felt helpless.

“Well, the place is looking good” He could hear the forced lightness in her tone. “I like the silver birch grouping by the entrance – is that new?”

He ignored the question:

“Hardly good. So much of the foundation – both house and grounds of course - needs replacing. As I tried to inform you. It needs new eyes of course. More energy.” He held her gaze, but she just half smiled and moved on.

“It always looks marvelous at this time of year though.” With that his concerns were dismissed.

They had chattered away since she arrived, but nothing had really been said as they danced around the old tensions. He was fully aware of the accusations crouching stout and alert in the shadows of their words.

Her arrival had been uneventful. Had any stranger been watching, all they would have reported was a door opening, a light greeting, an entrance. But to Ana, every movement, every expression was seeped in tension and substance. She had originally assumed the door would be opened by someone else. Someone unrecognizable. Faceless, newly employed. However, it had been him. He had taken his time to respond to her knocking. She heard him before she saw him, a shuffling of hard heeled shoes, a loud clearing of his throat, then a long pause. As she recognized the sounds of him, she wondered if he would change his mind and retreat. Or that she would withdraw. She pictured herself turning abruptly from the door, sneaking away, hurriedly sprinting across the driveway and back into the car. In the pause whilst he steadied himself, she imagined herself speedily driving away, onwards, homewards, or returning to that coast and the lost promises of freedom. And then the door had slowly opened, and he stood there: “So, Antigone …you came.”

A statement, not a question. That voice. It punched her.

He was not what she expected. He was reduced: a smudged version of when Ana had seen him last – like a final press of an impoverished printer eking out expensive ink. If she was meeting him for the first time she might have described him as an old man. She forced a sort of smile. She played out the motions of a hugged greeting. To her complete surprise he yielded to the movement, not quite responding, but not resisting, and she had to steady herself to avoid falling into him. He turned and led her along the marbled hall.

“Leave your case there. Someone will bring it up to your room.” A hint of irritation at her hesitation.

“I have arranged food for half an hour’s time Antigone, so that you have time to freshen up and…please.” his eyes moved slowly down her body, assessing, frowning:

“…. please make sure you change”.

And at that instance, the clothes that had been so painstakingly considered, became inadequate and inappropriate. Her teenage self stood awkwardly in the linen trousers and cashmere jumper that she had so carefully selected that morning after days of consideration. She knew that she had yet again somehow failed. She felt totally crushed. Ana had been found wanting. Here she was again. As had always been the way with him, and – she now thought she knew - would always be the way it was.

“Yes, of course, father”.

And there it was: those words. And here she was once more. And after all these years.

As you watch you are shocked by her expression. As he steps along the corridor held tight and upright, she slowly follows. She glares at his back with loathing. Does he really deserve that? You had not conceived that she was capable of such hatred. You are unsure now whether she should have come. You may need to question yourself and your plans. Time will tell.

………………………………………………………………………

Chapter Two

Ana felt calm when she awoke the next morning. The sense of displacement and disquiet had faded. She washed and dressed feeling a rising wave of good humour. Like everything else since she began the journey that led to this house, she wondered if she was reading too much into everything. There was nothing unusual here. Nothing to scare her. 1997 has been a good year so far; it would continue to be so. Her father appeared innocuous really as he sat across the vast antique oak table at breakfast. His eyes were faded and watery. His grey hair wisped faintly around his softened features, somehow the cut exuding class and wealth. Only the sprouted tuffs from his crinkled ears betrayed a lack of care. His age spotted skin softened, his expression appeared benign as he watched over her. She decided it was time to begin; to rip open the parcel and let whatever it contained spill untidily forth:

“You know it was impossible for me to get here.”

A long hard pause, and then, raised brows as he held eye contact, drily:

“So you have said.”

Another weighted silence. She would not have this. She would try again:

“Are the arrangements...was it what you wanted?”

He stared directly at her. The clocks tapping beat seemed to slow, echoing amongst the vast corridors, then sit knowingly at her side, waiting with apprehension.

“What I wanted?.....and what is it that I wanted Antigone? …what? What is it that I wanted?”

Choked with unshed tears, his tremulous voice hung in the air. And stayed there. Time passed. The silence held. She wondered then at her own lack of grief. Her disengagement. She had no answer.

You catch your breath …you can only watch them and wait.

…………………………………………………………..

Later that day, he had taken her around the estate. They had visited the folly house and were walking towards the stables. She suddenly felt claustrophobic.

“Sorry father, I’m going to cut this short, I need to get into town.” She turned with haste.

“I thought we were at least going to…” He felt a surge of deep disappointment. “You should at least try to…”

“We’ll have plenty of time in the next couple of days” She hesitated only briefly. She had to be the one in control. “I have to buy some things– forgot things…you know…toothpaste..and things” She muttered vaguely as she strode away from him.

“I thought in this time before…” He felt bewildered. Unsure how to proceed. Then frustration took hold:

“For God’s sake Antigone, you know that we have everything here. Just ask Blakely. There’s no need for a journey into town.”

He could hear his voice rising: “I don’t know why you….can you not just…”

His words were lost to her as she strode defiantly away from him, running now, towards the house, her car, and a sense of shackles loosening. Her journey here began as an urgent plunge - a dive into icy seas - and, in her anxiety, she had packed badly and forgotten essentials. But she would not ask him for these. Ana would not ask him for anything.

Two o’clock saw her wending her way through the narrow roads to the local town. As she maneuvered the car into a small space on the High Street, she felt time had stood still. The town was bustling, lively, familiar: the Victorian shop fronts, the electric fitted gas lamps, the rambling cobbled backstreets, earth-coloured pantiles and gravity defying chimney pots. So pretty. As a picture. She sniffed. So innately English in every way.

Ana walked down the High Street at a leisurely pace. Here it was: the wonderful tea rooms with the windows’ bursting display of chocolate oozing delights, towers of scones, hazelnut meringues, egg custard tarts, meille faille slices, and those jewelled jam tarts bulging with fruits resting on cushions of sumptuous creams. Just as she remembered, Victorian maids with starched pinafores over black dresses and gleaming white collars moved deftly between tables. Every inch of this place gentile. A woman in her sixties smiled at her as she passed; a hint of recognition, but not sure enough to risk a spoken encounter. Past the butchers open since her great-grandparents’ time, past the groceries and then the bookshop. She stopped to look at the books in the window. She was enjoying the sunshine. She entered the chemist and bought toothpaste, then crossed through the slow-moving traffic, down to the green and sat by the pond. The sun soothed her skin. She stretched and unwound, her stomach exposed to the world, like a well-loved family cat. She felt content. It was fine. Everything would be fine. She would cope with the big day ahead and those that followed.

As the sun faded, Ana walked back up the High Street towards her car. Guests from the hotel spilled onto the street in front of the broad white pillars. She stayed on that side of the street.

“Terribly sorry” A man knocked into her briefly, held her arm, smiled and moved on. Ana continued. A group of people blocked the view of the glass sliding doors of the supermarket. Hardly taking notice of the bodies before her, she moved in that direction, the edge of her conscious noting the form of a woman entering the supermarket, pulling a young boy towards her. And in the fall between two heart beats, she suddenly registered him. The boy. That boy. On the rocks. From the day before. It was him: that defiant free-fall balletic from the stormy coast. The same black curls. The same curled lip. That same thin compact body. How could it be? In that second her conscious marked him, the smirk on his white stretched face pierced her calm. As before: his expression was wild, mocking, scornful. As before: a hateful challenge. She rushed towards his retreating figure– fast through the doors of the supermarket, rushing down each aisle in search of him.

“You” Her voice came out strangled and not her own. “You. Boy! Wait!” She felt faces turn towards her. Saw looks of concern.

She frantically sought out the thin threatening figure of the child as she ran through the store. But there was nothing. No young boy anywhere. Her agitation increased, her breaths sped up and became shallow as her anxiety took hold. She saw the woman she thought had pulled the boy into the shop. But there was no-one with her. No boy anywhere. Desperation. She knew she had seen him. He was there. She knew that he was there. But he was not. Nowhere.

She was shaking when she finally gave up searching. She was aware of the concerned looks of those around her: people sneaking glances, guarding themselves against a potential source of danger and threat. She knew her behaviour had been odd. People had noticed her. She needed to gather herself, present normality to the world. She drove carefully back to the house of her childhood, relieved to be away. She understood that she had imagined him. That boy. He hadn’t been there. He probably hadn’t been on that rock either, and, even if he had, it wouldn’t be the same boy. It couldn’t be the same boy. It was impossible. It couldn’t be. She understood that.

You watch her return to her car. You notice how her hands shake. You recognise how small she looks. How vulnerable she now appears. .This worries you. Only time will tell if she has the strength to endure what is you know is to come.