Violet Eyes - a prose snippet
Something different from my constant poetry, from the depths of my archive
Hello all,
I’ve written a lot of poetry recently. I’m 67 poems in (at the time of writing) to my 100 poems for 2024 and it’s only just the end of April. I feel I need to write something ‘more’, as in not poetry. I’m just not sure what. But as the brain fog has de ended yet again today, and my covid cough has returned from its exotic month long holiday, I’ve done a deep dive into my archives and found you a snippet - ish.
Violet Eyes
I stand outside the corner shop waiting for it to open. I need nothing. Only I have a craving for something sweet, something processed. It is a rough area of town, the shop windows are boarded up and an ugly grill sits lurking on the door. In the wood there still lies the evidence of the latest attempt to force the many locks that hold the door in its feeble frame. A vandalism that holds no forethought, for the door has many locks but only two weak and straining hinges. A single wrench in the right place would afford entrance. But this only I can see as I wait, dully, for opening time. I amuse myself watching the surroundings. The boarding has been painted on by the local youth club and as time passes surreptitiously I examine the youthful images. Images painted of lands they could never have known, probably never would know. A lion roars into the jungle of cardboard boxes and litter that pile against the wall. Discarded wrappings full with the grease of chips long since eaten wrap around the legs of a giraffe as it munches at painted leaves, grimacing into the filth. And yet the brightness of the flowers and the strength of the sun in the veldt filter through into the chill of the early March morning. Standing in front of this mural I feel warm. And I am strangely surprised that I feel anything at all. Leaning against the cold metal of a street-bench I can feel the rays of the African sun melting the stone in my heart. The warmth of the imaginary sun has somehow broken through my constant defences and scaled the impenetrable wall that surrounds my heart. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, I relax. I allow myself to revel in the tingling of the released emotions; I am beginning to feel, well . . . almost comfortable. Slowly, as the minutes ease by, I permit gentle memories to thaw at the edges and infuse me with their historical warmth. And then, oh so cautiously, my heart begins to melt, dripping warm raw emotion into my veins. It is intoxicating. And feeling almost exalted on the unfamiliar sentiments; I begin to enjoy myself. I tolerate a faint smile tainting my lips. Then suddenly I am snatched back to the cold by a voice and my heart freezes over again.
‘Is it not open yet, my dear?’
Glancing down indifferently, I slowly take in the faded coat (a button missing on the right), the wilting flower in the buttonhole, the woollen scarf wound tightly round the fragile neck (its ends carefully tucked away) to avoid heat seepage.
‘Is it not open yet, my dear?’
The sound is not old but the face belies the youthful voice. I shake my head and keep it bowed. I have not come for conversation.
‘You’ll have to speak up, my dear. I’m a little deaf you see.’
Forced into speech I resent the woman a little but the curve of her back and the twist of her hands lessen my resentment and soften my voice.
‘It’s not quite nine yet.’
‘When does it open then, if you don’t mind me asking, dear?’ Her leather-gloved hand reaches for me and pats my arm. I flinch at the touch and dig my hands further into my pockets. My answer is slow, too slow and the woman touches me again. Now I will have to talk for fear of contact.
‘I think it opens at nine o’clock,’ the answer is brief and I leave no room for reply; or so I think.
‘Thank you dear,’ she pauses and looks at the mural. ‘I can remember when this was a very up-market area, that would have been years before you were born, dear. Before the war. At least a hundred years ago. All this was carriages and calling cards. I used to live near here. Do you live near here?’ The question breaks pointedly through the narrative.
‘Near enough.’
‘I used to live near here, when my George was still with me. He was taken from me in the war. That was before your time dear. Do you remember the war? It must have been hundreds of years ago, it all seems so far away. Did you say you lived here? I live near here. ’
I nod. Time works for this old lady in a way that I can’t conceive. I drift, avoiding the past, avoiding recall, whilst this woman has so many memories, over spilling the years they dwelt in, that it confuses her thoughts. Her attention is once more on me, glaring and intense, and again a gloved hand lies on my arm. Called upon to react I show a face of thought with furrowed brow and answer slowly.
‘Yes, I live near here.’
‘How many years we lived here! It must have been at least a hundred. That was before the war came, before my George was taken from me. We were married you know, it was all done proper, my dear. I had a white wedding, though I shall tell you this, I had a white wedding but I should not have done. I don’t hold with virginity, do you dear?’
She looks straight at me, tries to hold my eyes. I blush and with the blush come the shadows of a darker world and the words echo in my stone heart. She can’t know, I feel the fear and my chest tightens. My mouth is dry. Slowly she removes her hands and almost as soon as it is gone she replaces it. Lord, I wish she wouldn’t touch me!
‘I don’t hold with virginity, do you dear?’
‘Well, I . . . er . . ..’
‘I didn’t then, believed in knowing what you got. Examining the goods so to speak,’ she chuckles softly. ‘I haven’t examined any goods for a good few years now, my dear. Bit of a shame really. It wasn’t done in my day, examining the goods before the marriage bed. It wasn’t done, gave a girl a bad name. But my George, he was always the one for me. So I had a white wedding, dear. You don’t blame me do you?’
I laugh. Not at her but for her. No, I did not blame her, how could I? So I laugh quietly and shake my head.
‘No, I don’t blame you,’ and for the first time I really look at the woman, look at her face and meet her eyes. They flash in the withered face, living amongst the bland wastes of fallen flesh. Bolts of the purest violet sparking under dark lashes; beautiful, truly beautiful. An old lady lonely enough to talk of intimacies with a youthful stranger. An old lady with beautiful violet eyes.
‘No, I don’t blame you.’ Softer now.
‘I did love him though. I did,’ she is pleading now, pleading for acceptance in a world that she no longer knows, in a world where she always seems confused.
‘Yes, I’m sure you did.’
‘He was killed in the war. The war was before you were born, dear. It was a long time ago.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘George was killed. He was captured and put into a prison camp where he died from starvation. They didn’t know how to treat a human being, didn’t know how to treat them. Animals, they were no more than animals. I can never forgive them for what they did to my George, dear, never forgive them.’ The violet eyes glisten with moisture.
The click of locks invades her ramblings and the shop door eases open. I move towards the entrance and try to turn the lady’s thoughts. ‘It must be nine o’clock now; the shop’s open.’
‘Don’t rush me, dear.’ And again her hand brushes my arm. I suit my pace to the old lady’s and together we shuffle through the doorway. ‘Thank you,’ she says ‘thank you for listening.’
She was lost by the freezer section; I turned and she was gone.
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I wasn’t sure whether to add my thoughts process as I often do with my poetry. But I think not this time. If people would like that, please comment below and I will.
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Oh, I'd love to know her whole story. Feels like the beginning of a novel.