19 - The Land of the Long Grey Cloud

New Zealand is called, in Maori, Aotearoa - The Land of the Long White Cloud.

England should be called The Land of the Long Grey Cloud, though I'm not referring to the weather, surprisingly!

In NZ you cannot walk on farmland - it's private property. It's simple. It's black and white.

In UK, if there's a narrow track through farmland, the public has a right to walk along it. These tracks are usually marked with Public Footpath signs but not always. So, one is expected to know which is a public footpath and which is a private farm track. It's not simple. It's grey.

In both NZ and UK the law says that you are not allowed to park on the right-hand side of the road. In NZ no one does - it's black and white. In UK everyone does - law breaking is allowed in this instance. It's grey.

In NZ and UK there are yellow No Parking lines painted on the roads. In NZ it's illegal to park on them. In UK it varies - in some places you can never park on them, in other places you can park on them on Sundays and yet other places you can park on them on Saturdays and Sundays. Nowhere are there helpful instructions on which alternative applies to each area and if you ask a local, the answer is usually: "Well, I think it's …. but I'm not entirely sure." More grey.

In UK you're (sort-of) legally allowed to drive 10% faster than the stated speed limit. This is not written anywhere - it's just sort-of understood … by people but not by machines. If, say, the sign says it's a 50mph area, a traffic officer will not stop you unless you're going more than 55mph, while a speed camera will clock (and fine) you if you do over 50 mph. More grey.

Last night we were told off for walking along a road that the public drive along. Apparently it's a public road for vehicles (and the people in those vehicles) but if those same people got out and walked, they'd suddenly be walking on private property … illegally!

With so much grey in their legal system and in their psyches, is it any wonder there is so much grey in their outer world? I'm not even sure what the lesson is for me - it's certainly not black and white!

And more confusion for Mary Collins, continued from yesterday's blog ...

"Look, Mary, I have to be honest," said Sam, sitting forward again. "I really do want you to work with me ... with us ... and if you accepted now, we can start paying you from tomorrow. Take whatever time you need and you can slip right in when you're ready." He stood up and extended his hand. The interview was obviously over and Mary found herself heading for his door with his guiding arm round her shoulders. "Just give me the phone number where you'll be and we can stay in contact."

Mary gave him her parents' number and walked off down the corridor wondering why she had done that. Through the fog of her bewilderment, she fancied she had seen the suited man with the slicked-back, black hair, who exited the lift as she alighted, somewhere before. She wasn't sure. She took little notice, though, as she had enough to think about right at this moment.

She looked at the man quickly, with a glint of recognition that was quickly spun from her mind by the other swirling thoughts there. They looked at each other, smiled, and were gone in their separate directions in an instant.

As she walked away from the interview and reviewed it from the nearby café, she was left with the strong impression that he could be interested in her for more than her professional ability. She felt all tingly inside, anticipating the possibilities. Her desire to go to Scotland waned but she knew she had to make the trip - to reconnect, to restore and to refocus on what she wanted her life to look like. Her parents were pleased, in their dour Scottish way, to hear she was coming home and she felt like a princess all over again.

----------------

Out of the office, out of her work clothes, out of London and on the train to her Scottish home, she felt the excitement rising, unexpectedly. Her mind conjured up all sorts of warm family things - cosy chats, funny moments and happy tears - and she was feeling childlike anticipation as she stepped off the train onto the familiar, grimy station. The weather was surprisingly warm and she just knew that this was going to be an especially happy time of her life ... till she saw her mother, hunched shoulders, waiting unsmilingly at the far end of the platform. Of course! She forgot that the child must run to the parent. No great shows of enthusiasm or affection.

"Hmph! Hello lass," said her mother, stepping back from Mary's impending embrace. "So, you be liking that English food, then?" she asked. Her mother stepped back and eyed Mary's girth with obvious distaste and Mary immediately regretted her trip home.

At a loss for an effective reply, Mary muttered something incoherent and they walked in silence to the bus stop. Neither was inclined to utter more words on the ten-minute bus trip and Mary followed her mother into the house feeling both familiar and strange. Nothing had changed - the frayed rug, the stained and peeling ceiling, the chipped table - and every memory of her childhood flooded back at once. Her mother reacted to her tears by throwing a tea towel at her while telling her to go and clean herself up. Mary escaped, thankfully, to the bathroom, sat on the shaky toilet and gave vent to the mixture of feelings that all rose together. Despite her mother's grim proximity - or perhaps because of it - she howled as she'd never done before. Poignant and happy memories mixed themselves with frustration about resistance to her youthful ideas, anger at her father's abuse and her remembered dreams of freedom. The brick in her stomach made her feel physically sick.

She just did not belong in this place and she wondered if she had ever loved her parents. Feelings of love and affection certainly did not make their appearance as she rocked and sobbed on that ancient toilet - a good place to let it all go, really. Eventually she regained some sense of composure and she steeled herself to the old kitchen for the customary cup of tea and a piece of shortbread.

Mary tried to give her mother enthusiastic and colourful glimpses her life "way down" in London but she knew she was describing something too alien for her mother to comprehend, had her mother wanted to comprehend it. Mary then listened to her mother's dour description of all the people who had died - and the gossip surrounding those deaths - over the past five years. Gosh, had it only been five years? Something drastic had obviously changed in that time and it hadn't been here in Dunfermline. She realised how badly she fitted into this landscape and that she never would, any more. She wondered if she ever had, really. She listened intently and looked fascinated by her mother's sordid tales of change, while her mind plotted an early escape.

While the smells of the one dinner she ever remembered here filled the kitchen, her father and brother sauntered in, dropped their lunch boxes on the bench and wandered into the lounge with a beer each to watch television. They'd each mumbled their "hellos" and "how yer been, Mary?" as they passed and were gone from the room before she could reply. She wondered if they realised she was back or if she'd even been away at all. She felt small and then the anger exploded. She strode into the room, turned off the TV and stood in front of it, defiantly. You could have heard the carpet sneeze.

"Aw, come on Da, Angus. I come all the way up here to see ya and ye can't even give me the time of day," she said, glaring at them.

"Ouch, Mary, I'm sorry. I just ..." Angus started saying.

"Turn that damned television on!" roared her father, butting in.

"No!" said Mary, starting to regret her outburst and wondering what to do next.

"I said turn that damned television on, woman," shouted her father, sitting forward, ready to pounce. "Or I'll clock you one."

"I'm not your wife, Da. I'm your daughter," said Mary, her anger rising above her indecision.

"Turn that bloody television on, you stroppy wench!" Never being one to back down, especially when she knew she was right, Mary was tempted to stand her ground. But the memories returned, memories of her mother beaten and sobbing and nothing ever being resolved and the simmering hatred and the inability to be honest and and and ... the whole frustrating futility of it, the powerlessness and the inability to be heard, to be acknowledged, all came flooding back and she was a scared little girl again. She ran as she always had from this home - not to her mother's embrace for that could be cold or threatening too - outside, down the street to sit under the street lamp beside the old bakery.

Fergus Fordyce was the kindest person she had ever known and many a time he'd wiped a tear, listened to her story and given her a healing doughnut. The simplest things touch the deepest and this spot was a magnet when the world threatened - a still and quiet spot where listening always happened. The bakery had closed long ago and Mr and Mrs Fordyce had moved somewhere else. This Mary knew but the sacredness of this listening spot drew her in with safe and loving arms. Under that old street lamp her sobs subsided and she found a little peace, a little quietness, a little acknowledgement. No one was there to listen but the image of Mr Fordyce, those many years ago, reached out with safe arms, enfolding her and dissolving the wretched pain.

She sat with her back to the street lamp, hugging her knees, looking into what was that old bakery shop and wished with all her aching heart that Mr Fordyce would come out the door, slowly smile and invite her in through that leadlight door, over the wide and uneven floorboards and he'd lift her onto a stool and ask, "So, Mary lass, your sadness comes again. What's it feeling like, young lady?" And she'd tell him. And he'd listen. She'd just talk and it would feel like she couldn't stop as the thousands of words crowding in her head were crazily pushing at each other to get out of her mouth and into Mr Fordyce's ears. He'd continue to listen and nod and listen and, eventually, all the words were out and her head was empty of them. She'd feel lighter because the words had been heavy in her brain and she'd smile a little at the relief.

"So what can we do about all that, then?" he'd ask.

By then all thoughts of running away, of burning her house down, of killing her father, of beating her mother were gone and all she wanted to do was to hug her parents and pray for peace.