The Box

Can this be the sum of a life? Of what is left?

A box?

Just a box?

Just a box.

My mum, one Janis Boon, born 1964, wife and mother now lost to this world.

I eyed the box and the box, it eyed me back. Look at me it seemed to say.

It consumed me, that box, like the grief which soaks into my every molecule.

The grief this is so profound.

And yet, grief is a funny thing. It is a heightened sensitivity but also an alienation of the norm.

Yesterday I disliked, even hated my mother…….but today I weep for her with an immensity of pain and loss.

As unbidden tears escape their confines, arms reach around me from behind and Harry, envelopes me in a hug. His tall muscular body is a scaffold to my weakness and I stifle a sob. This act of love is almost too much and I fear that I will break.

“Tell me about her,” he whispered, looking at the box

I looked at the box.

I looked at the box and it looked back.

Open me, it taunted, look inside.

“She was mad!” I said

And Harry raised an eyebrow.

“Of course, Mum had always been … eccentric, but after Dad died well…..”

I paused,

… it was as if part of her had died that day.

And she needed to find it.

Then came the road years, of never staying put, of moving, of searching. Sometimes there was nowhere to stay and we slept in the car, under a tree, or on a park bench.

“I was only 7.”

Harrys face was aghast. He hadn’t heard any of this and now I had begun to tell him, I couldn’t stop.

“Schizophrenia, Bipolar with Manic Depressive episodes.”

In laymen’s terms as mad as a box of frogs,

Nuts,

Gaga.

Bloody barking.

The scaffold tightened its grip and I sagged against him gratefully.

“Poor thing,” I sighed, “to lose her sister before I was born and then her beloved. She just couldn’t bear it. “

You despised me though, didn’t you Mum?

“I always felt that it was somehow my fault. It wasn’t I know.”

But what she never considered was that I couldn’t bear it either.

I turned to look at Harry, we had been neighbours for 6 years, friends, drinking partners, confidants, but this was all news to him and, obviously realising that he may never get another chance at learning my history, gently asked,

“Do you have any other family? “

“I’m not sure.

Mum never talked about her past” Harry smiled knowingly, hmm it seemed to say, like mother, like daughter.

“She was more interested in talking to God than to me. When she did speak, it too was of religion.

Greta, she would say, God is always watching.” And if I did anything wrong, which was all the time, she’d say The Devil is you!

“I think her father must have been a clergy man or priest”

“Think?”

“Like I said, she never talked about the past. But a couple of times when she was sectioned, she’d have these episodes of talking to an imaginary somebody. I think that somebody was her father. She seemed to constantly question him.”

“Didn’t you ask her why?”

My bright and airy sitting room seemed to darken suddenly and I saw the troubled look of a man made impotent by circumstance.

“Of course I asked her, but over time there were so many elephants in the room,”

make up,

clothes,

School,

Past,

Present,

Futures,

boyfriends,

Sex,

Sisters,

cousins,

father,

apple pie,

joy

and of course, who did she imagine she talked to when she was being psychotic.

I could hear the bitterness in my voice and felt ashamed.

“When my mother suggested boarding school at 11, I couldn’t get there fast enough. I found every excuse to stay away, with friends or by taking summer courses. My mother might have been mad but my father certainly hadn’t been and had left her financially comfortable, rich even. While I attended public school, my mum lived like some wild animal, roaming the world and doing, whatever the insane do.

The last time I saw her was 9 years ago, on my 21st birthday”

“And?”

“And she told me that I was an adult now and we had no need of each other. From here on we were to have no more contact.”

And that was our goodbye.

There was an achingly long silence while I let Harry digest everything. Eventually he nodded and turned to the box.’

“So, what’s in the box?” We both looked at it.

The box.

“Oh, you mean THAT box.” I said “Yes.”

“Well, that was the biggest elephant of all.” I said. “All my life, at least as long as I can remember, that wretched box has come with us.” When we slept in mouldy motels , torn tents or Indian Palaces, when we had no food or access to clean water, when I had no bag space for mozzy spray, there was always the box.

“Ok… but…. what’s in it?”

“That’s the million-dollar conundrum.” I said in a shockingly bad American drawl.’

We both looked at it now. The box that is. Actually, It was a small chest, cherry wood, beautifully polished, old. A vessel that had been made for a Victorian microscope or camera. It was simple, elegant, functional and, and, and locked.

“I used to imagine what might be inside it” I said, nostalgia winning my voice.

Diamonds?

Pearls?

Magical gnomes,

dragons’ eggs,

Ashes of the dead,

One of Jesus bones,

The Wrath of God.

“As I got older, it never got lighter

Heavier, somehow”

“And you never opened it?”

“No,” I said and could feel the stinging on the backs of my legs where I had tried and been caught.

That bloody box

It beckoned me and at that moment a sense of dread stroked my face and clenched my soul. The gasp that escaped my lips was all that was needed for Harry to grip my hand and I was safe.

“I need to open the box.” I said

“I know.” said Harry. “Shall we do it now?”

“Alone.” I said and Harry quickly hid his hurt and nodded.

“I understand.”

He hugged me and then gave me a peck on the cheek.

“Those are magic you know.”

“What are?” I said distractedly, my eyes on the box.

“My kisses.” and he retreated to leave me alone.

I glared at the box

And it glared back.

What are your secrets I wandered? Or what secrets of Mums do you have to share? And more to the point do I want to know?

But of course, I did. Of course, I wanted to know. I needed to know.

But at what cost?

The key, though old and of iron, turned smoothly. Gingerly I raised the lid and then realised that my eyes were instinctively shut tight. What did I think would happen? Perhaps something might jump out or scream or explode?

But no, no sound at all, Smell neither – nothing dead then. I pried my eyes apart and peered into the box.

I looked

and looked

and looked.

A torrent of emotions gripped me.

It would be funny, but it really wasn’t

and anger from nowhere shot through my veins and left my hands and throat fizzy.

My mother, my nutter mother, my utterly nutterly mother.

How?

Why?

Unmasked, the box was full of….

stones,

100s of them: smaller than a fist and bigger than an egg, smooth, mostly flat and

just ordinary.

So, my mum had a beach in her box. And I couldn’t help it, I laughed and then sobbed and then a voice behind me said,

“Are you ok?” Harry was back and all I could say was

“Nooooo.” And then, “come see,” Even I could hear the hysteria in my voice.

“May I?” asked Harry, reaching inside and I nodded, mute.

He selected a grey, smooth pebble with ribbons of white and orange and let it sit in his palm before then stroking it with his thumb. I started to turn away unable to stand being in the same room as the box when,

“Greta, look, look, look at this” and I did. Harry had turned the pebble over to reveal written words.

“Can you read it? I asked.

“No, the writing is too small, but wait.” And as quick as a flash he was back with a magnifying glass, pen and paper. By this time, I was back in the box. All the pebbles, or so it seemed, had tiny words printed on them.

“Do you want me to go? asked Harry. I shook my head. I really didn’t and he smiled with relief.

“Well, what does it say?” he asked me handing me the glass. Seconds later the text swelled and,

Budapest, January 1992

The fog above the Danube

is as butter and spreads

a cloak across the city.

Harrys eyebrow raised as he recorded my mother’s words on paper. I reached for another.

Bangalore, September 1981

The scent of the past

The sounds of the living

The colours of a future

Five or six stones later I began to realise that Mum’s pebbles were more than physical memories, they were an insight into a woman I never knew.

Paphos, November 1986, I read, looking up

,

This was just after Dad died and I studied the white stone It was cool in my hands, polished, almost translucent.

Faded are the trees,

Parched is the land

Death is eternal.

I read it twice and I yearned for the parents and childhood I could have had but was denied.

“We could make a path,” said Harry, “with the stones I mean. I could transfer the info onto the computer and we could watch her life unravel.

“Yes,” I said quietly “I’d like that.”

Manchester, March 1982

Greta makes her first steps.

Into a world

Of concrete and blocks.

“Hey? What does it mean?”

“It means you took your first steps.”

“In Manchester?” We never lived in Manchester. At least I didn’t think we did.

“Maybe you were on holiday?”

Pebble after pebble,

Italy,

France,

Germany,

Argentina,

Colombia,

Chile,

New Zealand,

Malaysia,

Singapore,

Arizona

Burma.

There wasn’t a country that my mother hadn’t visited or seen. None of the stones referred to God, (than goodness,) all were cryptic, poetic and asked as many questions as answered. And a few were about us. Me and my mum.

My first word – Jaffa, apparently,

my drawing addiction,

the red hat and scarf that I wore every day for a year, both indoors and out,

but mostly the towns we stayed in.

She picked out the strangeness of them, things that I hadn’t noticed but when she described them, they were the epitome of the place.

the Finnish and their cactus personalities

the perfumes of Morocco,

the songs of Thailand, the vastness of Canada,

the silence of being alone,

the emptiness of possession,

the misery of desolation.

Manchester, 26th November 1980

I am lost

Foundations gone

Roots laid bare

Rocks solid, strong, shall ground my thoughts

Record my world

Heal the soul

Hours later and the box was nearly empty. We had been systematically cataloguing them in chronological order, while at the same time, my heart was in tatters. So far, all the writing was dated in my life time and moments before and the story was beautiful, sad, colourful and fascinating. I felt a love for my mother now which I never had while she lived. And I felt my grief thick in my throat, choking me. The last pebble in the box was dark grey. It had text unlike the others white and large.

Manchester, 16th August 1980

A child is born

Not from Love

But with love will live.

Greta

But what does that mean? Not from love?

Did she hate me even then?

i turned the box over to demonstrate my frustration at its emptiness and shook it. To both our surprise, an envelope, fell to the floor, black, shiny and I realised that it had been made to fit the base of the box exactly.

“More?” he asked.

“More” I said.

I could hear the fatigue in his voice. He was an A and E doctor and had been on a nightshift for what seemed to be weeks now. He was physically sagging but despite this, raised an eyebrow and said with admirable enthusiasm,

“Well, open it then.”

And I tried. And suddenly, I knew, with every fibre of my body, that my mother’s secret was right here. My hands felt like I was wearing boxing gloves. They refused to function. Eventually, Harry gently took the envelope from my grasp and revealed the contents.

There was a small 3 x5 inch brown, misshapen envelope and four photographs.

They were photographs, not snaps. Black and white, large and glossy,

The first was of a baby, a couple months old, chuckling into the camera, Large eyes, button nose, so plump that her wrists and ankles were tires of flesh. She was completely naked, hands gripping toes. Her eyes shone, the mouth wide and toothless. She was adorable

and I guessed it was me.

I had never seen a photo of me as a baby.

I didn't know that there were any.

And my heart went out to the little me.

It’s ok. Greta. I said to my younger self Whatever happens I’ll always love you I’lll be there for you, when there is no one else. You are strong and we will be ok in the end

It was then that I spied the band on one of my podgy wrists, a watch perhaps?

Strange

I turned over the photo. In neat, unfamiliar, handwriting was;

Greta,

12 weeks.

The light of our lives

I put it down and reached for the next photo. It was of my dad. How I remembered him, tall, handsome. His eyes shone and he was laughing. He had his arm round a young woman. She was ……. me. I mean like me. I gasped before I realised, that the young woman was my mother. And for the first time I realised that I look like HER.

At least in this photo,

In this photo where she is not …. a fruit cake.

“Who is that you’re with?” Harry asked.

“It's not me. It's my mum and this was my dad.” I pointed to the young man. I looked at the picture for a long time. When i turned it over, it read.

30th July 1980

She said

YES

When I can afford a diamond, a rock she shall have

And here again.

In this one he was wearing jeans, a tartan shirt and a leather strap around his neck. His hair, dark was a thick mane of curls.

They were in a field, the grass was long and they were running, holding hands, and laughing. Mums hair danced long and fluid. Her necklace, crossing her face, her cardi flapped like a parachute behind her. She was pregnant, heavily but looked past the camera as if running to something exciting.

Dad, less than a step behind only had eyes for her. The love in them.

It was beautiful.

And sad.

On the reverse was written

May 1980.

We are to be a family

And soon

I can’t wait

Janis, a mum, the best of mums.

I know.

And I will always be there.

How wrong could you be Dad

Finally there was a photo in a hospital room. Mum, Dad and me.

Dad, so happy, he almost jumped out the photo. In sharp contrast Mum was pale. Her mouth smiled but her eyes blank. Fathomless. A man stood beside in the background, he was portly, sober and wore a dog collar. I guess my grandfather…?

On the reverse just

16th August 1980

And then there were 3

Greta

My little darling

In the brown envelope were three stones. A hole was drilled through the centre of each and then threaded onto lengths of leather. The necklaces in the photographs. I surmised.

The longest had a smooth polished black stone about the size of a walnut. It reminded me of a dragon tooth, or a teardrop, smooth at one end, pointed at the other,

The next was a quartz, the size of a golf ball, translucent with threads of white, as white as marble. It bore the smooth flat edges where it had fractured from it’s mother stone.

The smallest had a strap, barely the length of my little finger. Threaded to it was a moonstone, egg shaped and impossible to describe, for it was neither purple nor blue nor pink, nor yellow. It was all and none of them trapped in a glaze of milky smoke, impossibly iridescent. Incredibly beautiful. It had, however, one vein of black that divided it and it was to this that the band was attached. like a watch or cuff. the bracelet was tiny, doll-size perfect.

I almost missed the letter, a piece of paper folded many times and pushed to the bottom of the envelope.

As I opened it my hands shook and a diamond dropped to the floor I put it on the table and read the letter, out loud,

Dear Greta

The roads are long and everywhere there are rocks.

The rocks. they can build foundations to a life, or the rocks that can crush all that you thought was concrete.

Please understand that I never wanted to leave you without clearing the air, for if you are reading this I am dead or at a point of no return.

I am sorry that I was a bad mother.

I know that you were left wanting.

You deserved better. But know this, I love you,

so much,

every day.

But I didn’t know how to tell you. Those that I have loved

They all die

And I feared that it was my fault

I was a bad omen,

An unlucky charm,

that if i told you, you too would be jinxed.

My illness consumes me and I long for your father, to be with him,

for hie is a rock, and my foundations.

Listen carefully Greta. If you take anything from this letter it is this. for this is important and can’t be told easily in any way.

I must tell you that the strain of mental illness, I have, is hereditary and is passed from mother to daughter. Today, it is easily treatable with early diagnosis. Please for your sake get tested.

And soon.

Unfortunately I only received my results after a routine blood test when you were born and in those days there was nothing that could be done.

And sadly, the rest is history.

Your father loved geology. He said that they were a path to the past and a nod to the future. They are our legacy

Some are now your story and mine.

Dear Greta, forgive and if you can,

love me a little .

For me,

you are a diamond,

multifaceted,

pure,

and

beautiful.

live your life

be happy

love

love

love

Until God brings us home,

I will always love you,

my child

my heart

Your mother

Janis Boon

Three days later. Harry turned up at my door.

He said that he wanted to take me somewhere.

He said that it was a surprise.

He said that there was no point in arguing.

He said that he would take me what ever it took,

And so I agreed as long as we could pop into the doctors on the way.

I needed have a blood test and Harry had a car and could drive me.

The nurse relieved me of what felt like, several pints of blood and sent me on my way with a cheery smiled not to mention, a mountain of leaflets and a promise that she would be in touch with my results in due course.

We rode in his car for a long, long time. Nether of us felt like talking and we remained in an easy silence. We had become closer these past few days and I realised how comfortable it was to be with Harry,

Eventually i asked “Where are we going?”

He was quiet and then, “No need to ask, we’re here.”

I gazed at him

and then in front

We turned the corner

We were at the sea

At the beach

We were at Durdle Door, Britains most beautiful pebble beach.

“It’s time to take possession of your mothers legacy,” said Harry in a voice so quiet that I strained to hear.

“and make it your legacy.

I mean the box,”

“The box?”

“Your box”

And I went

and i chose the perfect stone.

and as I did so I thought of my mother,

my father,

and Harry

But most of all

The box