Home

There are things better not talked about, things that a tongue should not touch and teeth should not tear. Hunger shapes a body and shows you what you are. It can move slowly, down a gently incline from obsession to possession, or it can burn you up like a firework, a Catherine Wheel. I’m not making excuses, well, maybe I am, but hunger creates shadow lives that we have little control over. You dream only about food without noticing that your mouth is no longer empty, but full of future meals and that salvia has begun its job of preparing them. Man’s chewing reflex takes over. It brings you no joy, or even fulfilment, that your stomach can find sustenance from such things, for another minute, another hour. A deep glacial fissure of self hatred lasts much longer than that. It marks and anoints you and cuts the roots of your humanity.

I reasoned with myself, in a place were there was none, creating a quiet place in my heart. There and then I made a vow, to a cruel and demanding God: I would not longer eat, not unless my food was shared. I found contentment in that choice, but I had another. I could stay, or I could go.

The road out was wide enough for cars and trucks to go in either direction, but now there was only me. I wasn’t sure which way I should go. There were no potholes, but I stumbled on, like a drunk, in the low winter sun and resisted the urge to lie down and rest. In that silent struggle, I heard the trill of Erithacus, a Robin Redbreast, by the side of the road. In mythology its breast had been stained by the dying blood of Christ. That was nonsense, of course, but the bright plumage seemed to dilute some of the grey in my soul.

I walked on a little distance and then stopped, with a jolt. I’d noticed, but not seen, what Erithacus, the Robin, had been sitting on. I looked back. It was true. This country was still rich enough to leave out, legumes, winter turnip, in the fields, for cattle fodder. I tried not to rush, but in my frenzy there was a fear that I’d scare the fodder away like rabbits, but soon enough I had the rough feel of turnip in my hand. I thought, at first, I could eat it raw, as I did as a child, munching down on its filling goodness. But my teeth and gums were sore, too brittle, and not yet ready for such a magnificent feast. I would get a stone and scrape at the turnip and soak the pulp of its goodness in my mouth, like baby food. Putting something in your mouth and not chewing, wasn’t really eating. So I would not be breaking my vow.

My resolve faltered and broke. I flung the turnip away, once more disgusted with myself. It was the right thing to do because a man was watching me. He looked like a farmer, wide as a tractor. I knew with sure fleet steps he would cover the distance between that field and this and be upon me before I could even hope to reach the road. I had little hope. But I made a run for it anyway.

I fell, as I knew I would. I was well drilled and covered up, as best I could, with my head down into my chest, with my hands and pulling my legs up, tight into a ball, to protect myself like a human tortoise. Any injury to hand, or foot, or even my mouth would simply hasten the slow march of death. I no longer had the energy or will to fight, but still hoped for life.

I watched the farmer come, like a child at bedtime, through splayed fingers. Following him, dressed identically, was a little farmer. He said something, in that alien barking language, that demanded instant obedience, but it was too far away to hear in the cold wind. The high pitched tone told me enough to know it was a question. I could also tell it came from a child. It had been many years since I had heard a child’s voice. Some part of me was grateful for that gift at least.

The farmer was out of breath by the time that he reached me. He had a stout walking stick that could be used for moving on cattle, or beating people to death. I knew not to cry out, not to ask for mercy, because that helps promote a wild thrashing excitement. It is better to act like a rock. Few people get excited about beating a rock. The farmer stood directly in front of me, weighing my worthlessness. He had a square Slavic face and did not look a cruel man. But those were often the worst.

I could tell now that the boy was his son. Again he asked him a question, but the farmer had moved on, up the hill towards the farmhouse, as if I was no more interest than the Robin Redbreast that I’d seen earlier. I was safe in my nothingness.

The farmer’s son in his puppy like innocence jeopardized that. He tentatively reached his little hand out of his warm winter coat and patted me on the head, as you would a mangy dog, not too sure if it was going to bite. The farmer rushed back, deceptively quick, over the rough ground, in his Wellington boots. He pulled the boy back, roughly, but not unkindly. It was too late. Paediculis humanis corporus is a term associated with the infestation of body lice. The sweet smelling child was close enough for those lice to jump from my decaying flesh onto his chaste hand. The farmer’s keen eyes had seen the bridge that our bodies had made. He brushed his son down in front of me. I think we both knew the pointlessness of that action. As a farmer he would also know that some animals are beyond saving.

The child cried from the shock of being handled so roughly, or the unfairness of the world, he did not truly know. It was that innocence in the child I mourned.