Stonewall

Stonewall
A short story by Paul Dalley

I awake early in the morning and dress myself in warm clothes. I cannot
fully understand what it was that was eating me up yesterday. It was a
particular day when I felt a combination of anger and depression. My
mood was so low that I was almost in favour of wishing my life away,
move it forward, five or maybe even six years, or so far forward that I
could look at my age-old face.

I open the curtains, it is a beautiful morning so typical of this time
a year. The sun is still below the horizon but the barred rosy pink
clouds give me a small clue to the warm sunny Autumnal day to
come.

I look in the bathroom mirror and see a reflection that I am happy
with. I look at my eyes, the solid black pupils as small as pinheads
because of the bright light accentuating the colour in my irises, so
glassy and azure. My dark eyebrows sit almost right on top of my eyes
in a slight upward, u-shape-curve, bowing outwards at the ends away
from the eyes to meet my crows' feet or laughing lines. I have always
thought of my nose as being quite a bony structure but rounded at the
end because of two oversized nostrils. I think if it were not for my
eyes, my nose would be the most prominent part of my facial features.
You could stick a ruler along my smirking smile, it's that straight;
but a genuine smile raises the cheeks, V-shapes the chin, squints the
eyes and defines the crows' feet, and I do smile, and laugh, quite a
lot, even if I'm not myself, and today is going to be that sort of
day.

I decide to skip breakfast and take advantage of the morning. I walk
from my house up the hill towards the woods. This sun is now low in the
sky and right behind me. My shadow is long and thin against the pink
hue. I cross the stone bridge and stop for a while to look into the
river below. My arms rest on the damp stonework; you can see globules
of water holding on to the lichens that have made the bridge their
home. I lean right over the edge to get a view of the fast flowing
river; the musty scent of the water fills my nose as I watch the water
reeds sway and the waters surface glisten.

Halfway up the hill there is a period cottage with a Cornish slated
roof. Its traditional black and white paintwork temporarily changed to
an off white with a hint of fleshy coloured pink. The impregnable black
railings protecting the property look as though they would melt the
skin off your hands if you touched them. The bright red-hot glow down
the full-length of each rail makes me stop and stare for a while; I am
fascinated by the intensity caused by light. Outside the cottage, the
wisteria has started to wither and change colour. In the side garden
rowan trees with their flame coloured leaves and clumps of scarlet
berries, stretch the full width of the side garden, planted so close
that their branches entwine. For a moment, I squint my eyes and the
trees briefly turn into a line of fire, the slight breeze adding to the
flickering flame effect. I turn away and walk up the lane to the
woods.

The avenue of trees down to the lake looks so different on a day like
this, it's almost as though I have never been here before; but I have,
I always come here when I need time to myself. Each side of the path
the trees fight for light supremacy. You will never see an English Oak,
Sweet Chestnut, and Beech look so perpendicular and thin as they fight
alongside the usual more commonly known Larch, Scots and Corsican
Pines. I walk down the avenue; I notice my shadow in front of me has
shortened now that the sun is higher in the sky, the more usual natural
light that will stay consistent for the rest of day has replaced the
rosy pink hue of the early morning.

The gravel road leading down to the lake has two grooves worn away over
the years by four-wheel drive vehicles, only the very middle of the
path allowing the odd tuft of grass to establish itself here and there.
As I walk further down towards the lake, I notice a small figure of a
man sitting by the side of the path; my first thought was, "Blimey,
someone else must have a lot to think about this morning". As I get
closer, I became aware that I too had been noticed by what appears to
be a small old man.

I walked up to where he sat. I stopped and stood facing the old man
with a nervous smile on my face. "Good morning" I said, with a slight
break between the words.
"Yes it is" he replied. I noticed the straight line smirk on his lips
and his eyebrows rise off the top of his eyes after saying this.
"Please take a seat," his hand was stretched out and pointing down
towards a grassy tuft on the knee high stonewall he was sitting on. The
stonewall was like a purpose built stone bench, I am sure I would have
noticed this before, I thought to myself. The grey-stone had obviously
been there for a long time, it was blanketed in moss, apart from the
odd raised or pointed piece poking its head through the lush green
carpet; as for where he was asking me to sit, it was perfect. I sat,
the stone seat hugged my contours as though it was designed around me,
it did not feel damp in fact it felt warm and certainly very
comfortable.

There was something slightly unsettling about the old man, but at the
same time, I felt a strong feeling of curiosity as I was drawn to his
familiar looking features. He had the most striking blue eyes; the sun
was right in the old man's face, bright and intense, but he wasn't
squinting. His eyes were as blue as sapphires, accentuated by his
tightly closed pupils. The deep crows' feet at the corners of his eyes
travelled down his face and under his chin, the lines going up his face
simply disappeared into his thin grey hair. The more I looked at him
the more comfortable I felt. His smile as he talked, made me feel warm
inside, and we did talk, for at least an hour, we just seemed to have
so much to talk about. The conversation we had was so deep and personal
to me; I felt all the anger and depression of the last couple of days
ebb away, replaced by a feeling of self-confidence and optimism for the
future. The sick feeling I had in the pit of my stomach wasn't there
anymore. I so wanted to stay here all day and talk but I couldn't, I
had to go.

I stood up from my grassy seat-faced the old man and held out my right
hand, he looked at me and smiled the biggest smile; his cheeks were so
raised I could hardly see his sapphire coloured eyes, the crows' feet
deepened and his v-shape chin became prominent, 'Thank you', I said.
Instead of shaking my hand formally, he simply cupped his left hand
firmly around the side of my hand, his thumb resting on the back. He
looked at me for a short while not letting go and quietly said, You'll
be okay, trust me, I know. I looked at him a bit confused, my bottom
lip firmed up hiding my top lip, I nodded in agreement whilst all the
time trying to mentally acknowledge what he had just said to me. He let
go of my hand; I turned and carried on to the lake.

Eventually I reached the lake and stood there for a short while with no
real conviction to stay. I thought about the old man and all that we
had talked about and how he so understood all of the feelings that had
caused me so much anxiety and self-doubt. As I started to question in
my mind how much he understood about me, I suddenly realised that the
old man knew my name, yet, I hadn't introduced myself, nor had he
introduced himself to me; how could he know my name? I needed to know
how he knew me, I turned and ran back to where the small stonewall was
along the avenue. I paced up and down where the stonewall should have
been, but it wasn't there. I quickly ran the full length of the avenue
and back again retracing my steps but still nothing, no old man and no
stonewall. I sat on the grass at the side of the path and placed my
head in my hands, did I imagine this? Am I dreaming? I sat recollecting
my thoughts and feelings, the stonewall and the old man had
disappeared, but the feeling he had left inside me remained.