The Song Of Bernadette:

There’s something disorientating about waking up in a hotel.  I’m sorry, but there is.  No matter how scuzzy, or comfortable.  Whether it’s the first night, or the tenth.  Your body and mind are on edge.  It’s either too warm or too cold.  Too quiet, or too noisy.  Too much is always not enough.    I shouldn’t complain, really.  This one was secured at a lovely little combination of luck and outrageous pricing.  Conveniently located, opposite Exeter St David’s Station. 

I’m going home today.  My real home, Liverpool.  I’m expecting it to be the same.  And I know that’s completely naïve.  That’s like going on holiday, leaving your house with two teenagers and not expecting it to be burnt down when you get back from a nice holiday.  Which is basically, what the last three years of living in England has been like.  One long moment of wild rumpus, where some of us want to wake up and some of us want to stay asleep. 

My Mother named me after a Catholic saint, as she was called after a Catholic saint herself.  My Dad, wanted to call me Margaret.  I was born the day that she won her first election.  My Mum refused.  He went the pub.  Which must have been an omen really, nine months later he went to an away game and never came back. 

I was sitting in the hotel bar, last night.  Drinking a gin.  It’s funny, how when I was a kid; gin was Grandma’s drink.  Now: we’re all Grandma.  I’ve paid substantially over the odds for this, even by the standards of hotel bar prices.  It’s got more fruit and herbs than a garden in it.  The glass looks like it should have a goldfish swimming round in it.  It tastes dry, earthy, refreshing. 

And then: that song comes on.  One of those songs, the kind of one you hear on the radio.  And turn the radio off for a few minutes.  Wait till it’s gone.  The all-clear goes.  The moment has passed.  The terrible, awful, silent, malevolent thing that could hurt you has gone.  The shadow has passed over you.  Breathe.  Move on. 

This song: that was played at my wedding.

This song: vaguely trendy, but not out of the ordinary. 

This song: the kind that 6Music plays, to provoke some sort of Pavlovian response in people of a certain age. 

This song: means nothing anymore.

The bar is filling up now, lairy lads and girls celebrating the end of the crisis. The CGA (Central Government Authority) taking over.  It’s a relief, in a way.  Though, looking out of the window, across the road to the station, there’s a tank parked where there is usually a rail replacement bus service.  Don’t get too drunk yet lads. 

One gin, back to the room. 

That was the plan, anyway. 

Breakfast is porridge.  Or Porridge.  Or, if you don’t fancy that: Porridge. Proper food supplies won’t resume for a few months, so it’ll be at least Christmas before you can go bacon crazy, or stuff your pockets full of herbal tea.  I’m the only one in the breakfast room. Which suits me really; I don’t want someone next to me at the moment.  Feeding on my emotions and memories for a starter, then getting down to the really rich stuff like depression, then something nice and light; like my husband’s inability to just sleep with me. 

Depression: a funny word, isn’t it? A small dent or a period of bad weather.  I can remember days, just lying on the bed.  Feeling as if I was under a glass slide.  Unable to eat, sleep or feel something.  And it’s like your typical slippery slope.  Some days you slide, some days you glide.  And no matter how much you accept it, be honest with other people about it, accept it as part of your own personality… you still dread its arrival. 

For the second time in a week, I’m packing a bag.  I’m looking round the room for the last little pieces: phone charger, journal.  The stuff that’ll keep me going.  Little reminders of being human, the stuff you don’t want to leave behind.  I check out, there’s no-one on reception.  Across the road, through the gates and then onto the platform.  Where is everyone today? Asleep? Drunk? Reading a good book.  I’ve been reading a lot lately, not new stuff, re-reading stuff.  When the depression was truly at its worse, I couldn’t even do that.  The words were just shapes and patterns, the emotion and thoughts behind them, weren’t there.  And I hated that.  I felt as if something had been taken away from me. 

Some part of my soul had been removed, silently, secretly, stealthily.

My ex-husband (might as well start calling him that) met me in a bookshop.  A big one, a posh one with loyalty cards and a coffee shop.  I was digging into a bin of sale items, looking for a cheap gardening book.  My husband, stood next to me. Making what my university tutor called  NVC’s (Non-Verbal Cues): little uhms, aahs and nahs. He was looking through the bins, expressing little noises of disgust or delight at each book he picked up, regardless of author or size.  Typical bloke, in that respect. 

‘Seen anything you like?’  He raised an eyebrow from behind his glasses, a fleshy question mark. 

I waved a book at him.  ‘Useful book on organic gardening.  You?’  I know he’s flirting with me, but I’m a stranger in a strange land here.  I’m a single, middle-aged Scouse woman in a Devonian city.  Blokes look at me with a mix of confusion and lust.  And anyway, I’m not looking for anyone.  Who needs a man when you can have a book?  Lasts longer, faithful companion, gives you more pleasure. 

‘Coffee?’ I can’t believe he actually said that.  Probably, his second choice was: ‘Did you hurt yourself when you fell from heaven?’

‘It’s a drink made from brewed and roasted coffee beans’.

I’m moving towards the till with a pile of cheap books.  No such thing as a bad purchase when it comes to books.  Several men have disappointed me, but no book ever has.  No, tell a lie.  More men than books. 

‘No, would you like one?’

‘If you’re paying, yeah’

The coffee wasn’t bad, the meal that followed was a bit better.  The relationship flowed smoothly, like we were following a river.  You always knew where it was going, but you always knew there were streams and ponds you didn’t need to visit.  Within a matter of months, we were making plans on who was going to move where.  I had a flat in Liverpool, that stank of damp and other people’s shattered dreams.  He had a house in a quiet part of Devon.  So, no contest there.  My sister Mary said that I was ‘giving up my power to a man’.  And I didn’t see it that way: because when you fall in love the logical brakes come off.  From the outside, some people see you driving towards a brick wall; you see yourself on a trip to the seaside. 

The train must be due, my passport is getting checked.  Which is nothing out of the ordinary: it been used as a form of ID since Brexit.  But: I’m going home, I’m not moving countries.  Unless something is happening, that I’m not yet aware of.  Some unidentified surprise.  Which I should be used to really. After three years of a pretty dull marriage, I should really be paying more attention.  I step on the train and within a few minutes, I’m leaving, lifted: gone.  If this was a romcom, he would be running down the platform in the pouring rain, with a dead bunch of flowers, shouting that there had been a terrible mistake. 

Yeah, I married a terrible mistake.  Bye…

The depression got worse as I opened my eyes.  I realised that there was something he kept secret, the absences and late nights ‘at a friend’s house’.  In the meantime, I could feel the sky inside my head growing darker.  I spent as much time as I could in the garden. Because a garden never sleeps or decides to look after itself.  There is always, something to do.  Which takes your mind off things: you know, like the disintegration of democracy, football, a failed relationship.  Of course, once you get to the dark months, that becomes difficult.  The darkness inside and outside gets to you. 

At this point, Brexit had taken place.  We were glad of the garden, as a visit to the supermarket was a disappointment.  We lived off the garden for a bit, which was just enough to keep us alive; combined with the collection of tins we’d had in the shed.  We stayed indoors, it was safer that way.  I was looking for a particular packet of seeds in the shed, when I found what I always knew at the back of my mind. 

I opened the seedbox, leafed through the ones I could plant, then the ones I couldn’t plant.  At the back of a box was a mobile.  Not even a decent one, not even a Smartphone.  This wasn’t an issue, as the WiFi had been down for a few weeks.  I’d been advised to contact my provider.  I tried to contact my provider and the phone line was dead. 

I turned the phone.  You can more or less guess what I found.  Messages, photos.  Statements of intent or emotion.  I took the phone into the house, threw it  across the coffee table.  He was talking to Cheesy Carl, a Scouse bloke who had gained a reputation for getting stuff that no-one else could.  He was Scouse, like me a fish out of water.  A ghost in outdoor clothing.  Within ten minutes, I’d booked an expensive taxi, an even more extortionate hotel and packed a bag. 

It was in the hotel, I had the real comedown.  I cried, because that is the normal, human thing to do.  My counsellor always told me, be human.  But after that, I looked at myself in the mirror and looked at myself.  Not just the lines and marks of my skin, the colour of my eyes, but really looked.  I recognised my depression, as part of me.  It’s something that happens, every now and again.  It really is The Black Dog.  I mean, that’s not a cliché.  It comes to you, settles in and then leaves.  Acceptance is the key, but at the same time: don’t be complacent.  It’s never gonna completely leave you, just accept it; as something that visits every now and again and then goes.  Like some sort of annoying relative. 

It was there, I had time to think too.  Not that there was much on telly.  A constant repeat of The Good Life (oh, the irony) or Hancock’s Half Hour (about a man whose dreams of independence end in disaster.  See also).  But there was a general lifting of the national mood, a few days ago. The CGA was taking control (a coalition of the main political parties) and order was being restored.  We were negotiating with The EU about going back in.  Whether they would have us was a moot point.  But, hey ho: food drops to the more remote areas of the country were taking place.  I laughed at the idea of my ex-husband and Cheesy Carl fighting over a tin of beans. 

I mean, you’ve got to laugh haven’t you? 

The train is announcing that there is no Buffet Service on this train, due to staff/stock shortgages.  There will be a limited service in Birmingham New Street, from The Salvation Army.  It also warns me that there will be further passport checks at the station.  What the hell is going on? I remember a word from somewhere, Balkanisation.  Maybe the country is fragmenting, splitting apart like an old jigsaw; reforming into some new shape.  No CGA announcement yet. 

It’s on the concourse of New Street that I have my passport checked.  This means that I can approach the Salvation Army Stand, receive a relatively inedible cheese sandwich and a cup of greasy soup.  I have to place it on the counter of the ticket barrier as I head through, towards Platform 9A.  Or Nahn-ah. I pass an advert for Joy Division Lingerie: Love Won’t Tear Them Apart.  

The soldiers at the other side of the barrier nod at me, automatic weapons hanging from their shoulder straps, wish me a safe journey. Thanks lads, please don’t kill me. 

I’ve never known a time when this platform wasn’t busy.  Today, it’s packed with football fans.  Blue scarves, slightly less shouty than normal.  They remind me of kids on their best behaviour.  Not that I’ve had kids, or ever will.  I’m not actually thinking of kids at this point.  I’m thinking of my Dad. The vaguest memories I have of him.  I don’t feel I knew him, I knew more about him after he disappeared.

I remember his face, big blue eyes, blonde fringe.  Babbling the same words, over and over again.  If I can filter then, what I feel now: it would be a kind man, a bit daft but full of love.  He was there and then, he wasn’t there.  It was only later, I think I must have been ten; or maybe early teens when I was told he had disappeared when I was a toddler.  No-one knew what happened to him.  And I wouldn’t accept that.  No-answer is just that, no answer.  And at the time, I was obsessed with Murder She Wrote.  I think I had a girl crush on Angela Lansbury, which explains the odd experiment in my late teens, early twenties.  These were usually accompanied by Moby’s album Play. 

At least there’s one thing I’m embarrassed about and one thing I’m not ashamed of. 

Anyway, I digress.  The train is moving now; there is another reminder that there is no buffet service on the train.  The young girl opposite me offers me a crisp and I say no thank you.  I stare out of the window, which is Traveller’s Esperanto for Leave me Alone.    

I found a box in the loft.  For a brand of tinned food, that didn’t exist anymore.  Covered in dust, which clung to the box, mingled in with the dull, beige masking tape.  I opened it, with a pair of scissors.  One blade across the tape released a slightly damp smell.  Inside, scarves, programmes of his team (so, he supported them?  That’s a surprise).  A notebook, the brand of which I vaguely remember.  Red Silvine, which I always thought sounded like a country and western singer.  Inside, notes, codes dates. Like Anne Lister’s diaries, which I studied at Uni.  But more brusque, masculine, sinister. 

13/09/80 – Aw.  CC, DR.  Lst TN.  B2, KK1. 

20/12/80 – Hm.  DR cld.  CC, pups.  Wn ON.  B3. 

It was later on, that I found out from talking to some of the grandad’s in the pub.   I knew those research skills from Uni would come in handy.   He was a hard case.  Soccer Hooligan. Always known, never referred to.  Went to an away game in 1981, never came home. So, the code began to unravel itself.  Bletchley style.  He was a thug, this smiling boy.  Were he alive now, he’d be one of those grandads.  Making a pint last all afternoon, checking The Racing Post, circling the horses he liked the sound of. 

Maybe that was the cause of my periods of depression, this lack of a Father figure.  Maybe it wasn’t.  Maybe depression is genetic, maybe it isn’t.  Either way, it’s part of me.  I accept it.  Know it’s triggers, manage it’s storms.     At this time in history, with a nation recovering from a democratic hangover; I’m guarded, eyes open. I’m returning home to Liverpool.  I’m gonna be like a teenager, barricading myself into our Mary’s boxroom with a wall of books.  What comes next is anyone’s guess. 

We are reminded to have our passports and tickets ready.  Again, I’m passing through the ticket barrier when I’m handed a red rose.  I’m told, Welcome to the Republic Of Liverpool.  Please remain on the concourse.  We’re herded like sheep behind a barrier.  We’re confused, are we gonna get shot? Taken prisoner? Food parcels? 

And then it’s then, I see the kids being herded into the concourse.  Little poppets, in red school jumpers.  Bright, innocent, unaware.  Raised in a time of crisis.  It would be the easisest thing in the world to see these as the next set of problems.  But, I’m an agnostic in every sense of the word. Like St Augustine, I’m prepared to believe in the innocence of children.  No point in being Pelagian about it.  He believed the world corrupted the innocent.

The videowall sparks into life, with a fluttering flag.  Purple.  With a Liver Bird in white, picked out in all it’s detail.  This fierce, almost alien looking thing.  Seaweed in it’s beak, keys in it’s claws. 

We are told Please Stand For The National Anthem.  National anthem? My mind is racing, is it The Beatles? Gerry And The Pacemakers?

And the kids begin to sing: There She Goes.  By The La’s.  A song, that is simple, plaintive, short.  The song that was played at my wedding.  The whole concourse is singing it.  Some stood still, others punctuating the words with clenched fists. 

I’m crying now.  I’m either moved to tears by this, or just relieved to let go.  This brave new world that doesn’t just have such people in it, but children.