Blackbird Luck
The woman with energy which ran the extremes between ‘little’ and ‘none’ was a me hardly recognizable today. Not because I was limning, I’d painted portrait miniatures as a hobby for years. No. It was an utter depletion of faculties never experienced before.
M.E. (more accurately chronic fatigue syndrome) arrived on the tailwinds of mutually agreeing to separate from my then darling red-blazered husband, Robin, for the sakes of our creativity. We were hampered by the differing time-zones we best worked in – he was a lark, I was a night owl.
The recession was in full flow, property market dead and attempting to resurrect my pre-writing vocation as a voice coach proved impossible. On selling our home days before having to hand the keys back to the mortgage company I’d managed to rent the basement flat. Separation. Moving House. New business. Financial Worries. All the stresses and a lovely ex-husband who only knew how to write and play music…
On landing, my body forced me to stop. Completely. It was a first.
Drawing on non-existent reserves, I struggled to get family and friends to understand the condition, eventually settling on ‘an allergic reaction to relating with anyone or anything – mentally, physically and emotionally.’ After five weeks’ of being bed-ridden, contemplating the doom-laden diagnosis from West Cornwall’s superb M.E. team had exhausted itself. No cure. Could worsen. Could be terminal. Go sugar and gluten-free. Pace.
I considered the worst scenario, decided life was still worth living and surrendered to ‘The Dark Mother’ or ‘Energies of Mother Nature’. Small became big.
Daily delights included seeing the welly-clad legs of unidentified figures accompanied by varying four-leggeds from my bed – all that was visible through the ground-level spy hole of a window.
And fingering the cream embossed fern shapes of the flock wallpaper.
And listening to the screaming seagulls nesting on top of the chimney.
Very slowly – aided by massive quantities of carrots to boost my vitamin B – I was able to venture up the stairs without three hours’ rest either side. It led to minute spells of weeding surrounding All Saints Church orchestrated by my neighbor who managed to convince the wardens it might be a win-win idea, despite me being a non church-goer. I began to heal.
But reading and writing hurt my eyes. And there was rent to be paid.
As innocently trusting as my childhood had encouraged me to be, I decided to ‘think small’ and create an art gallery in my living room…
Little by little a gallery of miniatures – portraits, still lives and tiny installations I called ‘Talking Pieces’ – evolved. Enough to have an opening ‘solo show’ which covered my expenses, if not the rent.
And despite the demands of running a business, I managed to operate – albeit with sleeping through the three days a week when Lizzie Limner’s was closed. When the gallery was empty – which became an increasing norm as the recession deepened and relentless rain beat tourists’ and traders’ spirits into despondence – Clock Clock was often my sole companion.
The nature of our conversing and its content will always be incomprehensible and too intimate for words.
How can I reflect a sound which had so many variations in tempo and range? And which, merely in the answering and response, each echoing the other’s subtle changes in inflection, gifted the friendship and luck folklore speaks of: two Blackbirds being together.
Clock Clock left the luck and a few stains on the carpet when he departed. Did he find a mate? I never saw one. Where he nested was a mystery. But one day as the doleful season slowed, he failed to show up. He just disappeared.
The emptiness was no longer home to the perfection of shared solitude between species. And I was fortunate if I welcomed three visitors a day, most of them with empty purses.
It looked as if Lizzie Limner’s would be another photo on the growing montage of galleries unable to survive in the economic climate of the time. I needed to hang on in there for a month or two, until I knew where to go next.
I needed luck.
In a willing moment of anthropomorphosizing, I’m inclined to think it was Clock Clock’s legacy.
p.s. For more context, read preceding posts. To hear what happened next, fly back here tomorrow!