Tony was once more aware of a reality other than that which brought him torment.
There was no change in his physical health. He had his girth. His curly brown hair was the same length as when it had last been cut, not much longer now: an indicator that little actual time passed as Tony was understood it. He had reached symbolic harbour.
Tony was a very young man, nineteen years old. He had been born in Ballyham to well-meaning parents, what were known as being among the post-war cast, and they had brought him up dutifully and warmly. There was time for peaceful walks down behind Ballyham on the dirt trails along the rolling creeks amid the tall arboreal trees. Sometimes he was reading, not his math texts or geography statements, but modern classics; Kafka, Huxley, sometimes Charles Dickens. He had hoped to be prepared for the continuation of study. He privately proffered an aptitude for the scholarly.
It happened one day in the summer of 1996 that he was taking a train to Ashhoe Abbey in Lancashire. He arrived in the Lakeland by about two o’clock on a June afternoon. Disembarking, he took a bus across Hawkshead Town. The driver was a quiet gentleman, intent on the task of driving. There was another passenger, too: a girl a bit older than Tony. She was fair and dressed demurely. Her hair was shoulder-length and darker than Tony’s, but her eyes blue like robins’ eggs. She had an alertness to her that belied the solemnity of the ride to Ashhoe.
“I haven’t seen you before in Hawskhead,” she said. Her voice was low in pitch and calming.
“It’s to see Ashhoe Abbey,” Tony replied. “I’m making a day trip. For a visit. I’m from Ballyham.”
“Ballyham,” the girl repeated. “I’ve been there,” she boasted. “I have family. My name’s Beatrice.”
Tony smiled. “I’m Tony,” he told her. “This is my first time going to Ashhoe. I’d hoped it would provide an adventure.”
“It isn’t the most interesting spot in the world,” Beatrice said. “But it’s nice. There's a pastor there, Father Powers. He’s getting old but he’s quite knowledgeable about the abbey. Maybe you’ll find him there?”
“Maybe,” agreed Tony. “I’ll look around and see what is to be seen. Maybe things enlightening?”
“I don’t know what you mean by that,” stated Beatrice, “but it is a nice abbey. Father Powers knows a lot about it.”
Hawkshead Town gave way to its outskirts, and the bus had taken Tony as far as it could. “It was nice meeting you,” he said to Beatrice.
“Sure,” Beatrice said neutrally. Then the bus, the driver and Beatrice were gone, and Tony was in for a walk.
The road to Ashhoe Abbey was a winding dirt road, through fields of tall grass and only three miles’ distance. The air was crisp and the sunshine warm, and Tony felt uplifted but a bit queer, too, as he proceeded towards the abbey. The three miles may have taken him an hour, but his reverie kept him feeling good. As the abbey came into sight he felt very proud. It was a large square building of nineteenth-century stone, with pillars before it beckoning entrance. His reality had changed.
Tony had his own room, and it was small and mute in colour. It was very quiet, but he did have a small radio. “Try to show an interest in the outside world,” Tony had been told by a slight, older man who visited him briefly and periodically. This was Dr. White, a physician who was treating Tony for what Dr. White said was a disorder.
The crash of a jetliner over waters off Long Island, N.Y. was discussed on the radio, and Tony felt all the more distant. Why had the people aboard died? Answers were few in the clutter of his mind.
Tony was promised recovery. It wouldn’t be long, Tony was told. In Tony’s dreams, while he slept, he saw the jetliner going down. He waved and waved, but of course, it was futile. All the people flying in it were going to die. Sometimes, he was dreaming of himself drifting through the clouds, flung from an aircraft like an attack plane’s chafe. Alone in the sky, so very high above the earth, he felt as though he should frightened, but he oddly wasn’t.
He saw something that piqued his interest, on the small colour television broadcasting a teleplay, Summer of Fear. This TV movie made him miss his former life all the more. Tony told his doctor that he was lonely, and the doctor assured him now that his recovery was close to complete. Tony was confiding his feelings, Dr. White said, and that meant he would soon be his old self.
Tony found that by opening up more and more to Dr. White, in those moments when the doctor came to ask him how he was doing, Dr. White seemed more inclined to give Tony a sign-off of release. When the day came, Tony left the hospital and seeing the end of July sky awash in glory above, he was briefly afraid again that it would spill down on him, but it didn’t.
Back in Ballyham, he spoke little of what had come to him. Sparked by an interest in Ashhoe Abbey, Tony’s life had changed. Tony knew that he wasn’t as interested in the trails to the creek as he had been, and it was a shade of fear that kept him away, but August came as it had before, and Tony let drift the memories of Hawkshead.
He thought of Ashhoe no more.
There was no change in his physical health. He had his girth. His curly brown hair was the same length as when it had last been cut, not much longer now: an indicator that little actual time passed as Tony was understood it. He had reached symbolic harbour.
Tony was a very young man, nineteen years old. He had been born in Ballyham to well-meaning parents, what were known as being among the post-war cast, and they had brought him up dutifully and warmly. There was time for peaceful walks down behind Ballyham on the dirt trails along the rolling creeks amid the tall arboreal trees. Sometimes he was reading, not his math texts or geography statements, but modern classics; Kafka, Huxley, sometimes Charles Dickens. He had hoped to be prepared for the continuation of study. He privately proffered an aptitude for the scholarly.
It happened one day in the summer of 1996 that he was taking a train to Ashhoe Abbey in Lancashire. He arrived in the Lakeland by about two o’clock on a June afternoon. Disembarking, he took a bus across Hawkshead Town. The driver was a quiet gentleman, intent on the task of driving. There was another passenger, too: a girl a bit older than Tony. She was fair and dressed demurely. Her hair was shoulder-length and darker than Tony’s, but her eyes blue like robins’ eggs. She had an alertness to her that belied the solemnity of the ride to Ashhoe.
“I haven’t seen you before in Hawskhead,” she said. Her voice was low in pitch and calming.
“It’s to see Ashhoe Abbey,” Tony replied. “I’m making a day trip. For a visit. I’m from Ballyham.”
“Ballyham,” the girl repeated. “I’ve been there,” she boasted. “I have family. My name’s Beatrice.”
Tony smiled. “I’m Tony,” he told her. “This is my first time going to Ashhoe. I’d hoped it would provide an adventure.”
“It isn’t the most interesting spot in the world,” Beatrice said. “But it’s nice. There's a pastor there, Father Powers. He’s getting old but he’s quite knowledgeable about the abbey. Maybe you’ll find him there?”
“Maybe,” agreed Tony. “I’ll look around and see what is to be seen. Maybe things enlightening?”
“I don’t know what you mean by that,” stated Beatrice, “but it is a nice abbey. Father Powers knows a lot about it.”
Hawkshead Town gave way to its outskirts, and the bus had taken Tony as far as it could. “It was nice meeting you,” he said to Beatrice.
“Sure,” Beatrice said neutrally. Then the bus, the driver and Beatrice were gone, and Tony was in for a walk.
The road to Ashhoe Abbey was a winding dirt road, through fields of tall grass and only three miles’ distance. The air was crisp and the sunshine warm, and Tony felt uplifted but a bit queer, too, as he proceeded towards the abbey. The three miles may have taken him an hour, but his reverie kept him feeling good. As the abbey came into sight he felt very proud. It was a large square building of nineteenth-century stone, with pillars before it beckoning entrance. His reality had changed.
Tony had his own room, and it was small and mute in colour. It was very quiet, but he did have a small radio. “Try to show an interest in the outside world,” Tony had been told by a slight, older man who visited him briefly and periodically. This was Dr. White, a physician who was treating Tony for what Dr. White said was a disorder.
The crash of a jetliner over waters off Long Island, N.Y. was discussed on the radio, and Tony felt all the more distant. Why had the people aboard died? Answers were few in the clutter of his mind.
Tony was promised recovery. It wouldn’t be long, Tony was told. In Tony’s dreams, while he slept, he saw the jetliner going down. He waved and waved, but of course, it was futile. All the people flying in it were going to die. Sometimes, he was dreaming of himself drifting through the clouds, flung from an aircraft like an attack plane’s chafe. Alone in the sky, so very high above the earth, he felt as though he should frightened, but he oddly wasn’t.
He saw something that piqued his interest, on the small colour television broadcasting a teleplay, Summer of Fear. This TV movie made him miss his former life all the more. Tony told his doctor that he was lonely, and the doctor assured him now that his recovery was close to complete. Tony was confiding his feelings, Dr. White said, and that meant he would soon be his old self.
Tony found that by opening up more and more to Dr. White, in those moments when the doctor came to ask him how he was doing, Dr. White seemed more inclined to give Tony a sign-off of release. When the day came, Tony left the hospital and seeing the end of July sky awash in glory above, he was briefly afraid again that it would spill down on him, but it didn’t.
Back in Ballyham, he spoke little of what had come to him. Sparked by an interest in Ashhoe Abbey, Tony’s life had changed. Tony knew that he wasn’t as interested in the trails to the creek as he had been, and it was a shade of fear that kept him away, but August came as it had before, and Tony let drift the memories of Hawkshead.
He thought of Ashhoe no more.