Everything Has Its Time
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«Yes, those were hard times… The people went bust…» Kathryn answered sadly.
«And then in 1981, in Ireland our homeland, there was a big string of hunger strikes and riots, and the Baroness’ response was overly brutal. No wonder there was an assassination planned against her. Do you remember the bomb at the party conference in Brighton? If it were not for her victory in the Falklands War, she would have lost the 1983 election.» Kevin continued his endless search for historic justice. This seemed to be one of the few things that could intermittently take his mind off things.
«The next two years were overshadowed by the miners’ strikes. Without batting an eyelid, the lady premier destroyed the nation’s coal industry with a single stroke, and left tens of thousands unemployed, and the pound crashed. That was why, when she died, there were celebrations in many of our cities, London, Bristol, Liverpool and Glasgow. People had placards with Ding-dong, the witch is dead written on them, people celebrated with champagne…»
«But you cannot argue, Kevin, we both felt sorry for her… Despite everything she did…»
«Yes, despite all that, she was still a human being. And a woman. Of course, you remember that poor woman had several strokes and a broken arm. Before she died, she had to go to the therapist for hallucination and dementia. I felt sorry for her, of course. Only death could bring her escape from her anguish, and, I hope, forgiveness for everything she had done, even though she never expressed regret for anything…»
«They should stop feeding you and just let you discuss politics and economics all day and all night, dear, you understand the ins and outs like the back of your hand… I can see it brings you great pleasure…»
«It is good that we see eye to eye on these issues, Kathryn!»
«Well obviously! If I was not also of 100% Irish stock, these discussions of ours would always and inevitably end in an overblown argument.»
«That’s where you’re wrong, my love! It wouldn’t end in an argument, but in a speedy divorce! That’d be it!»
«I value your sense of humour! You could outdo Tony Hancock at this. You’ve always been able to make me laugh, or at least force a smile.»
«With a big more luck… I could have you rolling on the floor in laughter…»
«You were lucky enough to be an Irishman, is that not enough already!» she retorted.
«Kiss me, Kathryn. I want to be reminded of the taste of your lips for the rest of time.»
For a moment, she felt embarrassment. But then, a second having passed, she leaned over to him and firmly kissed him on the mouth with her kind and pink lips, and briefly picked up the partially sweet, partially bitter smell of almonds. Her heart was racing. As their lips parted, he noticed that her large, dark eyes held a sad smile, and that her soul seemed completely void.
At this time, it was getting dark outside. The day of the Heavenly Patron was coming to a close. The weather started to get worse, the sky became overcast with big, grey clouds, and then came a drizzle of rain. Gloomy and grey. Kathryn sighed heavily and exited the hospital, feeling an unexpected coldness. She opened her large umbrella over her head, which partially concealed her face from passers-by, her face which had in the course of her visit become pinched and worn, and also covered over her fragile figure, now permeated with a great sadness. It also hid her eyes in darkness, brimming with tears of salt, like a boundless ocean. A feeling of hopelessness enraptured her body.
Deep in thought, she wandered the streets of Birmingham, this great industrial English city. The streetlights had already come on, the shopfronts were shining brightly, tempting the city’s shoppers, drunk with everything from ale to whisky with green shamrocks, with brightly coloured celebratory wreaths, and discounts advertised on brightly coloured signs. But she noticed none of these sights at all. Her strikingly transparent eyes, with their indescribable grief, gazed off somewhere in the distance, and her head was filled with the realisation of the hollowness of her existence.
«What is life?» she asked herself.
3. Rachel
Erin began to tire from the journey to the Central Psychiatric Hospital in Northern Nottinghamshire. She had been driving her two-year-old, beige-coloured Peugeot 307 quite fast, and without stopping, but there was still an hour and a half until her destination, even if she drove quickly. She was enjoying the warm yet wet weather, despite a soft wind blowing, but inside she was somehow anxious, confused, and grim. For a moment, something like a ray of light caught her eye and she looked up to the sky, but she saw no sunshine. She saw a few single clouds and a small gaggle of sparrows overhead, followed by a small gaggle of rooks. Hills and uplands were replaced by lowlands and thick woods, fertile lands of broad pastures and wild grasslands with cultivated fields. Brave yet skinny deer appeared along the road, hungry foxes ran past in search of fat partridges, and fat wild rabbits crawled into bushes of boxwood…
Finally, Northern Nottinghamshire came into view, with its landscape of rolling hills and large ducal estates. Once there were mining towns here, they reached up to the north out of Nottinghamshire and into Yorkshire. But of these mines, workplaces for thousands of able-bodied men, almost all were closed by the Conservative government in the 1980s, and all that was left to remind people of their former existence were abandoned windmills standing over the mineshafts. On the bright side, another interesting attraction came into view, Sherwood Forest, or at least what was left of it since the Middle Ages. Robin Hood, leader of the forest bandits, took refuge in this forest along with his merry men… And there was the family home of Lord Byron: Newstead Abbey. Erin remembered that in Nottinghamshire once also lived the father of Lemuel Gulliver, who she believed was a minor landlord, and the main character of Jonathan Swift’s novels «Gulliver’s Travels».