A short story for those longing for the sun in the long winters
She folded her legs under her and rested her book to one side. As she lay her head against the wall she was a small figure in the window seat, seated in the few rays of sunshine penetrating the winter gloom.
Where is home now she wondered? Should I call home the place where I was born, or this place that I know like the back of my hand? She placed a protective hand over the imperceptible swell of her belly.
Soon they would be moving, far west, a place they had giggled and chosen by closing their eyes, holding hands and placing a finger on a map. At the time it had seemed adventurous, bohemian, but now she was just scared. They had visited, sleeping in their car, unable to afford even the cheapest motel. Would home soon be the place she brought up her children, where she rested her head at night? Could anyone nowadays call one place home?
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She could feel the sun beating down on her back, the smell of curry in the air, the music pounding in her chest, making her heart beat faster.
She opened her eyes, a child again, on an island in paradise. There were so many people, so many colours. Women oiled their dark, shining, waist length hair with coconut oil, their saris bright in the sunshine. There was Mr Chin’s son taking the money in his father’s shop, calculating sums in his head, faster than you could press the buttons on a calculator.
When she closed her eyes again, she swore she could smell the sweetness of the steam floating from the laundry.
She hugged herself, the winter cold penetrating, despite the thoughts in her head. She closed her eyes tighter, a tear running down her face, despite her efforts to stop the flow. Sometimes she heard angels lately in her dreams. It reminded her of the choir raising their voices past the high roof of the church, in the hope of reaching heaven with their sound. Some faces pale, some peanut butter brown, some dark as night, all smiling, all joyous. Did they remember her?
As darkness closed in she remained at the now icy window. She listened as the boiler clicked in. If she kept her eyes closed she could journey to a different night, a different time. A time where night breezes caressed her skin, not embraced her in icy fingers. A time where she was careful of the hot oil in the clay diyas. When she would blow her tiny child’s fingers then light more diyas, and see a world full of light, as Divali celebrations spread throughout the country.
But, the colours faded as the plane drew further away, away from the white sand and smiling faces, away from where the mountains touched the clouds.
Now they were moving to the sea again. On their visit she had inhaled deeply and fallen in love with the rich, salty smell filling her nostrils, where they had sat on the beach and shared their single portion of fish and chips, feeding each other and speaking of the future. The voices were new, Gaelic apparently, but she liked the way it sounded.
She would open her eyes in the future to ringing bells and friendly arms, pale and long reaching out to pull her in. It would be cold, with walls of stone and no sun. Where the gravestones bore the same names as the roads, the places and the people who called to her. They had chosen a magical, protected place, where the roads were narrow and twisting, the roofs thatched and children played in the nearby green. Where her stomach would swell, then flatten, in an endless, age old cycle.
Their new home would look out onto rolling green fields, cattle blinking in surprise and the sheep huddling together in fright as you approached them.
But for now, she was tired, too tired, she opened her eyes to wide roads and tall buildings, where as she swayed and swung on the train daily, the men were all in black and no one smiled, as if someone had died. She often wondered why no one smiled, why everyone and everything had to move so fast. She had lived here a long time, so why now did she close her eyes, turn to face the sun and long to see a smile. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she must eat, must feed the life growing inside her. She stiffly unfolded her legs and climbed out the window seat. She picked up a shiny hard, red apple and crunched the crisp texture. She recalled a time when the sun beat down and she picked soft, yellow mangoes, and ate them, relishing the juices dripping down her chin. She discarded the apple in distaste.
Her husband came in and put his arms around her. The last of the boxes were loaded, it was time to leave. She leant back in his arms as he kissed her neck and caressed her belly.
If she opened her eyes and looked towards the future, she would know that when their children hugged her tightly and friends reached out to hold her, there were many places that she would now call home. But, for now, as they pulled the door closed, and said farewell to London, their journey was only just beginning.
Headless 