‘Still he would soon relapse from the high prophetic strain to the familiar one of narrative.’ (Felix Holt The Radical, George Eliot)

After reading George Eliot again.

Which of us has a plot, which of us truly? I do not believe you do. You go to bed and read your mystery because you do not have the courage to ask what it is you do not have or know.

Edith knew that Dorothy Fortescue – for that was her name -- possessed all the mystery. People would always be wondering how did Mrs. Fortescue spend her days? Such an elusive creature with her high manor wall, her devoted husband, her sources of help. People will always pay Dorothy attention, inquire after her health when what they mean is her fortune.

Dorothy is wealthy, or her husband is wealthy, in any case there is money. As a consequence, Dorothy will receive many letters of interest and invitations, she will be invited to parties, but she will go to none; she will be invited to judge this and that competition of poetry and fine art because Dorothy has a sensitive soul; in another life she might have been a nun, a Hildegard de Bingen singing her prayers. Dorothy has form, she has tradition, her garden-cloister, her pond-life.

While Edith’s life has always lacked biography. Only loneliness, so ordinary and drab, a cliché. No one cares to conjecture. If she had to describe herself, she would say, a spinster of no particular age. Difficult to age or mark her, that was on her side; no one could quite place her. Anonymous, nondescript, others could be found far more fascinating and interesting, while Edith went unrecognised. Lacking in charisma, lacking in centrifugal force, she was forced to gather her strength from others; a limpet clinging to a rock; a snail stuck inside her shell unable to break out. Edith is spiralling inwards; she is wandering in the dark. Where is she, what happened to the last few years? The lights went out. Who then was managing history?

Thankfully she had some dates. Edith was good on days of the week; there was always a day, and a date and something to be done in that small square on the calendar. Tuesday or Thursday she went up to town, often Saturday too. Edith liked the distraction, the walk into town, the fresh air, the interaction, the waving and greeting, the frilly awning, the ring of the bell. Sometimes on Tuesday morning she went to teach for Mary. Not the favoured spot, Edith, but I’m sure you can manage. Edith could be assured it was never the favourite spot. Some Monday evenings the telephone rang, and it was Mary asking her to manage her class -- the squabbles, the racket, the pulling of teeth and hair --  the early morning class, an ungodly hour for hymns and her nerves were racked. ‘Good practice, Edith, manging that lot. You won’t let me down, will you?’ At the thought of it her eyes blurred over, they went dim; she blamed the class for that, those scruffy carrot heads staring up at her, laughing and lurching like drunken sailors, ignoring all instructions to open their mouths and sing. Something inside was shattering – Mary’s voice, it was so penetrating -- Edith scrabbled around for her lenses and hooked them to her nose.  Dim, yes, the world was dim, only Mary’s voice was loud and clear. ‘I’m sure I can manage, Mary,’ she peeped and put down the phone. On some days she managed to improvise, shut her eyes and saw his face, the screen. Her hands were raised, his too in greeting -- ‘Edith, Edith, have you been waiting long?’ ‘No darling, not long.’  

Where would she start? Not here. She went into the narrow hallway where the phone stood on a half-moon slip of a table; black and gleaming, its round numbers covered in a gold rim staring back, it looked smug. The phone – why not -- she would speak it out, her confession. Ready? Yes, ready to burst. She lifted the receiver and turned the dial one – two -- three times -- let it slip back to zero. The phone clicked and went dead. No one there but the inspector. (POND LIFE: a work in progress)

(For Nanu and Angelique and Violet and anyone wrestling to turn ‘the high prophetic strain’ to narrative).