Radwinter

A long time before she was able to talk, to talk about herself, what had happened to her life. The first real breakthrough being about two a.m. my best time. We were awake talking about whatever two people talk about at that time of the morning, in the silence.. when reality appears far away.. that we were obscured from the day's problems.. mentioned she had a house.
At that time in my existence houses had always meant so many things I did not have.. pricked my ears up at this revelation on her part.. prodded her before the subject slipped back into oblivion.. from where it had quite suddenly , for no real reason emerged.
"You ain't got no 'ouse.." I said to her lapsing into the vernacular.. "just another one of your make believes"
She sat sharply up at this, her small firm breasts bared.. I would not be distracted.. for some reason demanding to know where this mythical house may be. "Radwinter" she said without the slightest hesitation, which made me think.. sounded like something out of Jane Eyre, England in the eighteenth century, a most intriguing name I thought.. Again reverting to my own dream, "would there be any room for me to plant roses?" "would be room for hundreds of those" she said.
I had not the slightest idea where this Radwinter may have been but I fully intended finding it, getting straight out of bed, she followed without the slightest query, without asking what my intentions were, where I may be going in the middle of the night. Susan was like that.. then.
Down the thirty nine steps, shoved some easy start in the old cab, its reverberations waking the whole of London, such was the stillness of the night.


Made her sit beside me in the luggage compartment" which way?" "which way where?" she replied.. "to Radwinter"

Lapsed into her educated self.. "Oh actually I don't really know the way from here.. it is up, you know, up past Bishops Stortford". Pulled the map out looked up this place. Bang on the M.11.
That night, She and the M.11 were to twist eight years from my existence.

Often wondered about this new motorway, from Leyton it is possible to look along it in passing, a huge expanse of concrete suddenly stretching out into infinity.. often considered where it may lead to. As time passed, began to believe that it had been especially constructed just for myself only, for my interminable journeys up and down. Initially there had been very little traffic on it. That particular morning, nothing at all, maybe only a couple of lorries, not more than half dozen cars speeding past us.. Peter trundling along at forty miles per hour, fast as the old cab would ever go, ever intended going. Black smoke angrily disgorging from the back at this so early departure into the faint streaks of dawn creeping across the Hertfordshire Countryside.


By the time we reached Bishops Stortford, cooled considerably, Susan silent.. aware that I had gone off my stupid idea of rushing out and would probably blame her for the fiasco. Not a country person, not like driving over twenty five miles per hour or driving consistently at a set speed, have been completely conditioned to cab driving over the long years. Being on a open road, felt exposed. A certain remoteness for me as we pressed further and further into the deep countryside.. by the time we reached Saffron Walden, becoming almost disorientated, tense, almost nervous.

The silence unnerved me.. could feel the isolation... the houses in darkness, had not seen one person... not one light, mile after mile. Kept asking Susan if she was sure about all this. She too regretting the move, possibly it had been this alien isolated atmosphere, which had caused her to crack up, certainly I would last no longer than few hours. Imagine being stuck out here with nothing to do and all day to do it! Enough to drive anyone mad. Sensed that Susan was thinking just this, we were a long, long way from John's cafe, noise and friendly faces.

By now crawling along a country lane. For some reason had my toe almost off the pedal as if we may wake the dead, obviously with each mile, going back in time, the ghosts of Heathcliff and so many other characters wandering about the mist covered hedgerows.

Told to look out for a Church.. Still not really believing that she could have lived here.. that any moment she would have to admit to another of her fantasies. Then I saw the Church, slowed, stopped. Not too sure if I should turn the engine off in case it would not start again, would have been well fucked if that happened. Held my breath and pulled the stop out. The silence, stunning. Found myself whispering to her in the half light. She walked slowly off into the mist shrouded graveyard .. knew the silly cow was mad, if she imagined I was going to follow her in there, she had best think again. In half a mind to simply piss off, leave her, the soft mist and the silence. Curiosity overcame me... refused to get out of my seat... waited. She returned ..another ghost.. "Peter you will have to come and help me ..I can't find the key". Now I knew she was mad.. a key in a graveyard? sounded like a computer game.

In retrospect realise that Radwinter was Susan.. she, so soft, so gentle, so silent, so without the slightest antagonism in any way to any one whatsoever, rather the antithesis to myself. Born after her time, no place for her in the 'modern' world .. Some sadness. Realise all this now.. if I had made time to stop, to rationalise.. to think about her, her position… her. Always been the same with me, life a headlong rush.. treading remorselessly, without too much consideration of other people. Only now is there time.

'Time for you.. Time for me'

Not a confession, there are a few regrets on my part... those whom precisely I am thinking of, hardly needs be written down again.


For anyone, conceivably wishing to live two hundred years behind the times.. Radwinter is the place to be.

Susan's diminutive house built of flint, matched the Church exactly, part of the Church buildings. Each quarter of the hour the doleful bells rang out. The so very small upstairs bedroom, its incredibly tiny window, looked directly on the ancient Church, its towering spire, the huge gold clock face and the crumbling, moss shrouded tombstones, of the long ago dead.

Her husband, an architect, had made innovations, the carpentry, joinery could leave nothing to be desired. Yet the distinct feeling of timelessness, its simplicity remained, a masterpiece of understatement. All this he had done at her behest. She evidently, always moving about, tiring of each house. The moment he felt settled she would be up, wanting to move.. and.. had surreptitiously slowly, quietly, taken to drinking.. she reduced, towards the end, to hiding the bottles, of being found wandering about Saffron Walden, as no lady should be found, especially there, of all places, especially as she was extremely well know and liked. Simply 'Not done'. Backs quickly turned .. shoulders became cold. The husband, unable to handle her, incapable of firmly sorting her out, had run .. hardly to Kings Cross, I may add.

Another arrangement, married another woman, nothing original. The usual, she worked in his office, younger than Susan. A bland situation, in fact, a arrangement to fall apart, much to Susan's satisfaction.

She never forgave him for leaving her alone, in isolation.


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