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Reincarnation

A terrible thing happened today. Really terrible. I don’t any more suppose it is the end, but it was shocking.

Let me explain. As the wife of a Vicar I was never a great success. How could you expect someone who lost her faith aged 9 to play the part with conviction? I did my best, fitting in regular Sunday attendance, flower shows, refreshments for parish meetings, greetings, money raising, praising- all alongside my career in the service of Mammon. As a financial service officer for a blue chip company I was a success, a roaring one, you might say. We saw satisfying growth, survived the downturns and ploughed on into the Footsie. And the salary eventually bought us this house, our own Georgian rectory complete with large walled garden; not courtesy of the C of E, thank you very much.

Bruce and I had an unspoken understanding. He would not question my beliefs, or lack of them, and I would do the needful (as GP letters are wont to say). I think he hoped that one day I’d have my road to Damascus moment- that it was only a matter of time. That would have made life easier, would have performed kintsugi on the small fault lines of our marriage vessel, but it didn’t happen despite his prayers.

We’d met in Cambridge where I was an undergraduate and he was doing his stint at Theological College. He always said that he’d fallen immediately in love with me when he saw me wobbling along back to Newnham on my bicycle. It was two tone green, a 14th birthday gift from my doting parents, tarted up by Dad for its tour of duty in the Fens. The cause of the wobble turned out to be a loose nut on the front wheel which eventually made a bid for freedom, resulting in a crash landing for me and my basketful of books and lecture notes. Bruce came to the rescue: too shy to touch me he set about retrieving my possessions, whilst asking repeatedly,

“Are you sure you are OK?”

I was just about OK, with a painful knee where it had hit the tarmac, but my bike looked sicker. The front wheel was at right angles to the mudguard and the spokes were bent. Suddenly a wave of nausea overcame me and I turned and vomited onto the pavement.

“Oh Lord.”

What else could you expect from a theology student?

Bruce handed me his large masculine handkerchief. When it just shook in my hand he overcame his shyness, bent down and gently wiped it round my mouth, removing the traces of vomit there. Then he took charge of the situation.

“You poor thing. We’d better get you home. Do you think you can stand up?”

It turned out that I could. With his help we managed to get me and the bike back to Newnham. In those days all visitors had to be signed in, so I came to know his name as he helped me back to my fortunately ground- floor room. My knee would not have coped with stairs.

Bruce returned next day, to make sure that my knee was healing properly, the day after with tools to repair my bike, thereafter simply to see me. It is hard not to love a good man who loves and cares for you. Bruce quoted Thomas a Kempis:
“Nothing is sweeter than love, nothing stronger or higher or wider, nothing is more pleasant, nothing fuller, and nothing better in heaven or on earth….”

I was in total agreement with that first part of the quotation. The difference in our religious beliefs seemed unimportant then. I was content to have a church wedding as it mattered so much to him and to our parents. It was simpler to keep quiet about my unbelief, especially as I hoped, as in Mark 9,24 to have it helped by God. We were blessed with two lovely, happy and healthy daughters as Bruce negotiated the Machiavellian C of E path of advancement from inner city parish to College Chaplain, then finally a Canon at the Cathedral. It was not quite the glittering prizes foretold by his educational prowess and I worried that having me for a wife had perhaps held him back. Then one Sunday when he was found sawing the finials off the Cathedral front pews an awful light began to dawn. His Consultant Neurologist provided the answer to the static career: Bruce was dementing, probably had been doing so slowly for years, his brain harbouring tangles preventing clear thought.

It made sense of the occasional disagreements we’d been experiencing recently, after many years of happy concord. Also his inability to grasp the new complexities of life: frequent loss of credit cards, travel cards, umbrellas, car breakdowns which were an expression of poor understanding of the onboard computer. Don’t get me started on his problems with the internet. The light also shone on the miserable future we both faced. I set about doing what I could. My bullet list included

· Retirement for us both so that I could care for Bruce and give him some rewards for his lifetime of service to God and the Church.

· Purchase of the house and garden with my pension lump sum.

· Holidays abroad so that Bruce could see something of the world.

· Asking for help from our daughters.

Ruth, our younger unmarried daughter volunteered to come and live with us. She’d always been very close to her Dad and was wonderful with him, chivvying him to go out for a walk, to do some gardening, to play cards. As a painter she could work from home. The house was large enough for her to have a studio in the attic, with perfect Northern light from the Velux inserted by the previous owners. We were surprisingly happy, doing our own thing in the day, often gathering in the evening to watch a DVD of a film we’d previously enjoyed or to listen to a concert on Radio 3 with a fire burning in the grate. The winter proved hard that first year. Bruce had become accustomed to spending time out of doors pottering in the garden, which we’d redesigned and made beautiful. Simple tasks like sowing seeds, potting on, planting out, which he’d always done remained within his grasp. He obviously still enjoyed gardening, which was a great solace as serious reading was getting beyond him. I’d always been a gardener too, learning at the feet of my Dad, so doing this together was comforting. The arrival of cold wet weather stopped Bruce in his tracks. He was no longer prepared to go out. No- one could persuade him and he would sit, miserably by the fire, newspaper in his hands, sometimes upside down. He took to asking for a sherry in the morning, then a refill with lunch and would then spend the afternoon asleep in an armchair, head lolling back, mouth open, snoring gently.

My suspicion that this was not good for him was confirmed by his doctor. What to do? Obviously Bruce needed a warmer winter climate. Soon after Christmas Ruth helped me to find at short notice a holiday on which I’d be able to cope with Bruce because everything was organized. It was a cruise on a Queen, Mary, I think it was, from Southampton to Cape Town. Initially suspicious and difficult during the elongated process of boarding, almost earning 4 points for a refusal, once aboard Bruce was happy. He loved our cabin with its balcony, enjoyed greeting complete strangers like old friends and ate wonderful meals with gusto. Of course I was also in my element: no cleaning, cooking, bed making, washing up- just Bruce to look after.

Just before we left Ruth made a request.

“I’ll be a bit lonely on my own here.”

She paused. I felt guilty having invited her and now abandoning her.

“I’m so sorry, my darling.”

“Do you think we could get another cat, a little kitten?”

I’d sworn not to have any more pets after our last beautiful creature, a mix of Burmese and ginger tom, Balthazar, had met an untimely end courtesy of a speeding car. My resolve weakened.

“Yes, love, if that would help please find one.”

On our return, an overnight flight for which some zopiclone kindly provided by the GP had kept Bruce asleep for most of the trip, we were greeted by not one, but two kittens. They were a Ragdoll Persian/ black tomcat cross, brothers, both with the fluffy white fur of their mother. One had a few black hairs on the top of his head so we could distinguish between them. Almost inevitably they were named Caspar and Melchior (Milo for short). Bruce loved them and they him. I have many photos of them snuggling up beside him on the sofa, each with one paw resting on his leg, preventing him from leaving them. They helped to make the next years, of Bruce’s steady decline, with intermittent sudden descents to a worse stage, more bearable. The only downside was that they turned out to be not only very loving, but also efficient hunters, working as a pair at times. The mice and large mice (our name for rats) did not bother us much, but bird deaths upset us all. We made disapproving noises when presented with the latest avian trophy, it made little difference.

The end, when it came, was sudden and unexpected. Bruce had become unable to stand on his own or to walk without support. His life consisted of going from bed to chair or wheelchair, then back. His incontinence was copable with if sufficient quantities of nappies and pads could be persuaded to stay in place. Feeding him was like weaning a baby. He didn’t know me, but one day just before he died, he said, quite clearly to our daughter after she’d helped to hoist him into his chair.

“Thank you, Ruth.”

We were both in tears.

A week later, on being hoisted from bed into a standing position he suddenly vomited up what looked like coffee grounds, collapsed and died. It turned out that he’d had a duodenal ulcer ( possibly a side effect of his medication) which had bled. The shock was enormous. There was relief that his suffering was over- and with it ours too. That was secondary though to a tremendous feeling of loss and grief. Throughout his illness, despite the dementia, Bruce had remained himself, kept his loving kindness and we missed him sorely. The thought that I would never see, hear, hug or kiss him again was unbearable.

The first visitation occurred about three months later. I’d been restless at home once the busy time of funeral and probate arranging was largely over and had gone to visit some old friends. We were walking through a wood near their house. There was no wind yet the vegetation on my side of the path kept waving, just in front of me, as if greeting me. Nothing happened elsewhere. I said nothing to my companions, but swapped sides – and so did the waving. My friends did not notice and I kept quiet about it, feeling they might think me mad. You see, years ago, when first we’d talked about God, the afterlife and everything, Bruce had said,

“My darling, I think you are wrong- and if I die first I will prove it to you.”

We’d not agreed on any particular sign though.

Next when I looked out of the window, again on a windless day, the top of tree we’d grown from an acorn began waving. I waved back, feeling immensely cheered. There were lots more little interactions, usually outdoors, which I began to ascribe to Bruce’s efforts to make contact. Light would suddenly flash briefly on my face, with no obvious source, plants would wave nearby, then came the robin. He was more friendly and brave than any previous one, sitting on my spade handle, turning over leaves close to my feet under the trees, nearly always with me when I was outside. I began to refer to him as Bruce, only to myself, of course. The day he perched on my gloved hand and cocked his head sideways to look me in the eye as if to say I told you so, was the day I was sure. He was Bruce, back with me.

The spiritual comfort was enormous. I told Ruth, she was sceptical, but pragmatic.

“If it helps you to think that Mum, then that’s great.”

Her lukewarm response made me wary of telling other people, but I did return to church and started praying regularly each night before bed. I left the shed door propped ajar so Bruce could seek shelter if it was cold or wet. Life began to take on a new meaning.

My next cruise was a Baltic one, taken with a female friend so that we could see St Petersburg without having to obtain Russian visas. It was a great success: I have hundreds of photographs of opulent palaces and glorious gardens as a result. Homecoming was welcome though as I wanted to see Robin the Bruce again. Ruth met me at the door, she must have been watching for my arrival from the front room. We hugged and kissed, then she drew back and I sensed that something was wrong.

“What is it, love?”

“Milo brought in a trophy this morning. Follow me, Mum. I am so, so sorry.”

My heart fell.

The little feathered body, its fur ruffled by claws, had been placed in a flowerpot in the shed. I knew it was Robin the Bruce from the white flash on his left wing. That for me had represented the arm that Bruce broke playing rugby at school.

We buried him beneath the white Claire Austin rose that Bruce had loved. I put a small cross there to show that now I knew. I live in hope of another Bruce come-bac

SECOND STORY- MESSAGE

MESSAGE

Part 1

2022

It was so hot today I got the big paddling pool out. Mum said I could if I found the air pump and the extension lead and if I watered the garden with the contents later. After a hunt I found both items in the shed, underneath a whole lot of other stuff. It was super agony to get into the icy cold water, but wonderful once I was lying in it and even better when I water- bombed my sister.

Greta’s right, but she’s wrong too. She’s right about climate change being the most important thing right now. But that is a reason to go to school, not to stay away. My Dad is a scientist, I want be like him. I want to stop it from happening. So I go to school and I learn as much as I can.

I didn't mean to eavesdrop. Eavesdropping is is a funny word, isn't it? I think the eaves are overhanging parts of the roof. Maybe people used to lie there over an open window to listen to what was being said inside. I guess the dropping bit is when they fall off. It happened when I went upstairs to get dry and changed. No, I didn’t mean to listen to my Dad’s Zoom meeting, but the voices were loud and sounded angry, so I stopped outside his door and did just that. At ten, I am no fool and I’d realised that the climate situation was bad. I wanted to know how bad. I caught phrases like “whole new ballpark”, “way out of our control now”, “too damn late.” I slipped away before the end so as not to be caught, but resolved to find out more later.

At supper I asked Dad how things were going. He is a climate scientist, in the organization that reports on it, the IPCC, so is in the know. He sighed,

“It’s not good. There’s a factor we’d not previously considered and …!

Mum quickly intervened, saying

“But it’ll end up being OK, won’t it?” in a firm tone.

She is not a climate denier, far from it, but she is a son- protector.

They exchanged looks. My parental bullshit alarm was buzzing.

“What’s the new factor?” I asked

“Methane,” my Dad began, there’s more of it in the atmosphere…….”

only to be interrupted again by Mum.

“Let Rob eat his supper without scaring him silly, please.”

Dad winked at me and shut up.

Mum brought up the topic of our summer holiday cycling trip and we stayed safely on that until the end of the meal. It was my turn to wash up and as Dad brought the dirty plates to the sink he whispered,

“Speak later.”

When he came to say goodnight, he told me about the new problem. It seems that methane has 80 times the global warming potential of carbon dioxide. It’s the main driver of climate change now. Methane is present over marshes, in cow farts and we use it as natural gas. Levels were stable until 2007, since then they have risen fast, probably due to the marshy Arctic warming up. The good news is that methane takes only a decade to break down; unlike carbon dioxide which hangs around for hundreds of millions of years. Reducing methane would have a rapid impact and is vital to keep the world on a path to 1.5°C. Attempts to reduce it by feeding seaweed to cows and alternating wet and dry spells for paddy fields are already happening. However, despite all of this, methane levels continue to climb.

“What is really puzzling is why methane emissions have accelerated in the last two pandemic years,” said Dad,” when our activities that produce it, such as fossil fuel extraction, have gone down.”

He looked sadly at me.

“There may be new sources, such a dying coral reefs.”

I nodded, I’d read about those.

“Another explanation is that the thing that mops up methane in the atmosphere- it’s called a hydroxyl radical is disappearing.”

“A what?”

“The hydroxyl radical is a combination of hydrogen and oxygen which is reactive. It’s called ‘detergent’ of the atmosphere because it works to cleanse it of harmful trace gases,” said Dad. “But hydroxyl radicals also react with carbon monoxide. Wildfires have pumped more carbon monoxide into the atmosphere and used up the hydroxyl ‘detergent,’ reducing methane removal.”

He sighed.

“It’s a vicious circle: rising temperatures produce more methane, while at the same time slowing down its removal. Global warming is 4 times worse than we thought at accelerating methane emissions. It’s shocking.”

“Can we make more of those high drocksey things?”

“Good question. Maybe. Anyway it’s time to go to sleep now.”

“Thanks for telling me, Dad.

“No problem, Rob, I think you should know what is happening, although your Mum doesn’t.”

“What are the chances of sticking to 1.5 degrees now?”

“Remote, sadly. But, like Mr Micawber, I’m sure something will turn up.”

I got that one, we’d been shown David Copperfield at a school Film Day.

Well, it took me a long time to get to sleep that night. I was trying to think what I could do to make things better. Our family has already done its bit, I think. We don't fly, don’t have a car, we rarely eat meat. The garden was dug up (much to my Mum's disgust) in order to put in a ground - source heat pump. So not much left to do at home. What else is there? Perhaps I can persuade other people to do more- but when I’ve tried mostly they haven’t listened. People don’t listen to children. Perhaps Greta is right after all and you have to do something that gets noticed. My Mum would go spare though if I glued myself to a road. The problem of what to do kept me awake a lot of that night and for several nights after. It was tough to get up in the morning and I felt dopey in class. Olivia Barnes even beat me in the maths test. My teacher asked Mum if anything was wrong at home.

One evening a few days later I'm with my sister, Evie. Even though Evie thinks she's old enough to look after me, my mum does not and I don't blame her. Evie’s only 13, going on 23, and I don't want to be looked after by her. We used to be good friends- until she got silly and teenage and worried about her looks, calories, TikTok and all that stupid stuff. She thinks I am a nerd. Mostly we avoid bothering each other these days. But we're sitting together having our supper with Mrs Bradshaw who is babysitting us. She insists that we all sit and eat together, no phones, no TV, no radio allowed. We have to talk to each other so I ask Mrs B what she thinks about global warming. The answer is not much, she's never really thought about it. I look at my sister, she raises her eyebrows, she's on my side. That makes a change. No point in trying to talk to Mrs B further: she’s old and won’t be able to do much. I mean old people need to keep warm so she can’t turn her thermostat down- and she’s not likely to plant trees. At least she doesn’t have a car. When I'm in bed, trying to get to sleep in spite of my worries about the future, I hear my sister coming upstairs. She is allowed to go to bed a bit later than me. I slip out of bed to see her.

“Hi Rob, still awake?”

“Yeah, I’m too worried to sleep.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

I tell her what I overheard and I tell her what Dad said. I ask her for help- does she have any bright ideas? She doesn't know what to do either, but she is nice to me and I feel better afterwards.

“Come and look at this,” she says.

She shows me what she's been doing. It's her work for a school project on Japan. In it she's done a really beautiful painting of an Iris copied from a wood block print. It looks great. I tell her so and she's happy about that. My sister wants to be an artist, my mum thinks she has real talent. Dad and I wouldn’t know- we are the scientists in the family.

I go on wondering and turning things over in my mind. I talk them over with Dad each evening. He tells me that one possible scenario is that Earth will get hotter and hotter until humans can't live all over it anymore but would have to survive in the extreme north and south. I tell Dad that I think that we can't save the planet for humans at all. Once we have all gone then there won't be people making fires, burning fossil fuels, making plastic, poisoning the atmosphere and the water. Gradually, gradually Earth will settle down again and become greener. Some living things might survive: cacti and cockroaches probably. I ask Dad,

“Do you think cockroaches could evolve into something that could run the planet?”

“Great question Rob,” he says. “I have no idea.”

“Or perhaps humans could re -evolve?”

“It’s possible. Now stop thinking so hard, relax and go to sleep. Goodnight.”

Somehow the thought that there is a future, though not ours, is comforting enough for me to sleep well that night and to dream. Things from the day often come into my dreams and that night it was the Japanese stuff my sister had shown me: picture writing and manga comics, all mixed up with giant cockroaches. I could still remember bits of it when I woke up. An idea began to form: perhaps I could send something like a message in a bottle, a picture message to future inhabitants of Earth. Perhaps I could prevent a re-run of climate change?

The next part of my idea came from a book Dad gave me for my 11th birthday. It is called Sapiens by Yuval Noah Hariri and the bit that grabbed me was when he wrote that the ability to sleep well was probably what drove the amazing brain expansion of early humans. I think he is right. I know that while I found it hard to sleep it was hard to think too. Hariri says the reason that early man was able to sleep well was that he came down from the trees to sleep on the ground and the reason he was able to do that was that he learned to control fire.

Fire, our means of evolving successfully, was also what would destroy us. It needed to be controlled from the start.

That was my message to the future!

Part 2

Several millennia later.

She hardly noticed the wetness. The hairs on her bent legs saw to that. It was the pattering of droplets landing on the dry leaves far below that reached her ears and alerted her mind. This was why she had stayed behind, close to shelter, when the Rest moved on. The noise disturbed Little One, who was with her high in the branches. He looked down, gave a squeal of delight and began to descend fast. Just like many of the danglers he was foolhardy and adventurous. She sighed and followed slowly and with difficulty, her large belly obscuring the branches below. Eventually she joined Little One on the ground. What had excited him was now visible. Shiny light coming from the place where her dropping waters had shifted the forest floor. Little One was scraping away at the light with his fingernails. Interested, she pushed him aside and began the work herself using her long- nailed index finger to pull away rotting branches and roots.

It was nothing usual. It felt hard, shiny, smooth and did not smell like food, but she carried on with her forefinger, removing obstacles trapping it in the ground. Little One squealed again, impatient he pushed her away, wanting to reach it himself. He was getting dominant now and would have to leave her soon.

The first pain came rushing in, she grunted and her bowels involuntarily emptied themselves. They were in the wrong place, they had to go. She waited till the spasm subsided then began to move away, grunting for Little One to follow. He was too involved, pushing again and again to get his fingers around the shiny thing. He began to pull it out of its prison in the tree roots when suddenly they parted and gave up their prize. He fell backwards with it in his hands, rolling over and squealing in a mixture of delight and fear.

She grabbed his arm and began to lead him through the forest, still clutching his new toy. At one point he dropped it whilst negotiating between tree branches. She tried to hurry him on, leaving it behind but he refused and determinedly bent to retrieve it from where it had fallen. With a combination of squeals, grunts and occasional cuffs, plus the bonus of a quick suck from her now- leaking nipples, she eventually brought him to the safe place. It was a hole in the rocks through which they could squeeze to reach the cave beyond. Little One knew the place and rushed inside. She was faced with the problem of her swollen belly. Going in sideways as usual was impossible. She negotiated her protuberance forwards into the cleft, then, pushing up on her feet stood upright to put the widest part of her body into the largest gap. A twist of her hips, an uncomfortable squeeze on her abdomen and she was through.

They were safer here. The clawed ones would not enter, they killed on the open plains, running after their prey. In any case she had smelt the blood of a new kill this morning. The clawed ones would be resting, having gorged on it. The very big ones cannot trample them underfoot here, so she can rest and Little One is safe as long as he stays with her. And he seemed happy with the shiny thing, first holding, then spinning and rolling it and running to catch it again. She lay down with relief on the cool, damp floor.

The next pain came and for a few moments she could do nothing but whimper and bear it. Little One heard her, whimpered too and snuggled up against her thigh, still clutching his toy. She stroked his head. Little One began to doze. She felt sleepy too and lay quietly, resting between contractions. After a while she became restless, pacing around and around as the spasms lengthened and strengthened. Little One took no notice, still fast asleep.

He woke sometime later to find his mother still whimpering and rolling on the floor. He felt angry at her lack of attention and threw his new toy hard at the rock wall. It made a satisfying bang, then a whoosh as the container cracked and air entered the vacuum. Little One shrieked and jumped up-and-down waving his arms. He picked up his new toy and fiddled with it, suddenly it fell into several pieces. His mother tried to roll over to gather them up. There was no light, so looking was not possible, but feeling was. Carefully she gathered everything she could find and put it back into half of the shiny container. Little One was desperate to snatch it back, but she pushed him gently away, maternally affirmative. In the short gap between contractions she moved to the cave entrance to examine it. There were two sharp fragments of rock and something else. A little other thing. She picked it up and put it in her mouth. Not good for eating. Little One snatched again just as the next contraction came and this time took it from her grasp. He began to examine it carefully. Inadvertently he flipped his thumb over the free edges and the pages moved one after the other.

“Hahahahaha ha ...” he shouted. He saw pictures. He did it again, over and over, fascinated. The contraction over, she looked over his shoulder and also saw pictures: two stones being rubbed together and bright lights coming out of them. Bright, falling bright, landing on leaves and twigs. Smoke coming, then fire. She had seen fire in the jungle before, in a storm. She feared fire, fire destroyed.

The next pain came, overwhelming her. She was exhausted, panting, now with intense discomfort below. She tried to feel down between her legs, to push open an entrance to help Next One out. As the next pain came she began to push little life into the world and was preoccupied. Little One took the opportunity to recheck the pictures and then act upon them. He rubbed the two stones together the way the pictures showed. At first nothing happened. He tried again. His mother was busy, panting, eyes streaming, mouth open, lips drawn back, teeth showing. It was a frightening sight. Little One turned away back to the stones, struck them together again hard, harder, fast, faster, letting out his crossness with his otherwise-engaged mother. Little lights came from the stones and dripped onto the leaves, like the water earlier, but faster, brighter. Nothing happened. He tried yet again.

His mother gave an enormous, long howl. Little One was dimly aware of a sibling emerging into full existence. He got the brights to fall on the leaves again. They began to crackle and hiss, a little smoke came up. His mother had taken the slimy bundle from the floor and put it straight to her breasts. He wanted to shout no, no, no, those are mine! But he had a more important thing to do. Little One struck the stones again to make more brights come and he blew on the leaves just as the pictures showed. Red crackled around their edges The smoke increased, then actual flames licked up. He leapt back, frightened but very, very excited. He crept to his mother’s free nipple and, while she suckled two children, the first intentional fire for millennia began to blaze and to warm the cave.

The little, long-preserved booklet, with its flip animation and unseen warning pictures on the reverse side of a too- hot world in flames, first charred, then itself burst into flames and was turned to ash.

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