Blossom and Fruit

By El Cooper

- 'You're not sick so you can't heal'.

I am thirty-eight years old and I am undone. I've been destroyed by such a thing as an email. Living with so many secrets has ruined my life.

*

It doesn't often snow in Britain, even in the North, but today there was a veritable blizzard swirling around outside. Unfazed, I grabbed my notebook, wrapping a chunky scarf around my neck and pulling down a flat crimson woollen hat. Then I swept out of the scruffy door leading from my small apartment onto the landing, down three flights of stairs and out into the street. The ground was pristine, not a footstep had dared upon it - even in this fairly rough and quite highly populated end of town, not many people were inclined to go out in such 'bad' weather on a Sunday afternoon. I turned my head to the clouds: bright, white and shimmering and the ground below spun round as though it, too, could feel the snowflakes scatter over my face, the wind in my hair and the world shaking from its core. There were only a few simple pleasures in life, and I had good reason to indulge in them. When I stopped it was abruptly and I began the mile-long walk to the nearest park grounds, a huge field filled with trees, bursting with colourful flowers in the summer and boasting a shiny and well maintained children's playground. A centre a far away from the world I lived in, recently out of university with a Masters in Experimental Psychologuy and a mountain of debt.

I hadn't secured a job in that last year and couldn't see myself going on in the dull life of academia, lecturing and doctorates, so I left Bristol for this occasionally quaint town thirty miles away from York towing my old laptop, a heap of clothes, a few old CDs and a huge stack of books, arriving in a place worse than anywhere I'd stayed while I had still been a student - but that was a necessary compromise, as NatWest gleefully informed me they were about to start charging me full interest on £500 of my graduate overdraft.

The usual bench was as steeped in snow as the ground. I started to brush it aside with my gloves but switched to using the notebook as they started to feel wet and cold and I realised my hands would be in no state for writing if I continued. I rustled a plastic bag out from inside my coat and placed it on the damp wood, then positioned myself carefully on top of it, opening the notebook. With a sigh I took out an application form I ought to be filling in and started to doodle on it. The snowfall gradually slowed, and the silence resonated for a good half hour before I became aware of crisp footsteps very nearby. I looked up, surprised I hadn't heard the approaching stranger earlier, as a small bundle fell down onto the snow on the seat beside me. All that was visible from in amongst the thick duffel coat, hefty hat, scarf, mittens and jumpers was a glowing pink complexion, starting at the upper eyelashes and ending in the middle of the lower lip and a few wisps of icy blonde hair. I snapped my notebook shut sharply and looked on bewildered for a moment, then spoke.

"What are you doing out here on you own?"

"Huh?" A young girl turned as if startled that there was someone else there. Then she turned her head to stare steadfastly forward. "I wanted to go out in the snow."

Quite at a loss as to what to say, I blurted, "Well you shouldn't sit on the snow, you'll get soaked."

Again she looked at me, misty eyed and with that same hint of surprise, "Well, I won't sit here for very long, then."

"Where are your parents?"

"Mum's at home." She said simply, now swinging her legs alternately back and forth under the bench.

I was aware I had been staring for too long but couldn't seem to make myself stop, "Where's home?"

"Grosvenor Avenue."