Imagine, if you will, being trapped like a rat in a maze, unable to leave, unable to execute any type of free will. Meet Ada Spinks, an amazing woman who has endured two world wars, seen empires rise and fall, worked in healthcare. Now she sits in her rocking chair, day after day. A rocking chair cut from the same wood as the log cabin that houses it. Her only company is her wayward grand-daughter Agnes. Ada sits and knits, her sore thumbs working away as she waits. Her only chance of leaving her prison, the daunting hope of a wooden box, but freedom sits on the very cusp of a daunting reality.
Click, clack, click, clack. The needles weave together their endless blanket, its colours drench the old woman’s lap, covering her legs and trailing across the floor. Occasionally her eyes dart up and observe Agnes. The slip of a girl drifts aimlessly between the living area and kitchenette.
‘Tea Grandmother?’ She offers. Ada glances at the clock, 1pm. Its white shiny face reflecting the hue of light that ghosts the cabin.
‘Tea would be lovely dear. Tell me, is your head better.
I seem to recall that it was troubling you last night.’ Instinctively Agnes strokes her forehead, the cuckoo screaming in her ear.
‘It is better, though not quite right,’ she states whilst placing the kettle on the stove.
Click, clack, click, clack. The sound of the needles pounds her temples, but she looks at the kindly face of the old woman, and her tightly woven bun and a hint of sympathy settles her nerves.
‘You are troubled child, perhaps last night’s thunder scared you?’ Ada queries, gently rocking back and forth in her chair. Agnes scoops a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear.
‘I did not hear it grandmother, I slept heavily,’ She whispers handing her grandmother the tea. ‘Your pills grandmother!’
‘I told you dear,’ the hunched over woman laughs,
‘they’re not mine.’ Agnes sighs,
‘must we have this argument every day?’ She mutters to herself moodily.
‘And grandmother told you to control your moods,
anxiety puts the leprechauns in you.’
Click, clack, click, clack. Whistling steams from the kettle. Agnes, realising that she has forgotten to remove it from the boil hurries to the kitchenette. Steam rises against the window, and she stares at the outside world, the inaccessible world. Now, merely another picture on the wall. For an instant, in the steam, she catches a glimpse of a pale looking mousey girl. Sickly. It fades, as did the thunder. The steam mesmerises her, captivates her, and her gaze is held. The cuckoo cuts in, calling time, where time no longer matters.
Click, clack, click, clack. Ada looks at the clock as it strikes four. The round face staring at her, reminding her of the slow and painful progress of time. ‘Is it medication time?’ Ada queries, her needles working another line.
‘Grandmother, you said that the medication was not yours. Remember?’ Agnes snaps impatiently. ‘Indeed, I did,’ Ada chuckles, ‘I wonder whose medication it is.’ She looks up as Agnes tuts and rolls her eyes. ‘I am sorry dear; I forget how trying I can be.’ The wizened lady apologises as she steadies herself against the heavy, white cushions of her chair.
A bland colour, one that permeates the cabin.
Click, clack, click, clack. Agnes tidies furiously, straightening the chairs, plumping up the solid cushions and aligning the wall clock. She scrubs her grandmother’s cup and saucer and washes her hands furiously.
‘You seem agitated child,’ Ada points out, barely looking up from her wool. ‘Is something amiss?’ Agnes wedges the sofa’s legs against the ivory mat. ‘That infuriating tapping,’ Agnes growls. ‘It drives me insane.’
‘I’m sorry dear, I am a burden, but with my joints there is little else for me to do.’ The cuckoo yelps in Agnes’s ears once again, forcing her to jump involuntarily. Ada stares at the round dial.
‘I suggest you drink your milk and try to sleep.’ Agnes reaches for the milk, she had not noticed it before, but now it rests on the table, waiting.
Click, clack, click, clack. CUCKOO. Ada looks up at the clock, it seems to smile announcing dawn. 8am. She watches curiously, ever weaving her wool, as Agnes eats her breakfast. In the mirror Ada glimpses an old man and smiles to herself. She remembers him, an educated sort. Capable and professional. His image fades almost instantly as the needles continue to knit their melody.
‘How are you feeling today? You look refreshed.’ ‘Very much so grandmother,’ Agnes replies, ‘would you like your tea.’
‘That would be lovely dear,’ Ada replies. As the kettle boils Agnes fixates on the window, longs for the world outside, until the steam fogs her view, and once again the sickly shadow appears, albeit momentarily.
Click, clack, click, clack. Ada’s white dress and pale skin vanish into the depths of the cushions. Click, clack, click, clack. CUCKOO. Her face peers from within the padding, drifts into existence. She looks up at the white dial, 1pm, and then down at her white knitted blanket. The noise beats like drums in Agnes’s brain. She rips the cuckoo clock from the wall and smashes it to pieces with her feet. The white moon of the sundial stares down at her, time passes.
Click, clack, click, clack. CUCKOO. The sound comes in the absence of the object. Click, clack, click, clack. CUCKOO. Agnes places her hands over her ears, in the mirror she glimpses the sickly girl talking to an old man. The furniture seems slightly out of place. She rushes around straightening angles, plumping up the thick white cushions, washing and scrubbing her hands.
‘It’s four O’ clock dear,’ her grandmother mutters nonchalantly, ‘you are wasting time again.’ ‘Wasting time? How can you live in this mess, and with that infernal noise?’
‘There’s no mess dear. Life is too short for concerning yourself with such nonsense.’
Click, clack, click, clack.
‘Too short? To live in a hygienic home.’ Agnes snaps, noting the alignment of the furniture once again. ‘I am stuck in here, with you, no way out. The least I can have is a bit of order.’
‘Then you shall not leave.’ Ada laughs as she rocks back and forwards, disappearing into the padding of the white chair. The needles bang together, the noise deafening. CLICK, CLACK, CLICK, CLACK. Furiously Agnes grabs the needles and drives them through her grandmother’s chest and into her heart. The needles melt into the cushions. The walls crack and heave, a split forms. Then another, then another. Quaking ruptures the floor, glass shatters from the window and mirror, spreading shards across the disintegrating abode. Then there is nothing.
Agnes rubs her eyes. She blinks, and blinks again. The old man sits beyond the glass. His white coat firmly buttoned to his neck, his clipboard and pen write furiously. The metronome swings from side to side; click, clack, click, clack, click, clack. She gazes confused at the white padded walls, the high barred window, and her own sickly reflection in the glass.
‘Do you remember me, Agnes?’ The psychiatrist asks.
The scared girl shakes her head.
‘I your doctor, Dr Adrian Spinks. ‘You are in Bedlam, admitted for severe OCD. A danger to yourself and others,’ he flicks through his notes, ‘obsessed with straight lines and bleaching body parts.’ He looks up from his clipboard to the round, white clock on the wall. 4am. ‘It is time for your medication Agnes.’
Click, clack, click, clack. The cuckoo cries out wakening Agnes from a forgotten dream. Her grandmother sits observing, always observing as the needles tap.
‘Would you like tea grandmother?’ Agnes asks. ‘That would be lovely dear,’ the old lady replies whilst eyeing the displaced furniture.
………………….
Very little comment here, save for this small aside. Life is short, obsession with death even manifesting through compulsions that seem reasonable, may give an early death. A self-inflicted prison of one’s own making. If there is an escape it is through a change of personal direction, such counselling could be sought in another realm and in that realm who is the hero? Ada or Agnes? The only thing we know for sure is that time is the villain.
