Fall

The Fall

The wall was a contradiction, modern breeze block upon medieval
sandstone. It would not be allowed now, but then in the sixties
aesthetics and history were not important. The wall stood like a
barrier, it's purpose holding in, stopping, keeping out. It felt like a
challenge it had always been so. He saw the brown, rusty nails, half
way up forming ancient foot holds in the grey breeze block bricks.
Uniformity struck him as he gazed to see the height he had to surmount.
A wooden fence stood perpendicular to the wall. A staging point, the
first step the two rusty nails, the foot hold. He remembered the
rationale of his father putting them there. He lifted his overweight
frame onto the wooden fence. Sweat running down his forehead. The
freshly cut grass, gave a damp smell of late summer, early autumn as
the evening twilight hit the wall. This small mingled with his greasy,
fearful damp alcohol ridden sweat to fill his nostrils with a warm
pungent smell that propelled him to stretch his foot out , onto the
brown rusty nails. Facing his fear, shaking he looks for a hand hold. A
meaning to hid ascent. Up his fingers grope for an out crop to dig his
nails into. Clutching, his bitten finger tips dig in, sweat pouring ,
flowing like an autumn shower. The pain mildly annoying, eating his
inner fear, he propels himself, onwards and up, pulling aching muscles
and body. So he can see the sights that once young would marvel him,
before the fear gripped him.

I watch this, wanting to give instructions and encouragement. Stuck
halfway up, I remember the childhood adventures that he would lead.
Always first, always over before I had mounted the fence. Before his
fear had journeyed to the front of his mind, his every waking moment.
But I said nothing. I could not change him or the events. This he had
to do himself, needed, needed beyond belief I thought. If only I could
do it for him, make him see how easily it could be done, how silly he
was. Last night had awoken his inner anger at his fear. The anger
everyone has at their fears. He had taken it as a challenge, the
alcohol still mixed in his blood. He had wanted us all to be here.
Thankfully they had made excuses, not wanting to witness another
failure. "Nah I'm working", "I've got to go shopping with the wife".
This left just me. Me, him, the wall, and the fear.

The silence of the park was broken by his heavy breathing, the short
gasps of air, the quick exhales as he pushed the air out, summoning up
the effort, will, to conquer vanquish. The stream behind me suddenly
became louder, it's trickle of running water deafening me as my vision
slowed, watched, knew. The fingers failed to hold the weight of his
body, he was attempting one last pull to the top like a climber does to
reach the summit. I did not hear his scream, I heard the gushing
stream. He had failed to enter his old house, the place he grew up.
Here on this meadow we used to play cricket, football. At his mother's
voice, her beckon for tea or bedtime, he'd be over like a flash. The
wall that was built to keep out the park dwellers, the dogs and the
noisy. Now held this middle aged man at bay. On the ground in a heap he
sobbed, not quite hurt, but not quite well. His ego, bashed, tainted by
the times. His lack of success, so personal, when life had promised so
much, we expected almost foresaw a life in commerce or business. A
famous city broker we joked. Little did we know that in his mind the
wrong walls were being made, and the right one's broken. Breaking down.
Why was I so powerless to help him?

He groaned , as he had done at every failure. A child in an adult.
Under the falsehood of alcohol he had boasted the boast of a thousand
souls, "I've changed, (or I've had a hard life, I guess I deserved it)
I know why I've had this life, I know I'm a better person for it.
Regrets, I have many as the song goes", he had said. "But if I could
change anything, just one thing, I blame for my life, it's that blasted
wall. If I had not shown him, Jonny, poor Jonny how to climb it at such
a young age. He'd never had tried to do it by himself. It killed my
son, destroyed Rachel, ended us. It sent me to my doom. I kissed Rachel
for the first time under that wall. She left me there. I'm bloody going
back and I'll beat the bastard".

He had been talking about this for ten years, Rachel had remarried,
forgot, well forgot as much as she could, to deal with the pain. He
hadn't moved on, been in and out of psychiatric hospitals. Building
layer upon layer of guilt and 'If only's'. The fear had to be
revisited, but I knew he was not ready, maybe never would be. Stopping
him never worked, reason fell on deaf ears. He was always in his
past.