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At Wit's End
by Edward Fraser
02/06/12
Content Warning: the following work may not be suitable for younger audiences as it contains some adult themes.
02/06/12
Content Warning: the following work may not be suitable for younger audiences as it contains some adult themes.
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A short piece about a man struggling to come to terms with his past.
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It’s the 4th of June again, and a lovely day. The young summer sun spreads itself across the pale, blue sky, beginning to test its strength. On the ground a thousand people laugh and play, dancing between the poles of tents that have sprouted overnight in the yellow turning fields like white mushrooms. Children boast shyly to one another about discarded items they’ve found on the floor. Over here there’s a boxing match underway. A crowd has formed a ring around the fighters and men are smoking and shouting out their bets. It’s all in good spirits. Over there a barber is cutting hair for thruppence a go. Coaches weave through the centre of the bustle, ferrying the more refined classes to their seats in the grand stands. Someone is claiming to have touched the King.
When it’s time, all eyes turn to the track where fifteen horses are standing under starter’s orders, muscles bunched and quivering. You sit astride your steed, regal Anmer, near the edge of the pack on the left hand side. You remember it all: the soft sigh of the horse; the way he beat at the ground in expectation of things to come; the feel of your legs pressed tightly against his side; his hair in your hands.
You’re holding the reins uncomfortably against a blister on your thumb so you adjust your grip. Sensing your discomfort, Anmer shifts beneath you. You reach forward to reassure him. You yawn. You always yawn when you’re nervous.
Around the ground the air is quiet and still, paused in collective anticipation. It’s getting closer now, everybody can sense it. Anmer’s breathing is becoming ragged and fretful. Your legs are twitching. You can scarcely contain yourself from starting. At long last a flag rises and falls in front of you and you’re off, consumed by the thrill of the race. Three score thundering hooves pound the earth to dust. Horses pant and strain against the bit, faster and faster, pitching riders fore and aft as they charge the hill. Snorting, gulping air, with flattened ears and grimacing jaws agape, staring through wild, frenzied eyes. A raging froth of urgency.
The going’s good as you streak around the bend, hastening down the slope, where in front of you there’s nearly a collision of speeding giants. An instinctive yank of your reigns and the danger is averted. You’re onto the home straight. The end is in sight and it’s a final mad bolt to the line. There comes the growing noise of people cheering and, lost beneath the grunting of beasts at war, the unheard sound of footsteps at the rail.
In your kitchen now, you stand on your chair with your faded navy tablecloth grasped between your fingers and you tilt your head across your shoulder, hoping that this time you’ll catch a glimpse of her before she moves. You don’t. You never have. You never will.
Moments, that’s all life is, a frustrating game of chance. Take one and you’re on top of the world - ‘Diamond Jones’, the unstoppable winner of the Triple Crown. Take another and you’re the man who ran over fiery Miss Davidson at the Epsom Derby, 4th June 1913.
You didn’t mean it to happen. There was nothing you could have done about it. That’s what they told you, anyway. But they’re only words, aren’t they? History remembers deeds.
That’s why you go round your kitchen, sealing the cracks in the window frames with damp tissues and balled up paper. That’s why you place a towel against the foot of the door and lock it from the inside. That’s why you turn the oven on.
You’re tired and it’s time to sleep. You’re not the jockey any more. It’s 1951. You’re an old man with red fingers, haunted by a face you might have seen. In your mind the horses run, while in your house the gas-pipes roar. And as your eyes begin to dim and your breath begins to falter, all that’s left for you to do is cry.
When it’s time, all eyes turn to the track where fifteen horses are standing under starter’s orders, muscles bunched and quivering. You sit astride your steed, regal Anmer, near the edge of the pack on the left hand side. You remember it all: the soft sigh of the horse; the way he beat at the ground in expectation of things to come; the feel of your legs pressed tightly against his side; his hair in your hands.
You’re holding the reins uncomfortably against a blister on your thumb so you adjust your grip. Sensing your discomfort, Anmer shifts beneath you. You reach forward to reassure him. You yawn. You always yawn when you’re nervous.
Around the ground the air is quiet and still, paused in collective anticipation. It’s getting closer now, everybody can sense it. Anmer’s breathing is becoming ragged and fretful. Your legs are twitching. You can scarcely contain yourself from starting. At long last a flag rises and falls in front of you and you’re off, consumed by the thrill of the race. Three score thundering hooves pound the earth to dust. Horses pant and strain against the bit, faster and faster, pitching riders fore and aft as they charge the hill. Snorting, gulping air, with flattened ears and grimacing jaws agape, staring through wild, frenzied eyes. A raging froth of urgency.
The going’s good as you streak around the bend, hastening down the slope, where in front of you there’s nearly a collision of speeding giants. An instinctive yank of your reigns and the danger is averted. You’re onto the home straight. The end is in sight and it’s a final mad bolt to the line. There comes the growing noise of people cheering and, lost beneath the grunting of beasts at war, the unheard sound of footsteps at the rail.
In your kitchen now, you stand on your chair with your faded navy tablecloth grasped between your fingers and you tilt your head across your shoulder, hoping that this time you’ll catch a glimpse of her before she moves. You don’t. You never have. You never will.
Moments, that’s all life is, a frustrating game of chance. Take one and you’re on top of the world - ‘Diamond Jones’, the unstoppable winner of the Triple Crown. Take another and you’re the man who ran over fiery Miss Davidson at the Epsom Derby, 4th June 1913.
You didn’t mean it to happen. There was nothing you could have done about it. That’s what they told you, anyway. But they’re only words, aren’t they? History remembers deeds.
That’s why you go round your kitchen, sealing the cracks in the window frames with damp tissues and balled up paper. That’s why you place a towel against the foot of the door and lock it from the inside. That’s why you turn the oven on.
You’re tired and it’s time to sleep. You’re not the jockey any more. It’s 1951. You’re an old man with red fingers, haunted by a face you might have seen. In your mind the horses run, while in your house the gas-pipes roar. And as your eyes begin to dim and your breath begins to falter, all that’s left for you to do is cry.
About Author
Edward Fraser is an aspiring author who lives and writes in the wilds of Norfolk. A keen philosopher and historian, he is the co-host of the philosophical podcast 'The Thirst'.
If you would like to contact Edward then please email thewritingpeople@gmail.com for more information.
