49. Doormat

A black fly buzzes about the kitchen as I write, small and annoying. It circles me, persistent and I’m not surprised. That was him, single-minded and obvious. Of all of them he was the worst, not because his delusion was any greater but for his intent. The others – the people who had crossed my path and abused their power – were convinced, if they thought about it at all, that they were doing me good as well as themselves. But he knew he wasn’t. He was shooting fish in a barrel. That night by the fire, paint on my feet, I heard the word doormat and felt immediately frightened. I hadn’t realised. He was right. I had to act. This is the way of the shattered brain. All it needs is a picture. He laid out in that hour drinking tea exactly what he would do, precisely how I would lose control at his hands by drawing a story of it already happened, a picture I walked right into. Not everyone on the commune was lovely but not one of them had gone out to cause me harm, they were people getting on with their lives in all their funny, normal ways. They trusted me. The first one I told was the woodsman, an original member who had kids at school, who was married to a Wiccan woman. They’d built a complex home in the bluebell copse, there were daffodils and paths, terraces edged with stone. We sat in the field, I said he and his family had a month to leave. His wife took a broom to my car, smashing it on all sides. A tall, skinny druid with the skew leather hat who’d lived quiet and happy played out his hurt in relentless speechless moments in the kitchen. The road protester took his coffin and bag of oats. The old couple in the top wood left with shaking heads. I don’t remember the megalithic giant going, but one day the metal barn was empty. I do remember finding hanging from a tree an effigy of me, a figure dangling by the neck within a triangle of sticks, a branch I would see on the path behind my house. The egg man kept out of the way. He’d played his first hand and gone back to London while I cleared the farm. The f*****g coward. And when it was over, the commune dismantled, the people gone, the land empty of yurts and tipis and trucks and friends and drums and didgeridoos, he came back.The Literary Obsessive archive is paywalled. To enjoy the full gamut and support me, become a paying subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit eleanoranstruther.substack.com/subscribe