Running Again - Vicky Williamson

Isit on the stairs in the hallway, reaching down to tie the laces of my running shoes, and Mike comes out of the office. “You running again,” he says. “Yeah,” I’m not sure if he expects a response but I reply anyway. He is in the doorway watching me as I focus on securing the double bow. When I stand he has gone, and I pick up the hall mirror from the floor, hang it on its nail and quickly check my face as I fasten my hair into a ponytail, then hide the reflection into the skirting board again, before opening the front door. A couple of months ago I realised that I hated catching a glimpse of my face every time I left the house, so I took the mirror down. Then last Sunday, everyone I ran passed stared and when I got home, and went to the bathroom to shower, I saw a smear of newsprint across my face. So now I check before I leave.

The day is cloudy and warm and soon I am sweating as my feet pound the pavement. I choose my usual route: along the valley out of town, popular with runners, with only a shallow incline. It’s only when you run it that you realise it’s not flat at all. The only other alternatives are the petrol-fumed main road into town or up the steep valley sides. I used to do a little loop that took me up, up, up and away from the river and along the narrow lanes connecting the hilltop farms. The view across to the moors always widened my eyes and lifted my pumping heart, before a sudden drop took me past the school, the church, the cricket pitch and home. It was a good quick run to push myself when time was short but I was training for a half-marathon or a 10k. There is nothing to rush home for now.

The late afternoon sun breaks through the clouds and glares into my eyes, so I focus on the grey tarmac and my feet. Keep moving, heel, toe, right, left. It’s like a mantra of movement: each heel connects with the ground and my foot rolls forward, before disconnecting to be replaced by the other. Connect, disconnect, connect, disconnect; it’s all I can do, over and over, keep going. Me and Mike were connected from the moment we first met, at a party, both feeling like outsiders. I’m not good at parties with lots of people, chit-chatting joke-telling laugh-louder people. I normally end up in the kitchen, and when that is full I sneak out and home. But this was my sister’s engagement party so I made the effort to stay a little longer. I’d slipped out to the garden for a bit of space, saying hi to the few smokers and tokers, and walking to the wooden bench that I knew could be found at the far end. Mike was one of the smokers and tokers. In fact, he wasn’t a smoker at all but like me had been trying to find a moment’s calm, away from the over-exuberant atmosphere. He followed and politely asked to join me. With the party muffled and just the neighbours’ dark windows watching I learned that he was an old school friend of my soon-to-be brother-in-law and knew no one else. It wasn’t long before were laughing together as we discussed the pros and cons of my sister’s music choices (indie rock and Duran Duran) and we soon persuaded each other to make our way back inside. Mike took my hand as we walked up to the house and never let go. I know we need to re-find that connection. Everyday we take furtive glances at each other, but then dis-

appear into our own worlds.

The further up the road I run, the rougher the ground becomes; a patchwork of potholes and filled potholes, a greyscale carpet, like my greyscale life, cracked and only just holding together. No colour, just intermittent blinding brightness and then the grainy greyness of a disconnected TV screen. That’s the way I prefer it. My racing pulse and clammy skin make me think of Oliver, that day, before I realised what was happening.

“I don’t feel well, mum,” he said, puffy-eyed, when I got home from work. “My tongue feels heavy.” He was flopped on the sofa so I brought him a glass of water, but he spluttered struggling to swallow it, restless. Worried, I called Mike at work, and he knew what it was straight away.

“It’s an allergic reaction,” he said, “you need to get him to hospital, I’ll meet you there.” There was an air of panic in his voice. He had had a reaction to a hornet sting when he was a kid. He knew how our son would be feeling. Oliver dozed beside me as I drove, with me screaming at every slow driver and red light. The time at the hospital was endless. We were helpless, waiting and watching as they stuck needles in him and he drifted in and out of consciousness. Afterwards I found out that he had told his friend he felt ill after lunch, but he wasn’t the kind of kid to complain. He was like me, put his head down and got on with things, never asked for help.

I take the river footpath back down the valley. It’s a relief to move away from the road to the shade of the trees, with the cool water burbling so close and the emptiness. I duck under the branches of summer overgrowth, and care little for the stinging nettles and brambles that graze my skin. My muscles are aching now; this pain will lead me to exhaustion so I can disappear again when I get home. I think of Mike. He’ll spend the evening on his computer, writing letters; angry letters, pleading letters. He is trying to set up some kind of charity for awareness of anaphylaxis. I envy him his purpose, but neither of us sleep at night, one or other of us often ends up on Oliver’s bed, or in the spare room when we can bear no longer to be surrounded by his Nerf guns and Marvel posters.

I am coming to the end of the footpath when I hear a rumbling above. I wait for the relief of drenching rain, but the air is still and silent. As I come out of the trees and back onto the road there is another peel of empty thunder. The tension in the air is a relief from the tension at home. I should return to work; but I had been at work when Oliver got home that day. If only he hadn’t been such a sensible, trustworthy 12-year-old, happy to let himself in and get on with his homework. And if only I had put him ahead of my so-called career. When I arrive home I stretch down to the ground my head hanging, before slipping my key into the front