Table

By Maxim Griffin.

Flesh falls from the bones of the year – midwinter – dark by four – the house is still after the actions of the day – dishes done – no noise of sniping sons – side wiped down – pack ups for the morning are already done – cheese and pickle, two times salami, apples, Kit Kats, crisps (prawn cocktail for two, salt and vinegar for one) – the youngest is on school dinners so that saves a job – so, ease to table.

Table is important – table is everything – this time of year candlelight is preferred, gives everything the look of a Dutch still life – a candle, a wheel of cheese, a skull and an egg timer – Vanitas – here a human skull is not available so a badger skull found in Welton woods 10 years back is used – elsewhere on the table one may find paper, black ink, books, a beverage depending on the night – seeing as though this is a night without responsibilities, a glass of stout would be the very thing.

The view from the table is pretty long – an oblique prospect of a Lincolnshire market town – treetops, spire etc. – it is possible to watch jet liners pass overhead and watch them until they are about to cross the Irish Sea – good for stars too – best of all is the view to Belmont transmitter – 8.2 miles as the crow flies – from dusk onwards it is lit up with red lights – Belmont used to be the tallest thing, then it became the second tallest, then its height was reduced 20-odd years back – it is still very tall.

Generally speaking, time at the table is quiet – radio is permitted – the radio waves travel from Belmont – a small but powerful shortwave radio is kept tuned to Radio 3 – as the night progresses the schedule becomes more interesting – Anglican hymns turn into hard bop then freeform electronica, a wedge of Debussy is followed by archive recordings of numbers stations – tinny ice cream van melody of ‘The Lincolnshire Poacher’ – five, six, three, nine – the lady on the radio says Yoko Ono is her favourite Beatle.

Seasonal sounds
Candle casts the shadow of houseplants on the glass of big windows – the red lights of the transmitter in a jungle of reflections – it’s blowy out but not raining yet – knee-deep in Advent but it’s 9 degrees, mild – we have yet to lock in for our winter arc – haven’t put the tree up yet so the twinkle from Belmont will have to do – on the table is an unwritten list of tasks that have yet to be performed and a small stack of art books – the book is open at a life-size print of Wm. Blake’s The Ghost of a Flea and the radio has shifted ever so slightly out of tune – reaching for the dial causes something in the room to shift – a garland of hag stones crashes to the floor – the string gave up – huh – an omen.

Table is now covered in holed stones – flint and cherts gathered over the distance of many walks, used in the past to counter the effects of witchcraft and spectres and used in this present as some kind of lithic rosary – stones lined up and better cordage is quickly found in the kitchen draw that houses a miscellany – Belmont transmits the voices of a Sardinian shepherd choir across the hills and woods to the radio by the table – sewing stones feels as though it is a very old thing to do – there is some manner of magick going on – the first beads of rain work their way down the glass.

The radio shifts gear again – a cover of ‘Stop the Calvary’ that sounds as if it was recorded in a Welsh cave – the weather increases in velocity – a band of squall drives wild across the Wolds – the flames of the candles shudder – the dog in her basket shifts and sighs – there will be no night walk this night – open the back doors to let her of but she’s not having any out it – a blast of weather rushes in and blows the candles out as though the kitchen were a birthday cake – there are 200 geese above struggling to stay on course – hold fast lads – weather shuts the doors – a moment in the dark room – Belmont glitters through the weather and the glass.

Island of calm
Return to table – the chucky click clack of a trusty Zippo ignites the smoldering wicks – let there be light – replace the garland of stones to its hook and listen to the creak of the stool as it receives its familiar weight – the glass of stout is a child’s drawing of the moon – the dog stirs, farts and resumes her rest – the sky rushes on, a rainy night in December – there’s a kindness to candlelight – Radio 3 thinks something operatic would be appropriate – a line has to be drawn somewhere – the volume dial is turned left to the lowest setting before silence.

A piece of plain paper on the table – the preferred pen is a black marker – the hand is spidery – a list for the coming months, ideas for walks – thinking with your feet – low tide to Outer Trial Bank – mausoleum woods – Memphis Belle – Lost Hearts – laying schemes ahead, forward thinking – 2025 has been a black spell and still has tricks to play – it’s a good idea to be prepared, to have your own cards to hand – the unexpected can be very tiresome.

Turn the volume up – the opera has gone – Belmont broadcasts the haunted plonk of ‘Wonderful Christmastime’ into a room lit by candles – rain and night still rage and McCartney is in the megahertz – table becomes a sanctuary – an island of calm in the vortex of weirdness – breathe in, breathe out – lean into it.

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