Pier Pressure 
Pier Pressure
by Silvia Travis
Listen to me and keep listening. Push back the gates that tower above you. Those black gates, now rusted and red, whose once well oiled hinges swung open at your lightest touch, ornate points soaring into the sky. Now they scream in protest at your intrusion and drag their feet deeper into the dense thicket of docks and nettles entwined about them. Why do you hesitate? I am here. Listen to me. Feel me. Isn't that why you came? Come, I will remind you. The rhododendrons are bigger than ever round this curve of the drive, their glossy green leaves weighed down by the voluptuous flowers spilling their petals under your feet. You teased me and said I loved them best because they kept winter at bay. I was never good at winter like you. Behind them there are still the oak trees and birches, a filigree of branches as their leaves fall away in the frosty air. Stop here. What do you see? The curve of the drive in front of the house is blurred now with the encroaching mat of weeds and mosses. The house rears up in front of you, as ugly as ever, its grim face relieved only by the hedges of fuchsia on each side of the broken steps. They flourish riotously through neglect, their flowers weeping drifts of red. I still hear the crunch of tyres on gravel as your car roars up to the pillared entrance of your uncle's house. You run up them, two at a time, glowing with health and bewitching me with your young man's beauty as you carelessly toss me your hat or scarf. When did you first notice I was there? It was winter, just like this, at Christmas time and I was helping to decorate the tree in the big hall. You called me 'Orphan Annie' because I had no one to go home to and you laughed and said I could stay and be one of the family. Look to the left of the house to the grove of pines. The tree always came from there. Go in among them: dense green and black. Smell the smell of resin and feel me against you in the dark. Youth to youth and breath to breath. It must be secret, you said, because it was so special. Even then my timid soul flinched away from the truth. Now climb the steps and feel the stone crumbling under the insidious power of the thrusting weeds. Do you see the faint glow of light through the small bottle glass window? Inside lies your uncle's coffin, its few silent mourners keeping vigil until tomorrow. Turn away, death does not erase the years of bitterness. Go to the right of those vibrant fuchsias and follow the overgrown path down to the walled garden, its door slumped sideways on broken hinges. Vegetables and herbs no longer flourish here, only wet earth sucks at your heels. The greenhouse stands forlorn, broken panes gaping at the sky. Here we came for stolen moments, breathless with laughter, to feast on peaches and grapes and youth. Here too we came for sanctuary from your uncle's wrath, to cling together, our hair and bodies heavy with the smell of vine tomatoes and the threat of disinheritance ringing in our ears. Our tears and babbled words covered the silence of the truth as I felt you slip away, the tentacles of wealth and power drawing tight. In the corner of this garden, there, where the bricks have crumbled to dust, climb over the snatching brambles and take the path to the lake. The stone bench still stands, green with lichen, and there are still herons at the waters edge. Remember how we swain out to the island with its thicket of shrubs and leaning, wind shaped trees? You tied the bottle of wine round your waist in a string bag. Remember our laughter when it loosened and sank to the bottom of the lake? I was braver than you in the water and I dived to find it, but the weeds at the water's edge wrapped their deceptively smooth fronds round my body and held me fast until you pulled me free. We never voiced the nearness of loss but we never swam there again. I too made my choice. You alone know where to find me, where my bones lie, waiting, deep down under the reeds. All this is yours now and you will bring it back to life. We will both be free.