I don't know why this never saw the light of day. I'm pretty sure it was inspired by the short film Penny did about Brexit and would've made more of an impact back then, but I think it's still one of the better things I've written. I listen to a lot of Coldplay, and I was reading through the draft of this while listening to "Don't Panic," and the similarities in tone and subject matter were pretty eerie, hence the title.
xx,
ejb
It isn't often that they go to bed at different times, but tonight she wants to finish watching the news and he's already fading.
"Darling," she says softly in his ear. Her voice makes him jump, and she tries not to giggle. "Sorry," she tells him, "only that didn't look comfortable. I should turn in, my love."
He breathes a deep sleep-breath, his features soft and languid as his head lolls against the back of the sofa. "Yep. Sorry 'bout that."
She leans in close, kisses him softly, thumbs trailing over the evening stubble on his cheeks. "Don't apologise. I'll be along as soon as this finishes."
He rolls his eyes. "I dunno how they call this drivel news. 'MPs rejected May's Brexit deal again today, for the eighty-ninth week running, in a vote of 987 to negative six. In other headlines, it's official: Jeremy Corbyn's DNA proves him to be one hundred percent spineless wanker.'"
She smiles, softly boxing his ears. Fatigue tends to loosen his tongue in ways that tickle her but would mortify him if he realised what he was saying. "Yes alright, off you go, Dr. Grumpy-box. Pleasant dreams."
He kisses her before he stands. "I love you," he tells her, his eyes soft and solemn. So honest. Her heart thuds in the cavity of her chest.
"I know."
He's right, of course. There is nothing new under the sun. Brexit is still a cluster of epic proportions and Corbyn has yet to grow a backbone. With all her heart she longs to remain in Europe, but there are moments she would almost love to see them crash out just to have it over with. Let the Tories eat their pompous, disaffected words. In truth, she knows, that would be apocalyptic. It makes her head ache and her heart heavy. She can't be sure, anymore, that there'll be a green and pleasant land to leave to her grandson.
She snaps the television off, tossing the remote control to the floor in a fit of pique and then abruptly retrieving it because she is a grown-up. She enters the bedroom and it's already dark. There's no movement from his side of the bed as she makes her way to the bathroom.
She cleans her teeth, washes her face. Swallows two aspirin —bloody headlines!— and strips off her clothes. One of his shirts hangs on the back of the door and she pulls it on, rolls the sleeves. Buttons it where she needs coverage.
She slips beneath the covers, suddenly aware of the fact that she is cold. Physically, she shivers a little in spite of the muggy summer night. But it's purely a symptom of the icy edge, the fear that encloses her heart when she thinks about the future. Before her retirement, some of her young colleagues would go on —a kind of twisted fascination, she always thought— about the notion of a post-apocalyptic England, torn by the ravages of war with its former partner nations; a band of zombie-like survivors who had lost it all, uniting to start over somewhere else. At the time she would roll her eyes good-naturedly, putting it down to too much media influence. Now she can see it as a very possible, very proximal reality.
Again, it's not herself she worries for. She's young at heart and in good health, but her days are numbered: thirty years, probably, forty at a stretch. No; it's her grandson, his peers. The ones who will bear the brunt of decisions taken now at the highest levels of government. If she allows her imagination a paddock in which to kick about, she can easily foresee widespread famine; disease; anarchy. London ablaze with every means of escape destroyed.
It's too much to get her head around, and if she doesn't stop thinking about it she's no hope of a restful night. She shakes her head as if to throw off the horrific images, screws her eyes tightly shut. Turns on her side, her back to his front.
Her bare legs touch his. His skin is an inferno in contrast to the ice in her veins. Instinctively he presses close, his arm heavy around her waist; his breaths, soft and rhythmic, tickling the back of her neck. She is safe. If only here, in this moment, just now. She was, of course —intellectually— just as safe on her own in the desert stretching between one love and the next. That's what the modern woman is supposed to say, think, proselytise.
She knows better. It's nothing to do with patriarchy or his being male to her female. It's in the union: souls alike, complement of disposition. He's got what she hasn't, and vice versa. The potted version is this: they work. Seamlessly and organically. She needs him; he needs her; all's right with the world.
He stirs behind her. "'S'amatter, love?" The sleep-heavy rasp of his voice induces a shiver that has nothing to do with her being cold.
She snuggles deeper into him. "You were right to walk away. I should know better than to watch that rubbish."
He moves the arm that lies across her body, rests his palm just beneath her breasts. Traces little soothing circles with his thumb. "I'm sorry. I didn't see any sense getting wound up about it and then trying to sleep."
"Exactly. Smart thinking. Me, on the other hand …" She reaches behind her to stroke the back of his neck. It's a measure of comfort she relies upon like a little child with its favourite blanket.
"There's going to be an answer, Isobel."
He is certain. His resolve soothes her, confounds her, agitates her. She huffs a little.
"You can't know that. How can you be so sure?"
"The way I see it," he begins, "everybody's too high strung to see reason. Perhaps this stalemate isn't such a bad thing after all; sooner or later both sides are going to realise that a solution won't be found in either extreme. The way forward lies somewhere in the middle. They're all going to have to give a little ground."
"And in the meantime, what? Do we just sit silently by?"
He chuckles softly. "I thought you knew me better than that, love. In the meantime we continue to speak out at the local levels. Write letters. Attend every surgery; make them sick and tired of our faces. I'm not saying we'll see it settled in our lifetime, mind."
"It's George I worry for. Leaving it to his generation to sort out our mess. That's no kind of legacy."
"Yeah, but you see, it's George's generation will crack it. They're far enough removed from the hotheads in power, and they're being raised to question everything. They'll have the objectivity the powers that be are lacking."
She can't argue with that. She settles down, his touch and warmth and steadfastness calming her. Tomorrow there will be wars to wage, but tonight is for this. Their hideaway of cool, crisp sheets and skin on skin and the long, hazy edge of wakefulness and slumber; the soft drowsy drawl of the simplest, most profound words.
I love you.