So many things to write of... What will I recollect?
Wednesday and Thursday were hot as midsummer, though only April.
On Thursday, when I awoke a little later than planned, I feared I had wasted the day; yet, after breakfasting and quickly getting dressed, I found there was still day ahead and was glad. I repotted the plants on my windowsill into the pretty little pots I bought the other day. I cleaned the sill and arranged them neatly. I also washed my bedding – an attention long overdue. Because of the good weather, I was able to hang the white sheets on the washing line – let them be bleached by sun and balmed by spring breezes. How lovely it was at the end of the day to cuddle into clean bedding.
Having done a little cleaning, I had a cooling shower and got redressed into a more summery affair – a light green shirt and an greeny creamy floral skirt, which belonged to my mother before me and is likely older than myself. The elastic on the latter has gone a little around the waist, but a few small safety pins pull it in at my tiny waist. I felt well dressed and clean, and ready to present myself prettily at Papa’s writing group in the sunny evening. I had attended a couple of meetings before Christmas, but then in January sense dictated I direct my energies into settling into my new job at the café – the group would still be there, and Papa would still attend.
The writing group is conducted in a side room in a city centre church, which has been converted into a community centre and café. Several rectangular tables are arranged together in the centre, with chairs all around. There were ten people there on Thursday, though Papa reports that alas far fewer attend regularly. There were a variety of different personalities – some benign, some a little malign...
There were two eccentric older ladies, who in their writings observed people and their habits about the city. A defensive Irish lady, who Papa reports never brings any pieces to share. A lady, with a soothing voice, who seemed nice. Modesty made her shy of reading her work, but her poems were lovely descriptions of nature. There was another lady, who is writing a novel. She was neither shy nor brash, but there was casual confidence about her, an inoffensiveness. There was an elderly man, who spoke barely one word, but listened to all. There was an eccentric younger lady, who was new but self-assured. She and the Irish lady seemed to clash a little; yet, I hoped each respected a similarly in the other – each would fight for justice as they saw it, like two butting Gryffindors – and yet I feared it more likely they might be blinded to their similarity of core by their dissimilarity of lifestyle. There was a man, in his fifties or sixties, who had a leader-like role and a dad-like humour. And there was my Papa and me.
Surrounded by so many older adults, many of whom in their age or eccentricity or confidence are unlike my usual friends or allies, I felt childlike and my timidity surfaced. Pride in one’s work may will one to share it, if the newness of the work makes it novel, or the time or effort put in makes the outcome worthy of attention or admiration. Ever I do not wish to be prideful, but like the modest lady. Urged, I did take my turn and read out, with quivering heart, an old poem of mine, which they praised. I smiled, and simply thanked them. I had listened to their varying pieces, and thought it good each person, including myself, were outside their natural social group: surrounded by different characters, we were building up tolerance. From tolerance to compassion to empathy may we all progress with practice and patience.
Lovely Meg and I worked well together at work on Friday. I had been making drinks, but the queue had slowly built up, so, when Meg came in, she came and helped me. Teamwork and smiles marked the morning. After a short lunch, I served meals, cleared tables and washed dishes. Alas, many costumers, whether due to inattentiveness or laziness or disability, do not place their dishes on their tray and their tray on a rack, meaning a lot of our time is spent clearing their dirty dishes away, when we should be quickly wiping tables and swapping full racks for empty, and getting back to washing dishes and serving food, which are our core duties when in the role of runner/dishwasher. The racks, full and dirty, built up. As soon as I had emptied one and washed its contents, it was rolled back out to the café and another full one was rolled back out to me. Thankfully smiley Jean came in and helped me. With two of us and less costumers in the early afternoon, all the racks were soon emptied. Jean chatted with fondness of her holiday, which she had just got back from the day before. She and her husband had gone to the Isles of Scilly, and had lots of lovely walks in the sunshine. When I left, I left happy that Jean no longer had many dishes to wash.
Deborah had an unfortunate start to Friday: she discovered a wing mirror had been knocked off her car. She then had to walk the long distance to work in the very early morning; and, not long after starting work, managed to knock over a large pile of small plates, many of which smashed. She felt bothered, but given time, settled in spirit; and to her good credit, she took no distress out on any of us, but divided out the day’s tasks with fairness.
Arriving home from work on Friday, I had another cooling shower to wash away the dirt of work and the sticky heat of the day. I dressed myself in a long, floral dress in blue, and placed a pretty straw summer hat on my bonny head. I smiled on myself, suited to the sun. I packed a quick bag, for I was to stay at Mamma’s that evening and all the next day.
Each walk to and from work is lovely: past wildflowers aplenty and tweeting songbirds I walk; under a turquoise sky and a beaming sun.
Mamma picked me up around 6pm and helped me put my bags into her small car – I had extra bags, for I had sorted to store my winter jumpers at her house, and sort through and bring back summer dresses with me on the Saturday. She said she was happy I was happy and well – getting out and joining groups. She later said Peter noticed I was happier and well in myself. Alas she had had a rather stressful week at work, but fortunately her work colleagues had been supportive.
Their old inn is in the long process of decoration. Mamma was happy for me to sort through clothes in my bedroom there, for she and Peter are soon to repaint the white walls and lay carpet in my room. Someday all my belongings will have a home again – one home, my own home – and not be divided unevenly between Papa’s and Mamma’s homes. We moved about three years ago, and yet many of my possessions are still in the cardboard boxes I packed them in in my old bedroom in Exmouth. That room, with its pink rosebud wallpaper and seaside view, was mine, but a room of my – neither girlhood nor womanhood – of that blossoming in-between.
Mamma and Peter went out on Saturday morning to get Peter’s car washed; meanwhile, I made myself a cup of tea. I settled on the sofa, next to the curled up cat, sipped at my tea, and listened to a radio comedy. Sedate and content were cat and I.
I re-wore my blue dress, and just started to sort through the mass of messy boxes piled in the corner of my bedroom, when Mamma and Peter returned. Mamma put more tea in the pot and started to cook an English breakfast for us. I had just found an old jewellery box of mine, which I used to store a small collection of old coins, medals and postcards. The First World War medals Great Grandpapa (mother’s father’s father) had been left by an old friend. Most of the old coins belonged to Great Grandpapa too. As a very young girl, Mamma had shown an interest in the small collection, so was left it in his will. The rest of the coins and postcards belonged to Great Aunt Chrissie. We believe they were left or given to her also by a friend. These I carried down with me in my old jewellery box to show and share with Mamma and Peter. Sat at the kitchen table, we drank our tea, and had a little look at the items, whilst Mamma kept an eye on her cooking.
With a full breakfast in our tummies, each set to tasks: Peter to painting the doorframe and wood in the downstairs bathroom white, Mamma to sorting through her clothes, and me to sorting through mine. As I had begun earlier, I finished early, so then sat with Mamma and chatted happily with her. It was nice to catch up with Mamma.
