Where there's hope there's life

The centre of Swindon remains uninspiring, its very blandness seeming to stifle any new growth. The pubs on Fleet Street entice the ASBO crowd to drink in the sun where they can easily shout abuse to passers by. I hurry past on my way home avoiding eye contact by looking skyward.

As I get to the corner a flash of green catches my eye, slowing down I notice a small tree clinging to the wall of the pub – one story up. Its roots dig into the mortar, yet no crack can be seen. The vibrant green leaves undulate in the breeze reminding me of far away places. Flouting the humdrum of Swindon life it reaches for the sunshine, valiantly holding onto its existance and reaching for something more. The tree makes me smile, although it didn’t try to – it has no need of admiration, it has found its niche already.

It's not my business

I’d been holding on since I left work, which made it hard to focus on the artwork I was supposed to be reviewing. Happy with my notes I tucked them into my bag and headed towards the stairs wondering where the closest toilet was. As I reached the bottom of the stairs a woman and a young girl appeared. The woman began fiddling with the lock to the ladies.
‘Relief!’ I thought gratefully and walked towards her as she opened the door. ‘You don’t mind if I go too do you?’
She looked around, startled and clutched at the suitcase on wheels I’d not noticed until then.
‘Sure.’ She replied nervously, eyes darting here and there as she pushed the little one ahead of her. ‘Just let me know when you’re done.’ I strolled in behind her, watching her manoeuvre the suitcase in front of her and ushering the girl to the second stall.
Not thinking too much about her strange behaviour due to the pressure from my bladder I pushed into my own stall and sat down to answer nature’s call.

Over the tinkling of my pee I heard the suitcase open and something heavy drop on the floor. It made a dull thud, like documents being dropped. I began to hum in an effort to disguise my listening from her. Over the repetitive tune I heard crackling as though something was being stowed into a plastic bag. Curious, but aware that I would never find out what it was until she left I flushed and opened the stall to see her zipping the case closed. There was no sign of the package I thought I’d heard. I thanked her for letting me in to use the loo and left. As I reached the door I heard the little girl calling to the woman.
‘I can’t flush the toilet!’
‘Never mind darling, you wash your hands while I flush it for you.’

Wondering how I was going to get back in without the woman knowing, I went and bought myself a coffee from the theatre café while I waited for the woman to reappear. She did shortly, returning the key to the desk. I smiled as she walked past me and out onto the street.

Now I just had to get back into the toilets to see if I could find out what she’d been up to. The toilets would be locked and I had no excuse - like a child - for them to let me in on my own. I waited, nursing my coffee and turning over in my mind ways to get the key. Half an hour passed before I decided to simply ask and try my luck.

The girls at the booking desk were busy selling tickets and I waited in line for another 15 minutes. By then I really did need the toilet and was bouncing from foot to foot to avoid peeing my pants. I asked in a slightly exasperated voice if I could have the key to the ladies and was rewarded for my efforts with a smile and the silver key that I hoped would solve the mystery along with my weak bladder issue.

Hurrying down the stairs in anticipation and intense need I fiddled with the lock just like the woman before me had. I made my way to the stall which the little girl had used and sat down, my need to pee taking priority over the need to find out what she was up to.

As I sat I looked around for somewhere to hide whatever it was – it had sounded reasonably large. I peered into the toilet paper dispenser only to find toilet paper. There was no sanitary waste disposal unit, or anywhere else to secrete a package. Stumped and feeling overly suspicious, I stood up and flushed the toilet. A pitiful trickle of water splashed into the bowl and stopped. Smiling to myself I lifted the lid on the cistern, sure I would find a concealed packet.

Rewarded for my efforts an opaque plastic zip-lock bag sat at the bottom of the cistern, almost filling it to the top. Trying not to be too grossed out by putting my hands in toilet water I reached in and pulled it out. It was heavy alright, but not as big as I’d anticipated after hearing it drop on the floor. The toilet hissed as the cistern filled with water again.

Sure that I was the only one in the toilets I pulled open the bag and peered inside. Stacks of £20 and £50 pound notes poked out from the plastic and I was sorely tempted to take a pile and put the rest back. My voice of conscience shouted over the darker me and I closed the bag up, flushed the water from the cistern and placed the bag back inside.

There must’ve been at least £10,000 in the bag. I wondered why someone would place that much money in a toilet. Curiosity won over my duty as a UK citizen and I decided to wait and see if someone would come to collect it. I returned the key to the desk and asked if I could take another look at the art display in the lower foyer, closer to the toilets. The girl agreed I could. I made my way down the stairs to a table that had a good view of the toilet door but offered cover from a casual glance around the bar.

Not known for my patience I plugged my iPod into my ears and looked about at the images on the walls. An hour passed but still no-one came, the rope barring access to this part of the theatre remained in place. I tapped my foot impatiently and sighed, I had other things I needed to be getting on with and I could get into some serious trouble for not reporting what I knew. Even worse, I could get hurt if whoever came to collect the cash saw me staking out the ladies. I began to worry about the woman and myself. Who knew who’d turn up and what they were capable of?

As I rose to abandon my plan and call the police a small woman with a cute toddler walked down the stairs. Sitting down again quietly I watched as she let herself into the ladies. I took in everything I could about her – the large black handbag, stylish jeans and shirt, long black pony tail and expensive Louboutin shoes with the trademark glossy red soles. The little boy was dressed in denim dungarees with a playful yellow t-shirt underneath. The laces on his left trainer were undone but he made it down the stairs without falling.

Not knowing I had been holding my breath I exhaled loudly as the door swung closed behind the pair. A few minutes passed before the door opened again and the lady stepped out. Her handbag bulged and the little boy was nowhere to be seen. She carefully locked the door behind her and trotted up the stairs to the main foyer.

Now in a bit of a dilemma, I sat, stunned at what I had stumbled upon and wondering what I was supposed to do next. I was worried about the little boy – I hadn’t heard any sound, but what if he’d been hurt – or worse… Terrible images of his small body twisted on the floor flitted around my head. I wanted to go back to the desk and get the key, but what if the woman, or someone more threatening, was there and saw me? Scared and worried but unable to do nothing I darted up the stairs to the desk.
‘I’m so sorry, but could I please have the key to the loos again? I must’ve drunk far too much today.’ I asked, smiling and feeling insanely conspicuous. The girl behind the desk smiled kindly and passed it to me. As I turned I was confronted by the woman I’d seen earlier.
‘You don’t mind if I go to do you?’ She asked. I could hear the strain in her voice.
‘’Course not.’ I replied and walked down the stairs with her close behind. She didn’t have her case anymore and the little girl was sat at one of the tables in the theatre café.
‘Just let me know when you’re done ‘cause I’ll have to lock it up again.’
I let us both in and walked around to the cubicles. One of the cubicle doors seemed to be locked and I could hear the little boy crying. Humming to myself I pushed into the loo and sat down. I sat for a good ten minutes wanting to give the woman enough time to comfort her child and leave without having to explain to me.
‘I’m done’ she shouted ‘Thanks so much for your kindness.’

The quiet toddler steps disappeared along with the echoes of the woman’s shoes and I wondered again if I had chosen the right path.

Summer Solstice 08

Stonehenge stood in the distance, blending into the grey clouds that pressed upon the landscape releasing a fine drizzle punctuated by brightly coloured umbrellas. Thousands of people formed a line along the fence, like marching ants. Drumming reached my ears and the stones took the shape of a design I had only seen in pictures.

Excited that we’d finally made it I urged my aching limbs forward, hurrying with my friends towards the circle. My first sight of England’s most well known site was made all the more special by the trip down the river Avon to get there – following the footsteps of an ancient people thousands of years before.

The huge megaliths stood solid while the crowd pulsated to the drumming and I stood amazed at the spectacle before me. A feeling of calm spread through me – similar to the time I had visited Uluru years before, on the other side of the world.

People from all walks of life milled about. Some stumbled past inebriated, one chanted ‘Summer Sol, Sol, Sol…’ clearly under the influence of something. He fell to the ground not far from me and twitched as he answered the question in my mind.
‘K Hole, K Hole, K Hole’ he repeated.

Cider cans and plastic bags littered the ground and I wondered at the lack of reverence for a site so closely entwined with England. The ingenuity of the people who had transported these enormous rocks here and erected them in this precise pattern was mind blowing, surely a little respect for it wasn’t much to ask?

My thoughts drifted back to our journey along the Avon, the calm river speckled with starlight, the ghosts of swans disappearing before us in the predawn and then the frantic paddling to save ourselves from the weir and the menacing spikes that poked from beneath the rushing water. It was hard to think how the Neolithic people managed to move these giant stones along that same route.

The ancient stones seemed to hold their breath, waiting for the madness to subside and leave them to return to their pondering. Still contained in my bubble I began to notice the difference in each slab of sandstone, bluestone and sarsen, carried from distant places. Lichen and birds had made their homes in the crevasses and chinks, in some way giving them further life, making them relevant to now, more so than the festivities that continued around me.

Tired of the crowd we turned to leave; sleep beckoned our aching bodies as we returned for our boats and then home to sleep and dream of ancient times.

Do not stand at my grave and weep

The sun shone out from the clouds, making me sweat in my black clothes, the race to place flowers on his grave before the service had left me feeling rushed. We took our seats near the front as the last of the first hymn petered out, kissing the others hello.

The Irish priest voiced platitudes about eternal life and returning to Christ. In one voice the congregation obediently answered ‘amen’ and stood as instructed, beginning the next hymn. Shade touched the garden as I looked around me at the pliant faces, wondering at the comfort derived from these services, long after their loved ones had passed.

The melodies were unfamiliar; I supposed I seemed hard, standing silent with lips tightly closed. The hymn finished and another priest beckoned us to sit, reminding me of the long aerobic services I had attended as a child.

I was surprised by the elderly lady who took her turn at the podium, almost too short to see over the lectern. Her voice rose clearly out over the crowd, acknowledging the loss of all those sat before her. Offering no promises of golden streets in heaven, yet providing comfort with her encouragement to continue on, remembering, loving, living. I thought of those I’d lost, not unhappy that they’d moved on, knowing they were fine wherever they may be, but sad for my loss. Grief is a selfish thing.

The next song passed by and the first priest returned, thanking us for attending, talking on until I didn’t hear anymore and sat wondering about the elderly woman’s wisdom. She didn’t seem like a priest, although I wouldn’t know what one looked like – the religion of my upbringing would never allow a woman to preach – and the programme provided little help either. I wondered who she grieved for and was grateful for her words, when all the others seemed just noise.