Circle
We were to drive to North Wales yesterday to take lunch at favourite pub - one of those establishments that somehow manage to remain the same, a stalwart, a ballast, against this change-churning globe. It is an old old building standing at the mouth of an estuary with horse brasses hanging over the bar, dark oak settles, battered chintz cushions, a crackling fire and a menu to suit the large appetites of the hearty walkers who come in their big-booted droves. We didn't make it. Other people's misery and unexpected catastrophe got in the way. I thought of them. Did anyone die? I hope not. The mess of it. Of us.
We drove anyway. Two jets shot through the valley, the sound of them coming after. Higher up, much higher, a plane drew circles in the blue. A mobile library pulled up outside a small cottage. Lunch in a cavernous, newly renovated coaching inn. Too cold. We rushed to secure a place by the fire, falling inelegantly into the sunken sofa, already oily with over-use. Mediocre food from a too large menu. The menu on the blackboard, written so carefully, so tentatively, in coloured chalks (did they bite on their tongues as they wrote it?). A menu of mispellings and malapropisms - a salad with 'basmati' dressing, another with 'advocato' and a medley of 'vegatables'. I do not mock, I just notice and it warmed me, as did the fire. It is a reaching out for something new, something unfamiliar, sophisticated even. To reach out is good, and if one falls or is awkward in the process then so be it. It is ok. I caught a brief sense of a news item on the radio about a school that was to stage a failure day. They say we learn more from them - yes, but nevertheless they are sharp, unforgiving jewels and oh so hard to show to others.
She was sleepy yesterday afternoon. When we arrived Marion, another inmate, was at her bedside talking softly but animatedly. She struggled to her feet at our entrance -suddenly discomforted, grappling for her frame.
'I have no circulation, it's my blood, no blood in my body.'
Her white hair is wispy and wild, her scalp pinkly exposed, tender and raw in its nakedness. She talked of the hotel she used to go to in Aberdovey, with her husband. I know the place, it sits on a hill looking down over the links course and the sea. A slow-ticking sort of place, old-fashioned, reserved, an afternoon tea with silver pots & sugar tongs sort of place where guests dress for dinner and spend the afternoons sleeping over newspapers.
'It was so lovely, we went every August.....I haven't been since Mike died.'
On our way out we passed the television lounge. The door was slightly ajar. Two men in upright armchairs, shirt and ties immaculate with red tartan rugs wrapped tightly around their legs captivated by whatever was going on on the screen. One of the resident's rooms door opened and a man came out, greeting us as he passed, a miasma of scent trailing in his wake. I recognised the smell. Brut. It jettisoned me back to being maybe ten or eleven and buying gift packs of toiletries as christmas presents for my parents. Tweed eau-de-toilette and talcum powder for my mother and Brut after-shave and deodrant for my father. I felt so proud, so grown-up, not noticing that they were never used, never seen again.
Yes, ordinariness and yet, so entrancing if one pays attention to its detail. I ferret them away, sweets in a pocket. The bubbling pod of oystercatches on the beach fussing at the oncoming tide, the single red velvet heart in a health food shop with an incongruous line of gold braid attached to its front, and a check-out girl called Tara, from Malaysia, giving me advice on how to eat, cut and cook pineapple - 'Try it with some salt, it's very good' she urged, beaming at me.
I read about Ted Hughes. He said of his hometown - 'Nothing ever quite escapes into happiness.' Perhaps not. Is happiness all that it is about? To maintain the ability to still be suprised, startled, charmed, stilled by life - I think, that is enough, at least for the moment. For now.
(Image borrowed from www.polkadothippo.com)
