Listening is what I do best (First person menacing. Present tense)

Listening is what I do best

(First person menacing. Present tense)

Listening is what I do best. I am good at so many things, but listening is certainly the thing I do best – listening and, perhaps, waiting.

My hearing is good, but listening is so much more than just hearing. I have learned to listen very carefully. I am not listening for conversation, oh no! I am waiting for the slightest sound which disturbs the silence. I turn my attention first in one direction and then in another. I focus my attention in each direction in its turn as I search the darkness. I don’t want to miss anything.

I can feel the coldness which surrounds me. I can feel the darkness. Sometimes I think that I can touch it and feel its texture. Sometimes it feels cold and slick like polished metal and sometimes the coldness feels soft and yielding. Then it is like stroking a fish.

In fact, all my senses are acute. My eyesight is at least as good as my hearing, but I don’t use sight very much in the darkness. My sense of smell is subtle and delicate. I can usually smell things before they come within reach. Finally, there is my sense of taste. I long to experience taste again. I am so cold and I am so hungry.

If you come this way, then do not think that you will evade me. I am sitting here patiently in the cold and the darkness. I am waiting for you and I am listening. Listening is what I do best.

(7^th October 2016)

(I’m talking to you! Yes, you! You’re peering at me over the top of the screen on my laptop. Your head is just above the webcam and your fingers are either side, just like Chad or Kilroy. I wonder what you are like. I’ll never know.)

"Peter"

If you go to the same place, at the same times, repeatedly you start to notice people. It was true when I commuted through Waterloo railway station in London twice every day and it is true now. Faces seemed to stand out from the crowd. Staff or passengers lost their anonymity and I began to recognise them and look for them. Sometimes they faded back into the background but sometimes they remained, pricking the curiosity. I would wonder: what are they like? What do they do? What are they called? Then I wouldn’t notice them anymore and ask myself if something had happened.

If these moments of recognition occur among the thousands streaming through Waterloo each day, imagine how much more likely they are in a small country town in rural Ireland.

Peter, let’s call him that, because it is so much kinder to give him a name, even if it is not the one he would recognise, was such a face which stood out from the crowd. I started to notice him around the town. Mostly I would see him in the morning, but sometimes in the evening too.

I don’t remember the first time I noticed Peter, but I am sure that the first thing I registered was the coat. Most men don’t wear coats these days, but Peter does. He wears a shabby, charcoal grey, knee-length overcoat, come rain or come shine. After the coat, the next thing I noticed would have been the elbow crutches which he uses to steady himself. The crutches are explained by the orthopaedic slipper he sometimes wears. His face is weather beaten and florid, beneath a tousled mop of dark greying hair.

Peter isn’t a man whose company I would seek out. In fact, I would probably avoid him, because the final part of Peter’s ensemble is the beer can. Almost every time I see him he has an open beer can in his hand. I feel that he is a man who needs, rather than enjoys his drink. I have seen him engaged in earnest negotiations with a local publican at 10 in the morning and I have seen him in the evening, leaning against the door jamb watching the traffic climbing the bridge on the road out of town. He was sipping from his can with others sitting on the window sill beside him. I imagine him as a cat, lying in a place it finds comfortable. But this is not a relaxed cat fast asleep with its legs in the air, or a sly, alert cat observing through slits but a sick cat (disinterestedly) watching the world passing with faded, watery eyes.

Then he was gone. Since starting to write this I have realised that I haven’t noticed Peter for several days, possibly even weeks. The cat is no longer lying there watching the world go by. Peter is no longer in his usual spots as I pass. Another face has differentiated itself from the multitude for a moment and then disappeared again. Perhaps he has changed his habits, perhaps I have, or perhaps something really has happened and he is gone for good.

Before I came out this evening

Before I came out this evening

(written evening 27^th September 2016)

The cat is waiting at the door, waiting to be let in, so that it can walk around, sniff its bowl, turn its nose up and scratch at the mat to be let out again. Either that, or get under my feet as I prepare tea.

I must check the “best by” dates. Should we eat the things which are a day over-due? What if we all die of food poisoning? If we all die, then it won’t be a problem, will it?

The cat is asleep on the chair. The food is prepared and ready to be served. My satchel is packed and ready to go. I have the time for the journey planned. Everything is ready – Ready to go.

Dinner is served! Fresh fish supplemented by the TV dinner that we should have given to the Mother-in-law on Saturday but was overlooked. That was past its best by date. What if we get food poisoning? What if the Mother-in-law gets food poisoning? Oh no! Don’t think that. I like my Mother-in-law, better than I like the cat anyway.

Time to go! Kiss the wife, pick up the satchel check the pockets of my jacket. Everything’s there. We’re off!

Jessie Bannatyne's Singer sewing machine

A few years ago (5 or so, I don’t remember), I inherited a sewing machine from Jessie, one of my cousins. “Inherited” in both the formal and informal sense. I went to her funeral, and stayed a couple of nights. When you are travelling several hundred miles and finishing up on a Hebridean island, it is almost unavoidable. The day following the funeral, some of the women were packing things up and asked me “do you want anything?” There was the sewing machine in a store-room so I said: “I’ll have that.” Naturally, it didn’t turn, but I didn’t care that much. Actually, I really do like the idea of having a sewing machine, and this is one of those hand-cranked ones, so it was ideal and of course it was free.

Jessie Bannatyne's Singer Sewing Machine (circa 1921)

A couple of weeks ago, in the evening something prompted me have a look at it. The first thing I found was that the reason it wasn’t turning was simply a tangle of threads around the lower bobbin. A few snips and a couple of tugs with some rat-nosed pliers and everything was moving. A squirt of WD40 down the appropriate holes and it was running freely. Since then I’ve fitted in a trip down to Cork and bought it a bottle of proper Singer oil (almost certainly an unnecessary extravagance, I’m sure 3-in-1 would have been adequate, but what the heck), and a replacement rubber friction wheel for the bobbin winder. That is the only replacement part it has required. I haven’t totted up the total expenditure, but at 1 rubber wheel, 1 bottle of oil, 1 paper of 5 needles and 3 reels of thread for parts and less than a couple of hours labour, it isn’t much!

Some research on the internet shows that the serial number of the machine was allocated in December 1921. That may well mean that it was made the following year. Asking round the family we have concluded that it was probably bought new by my Grandmother (also called Jessie btw). She used it for a while and then gave it to her daughter when she married and took over the farm. She in turn gave it to my cousin Jessie (my family do it to confuse!) who was a spinster and eventually it came to me.

So there you have it. Early 20^th Century over-engineering at its best! Made in Clydebank and finishes up in the South of Ireland via the Hebrides. 94 or 95 years old, three generations of women using it for dress-making, making curtains and all those other things and it’s still going strong and the only part it needed was a replacement rubber wheel! They don’t make them like that anymore!

I can see from the picture that this is before I fitted the replacement wheel. And in case you are wondering, the tatty towel in the background was issued to me when I was working shifts at British Steel’s Lackenby Steel Plant in 1979/80. I used it to test the machine, by joining it Ends-to-middle. I still use the towel to wipe my hands when I go to the gym! 

17^th February 2016

The End

The Sun is rising over Veranasi. I have been observing the sky since before dawn. The air is fresh and clear but it will be another hot and humid day. The Sun is rising for the final time. Before it is time for the next sunrise, Veranasi, the Sun and the rest of the universe will have ceased to be.

I am dying. There are other, more complicated ways of describing what is happening but “I am dying” is sufficient. Detail, precision and even accuracy no longer seem as important as they once did.

As Mother Ganga flows downstream and eventually loses herself in the sea, so I am nearly at the end of my journey. Shortly, the cycle of deaths and rebirths will end and my consciousness will be lost when it merges with the greater whole.

How long have I known that I was dying? We begin dying when we are born, perhaps even when we are conceived. Think of that: we begin dying before we exist! And yet we continue to live our lives from moment to moment, ignoring the inevitable.

A little while ago (though it seems like an age) I relinquished my final responsibilities, then came a period of immense relief. I had no more duties to perform. Nothing would suffer particularly if I did not do whatever it was that I felt I was supposed to be doing. Eventually, that feeling of relief was replaced by one final duty. I felt obliged to tell my story, so that others might gain whatever benefit they could from it. Maybe memories are meant to be conserved, like matter and energy.

The remembering and the telling have been refreshing, even therapeutic. From this point, perhaps for the first time, I can track the trajectory of myself through all those lives. Each birth, life and death has been reviewed. All those names have been identified. They are the means by which we connect, but they are so transient. Our names are not as immutable as we imagine. There are the formal names, the shortened forms, the pet names, even the names we ourselves did not know, and all ultimately identifying the same entity.

For every name, the memories have been accessed and reviewed. They have been sieved and sorted, checked and consolidated, indexed, collated and categorised. All those memories have been cross-referenced to allow easier access and easier referencing. All those facts have been stored away. They have been sanitised and cleaned, stripped of their emotional content. Even the feelings have not been lost. They have been rendered down and distilled. They too are stored as more information on the time-line of my lives.

Nothing has been lost, but everything has been transformed!

Names: the way we identify things and differentiate one thing from another. But if there are two names, are there two things? Not necessarily. Two things can share the same name and one thing can have several names. And if you do not know the right name, how can you find the right records? Do you want to know my name? Do you want to know my real name? My name is… I am…

Illiterate labourers and medical examinations

This is a little story from the start of my career. The message is about recognising opportunities not being judgemental.

I started out working for the British Steel Corporation. I worked for them during my summer vacations from University. Every year I had to have a medical examination. It was the most thorough examination I’ve ever had. It included blood tests and lung function. The works had its own medical centre and they took it all very seriously. The work was potentially dangerous both in the immediate term and the long term effect it could have on you (hence the regular checks on lung function).

I was waiting in line to see the nurse. There were several of us, and we had all been given forms to fill in. I expect you can imagine the kind of thing: lots of tick boxes and questions like: “Have you ever had…?”. We were also all given jars to pee in. The man ahead of me in the queue was obviously a foreigner. He took a long time with this form. Eventually, when nobody else was looking he got my attention and asked me to help him fill in the form. He obviously felt awkward and embarrassed about this. Quickly I took his clipboard and by asking the questions filled in the form for him. No problem, but I wondered if I was doing the right thing. Eventually the time came for my neighbour to take his turn filling his sample jar. While he was in the lavatory I approached one of the male nurses and said to him “I think the fellow sitting next to me is illiterate”. I don’t remember the exact words. I was a little surprised by his matter-of-fact response: “Oh! Thanks for telling me” and he shrugged.

When it was my turn in the examination room, I had the same nurse I had told about the fellow beside me. As I came in he was changing the eyesight chart on the wall. The one he was taking down had “shapes” (triangles, squares and circles) and he was putting up the more usual alphabetic type. As we did our business he explained that British Steel didn’t care whether the fellow I had helped with his form could read or write. He was there for a labouring job. They did care about how good his eyesight was, and they did need to make sure that he could recognise certain words and signs like “Danger!”, “Gas” and “No Entry”. They definitely cared about his health and safety.

I don’t know whether the foreigner who couldn’t read got his job. At that time there were thousands on that group of sites, so it’s no surprise I didn’t see him again. How well he could read only mattered to BSC in as far as it had a bearing on whether he would be safe on the site and whether he might endanger others.

There are plenty of people in all walks of life who are “functionally illiterate” in some aspect of their lives. There is something which they just do not know how to do. They may be able to do other things even better than we can. For those of us who are experts in particular areas, things other people cannot do become opportunities for us (like filling in forms!).  

Hope that gave you an opportunity to smile.

Blue Suede Shoes

Here is an amusing little tale.

Siobhan came into the kitchen with a bottle of my whisky. It’s the one I’m slowly working my way through and was quarter full (or three-quarters empty, if you prefer). “Why have you got that?” I asked. It turns out she wanted it for a still life for the art exam.

“You’re not taking that to school!”  I said. I explained that taking an open whisky bottle to school was bound to be in breach of some school rule or another and that a quarter bottle of whisky was bound to be a temptation to someone.

The question was though, what to do about it. She wanted the bottle. The solution was to decant the whisky into an empty jar. Not a jam jar actually, but a jar which had contained chocolate spread. I washed it out carefully first. Then I replaced the whisky with an equal amount of tea. It’s the standard thing done in the theatre (unless certain actors are playing, when they use the real thing) and looked pretty convincing.   

So there you have it. I’m drinking my own liquor from an old fruit jar!