A Promise to Auntie Trish

It’s not exactly a New Year’s Resolution because I’ve stopped “doing” New Year Resolutions. I’ve never been that intense or rigid about them but finally realised last year when I had a shot of Baileys in my coffee on the 2^nd of January and got a cab home on the 3^rd even though it wasn’t raining and my bags weren’t heavy that it was a pretty futile exercise.

So I’m going to call it an “intention”. Okay, maybe that’s just semantics. And that’s ironic as this particular intention is to be more direct and not to pussyfoot about. I suppose something Tina said to me at the office Christmas do may have prompted me. Our dos tend to be very lowkey and quite civilised affairs, but Reg (who is relatively new) was regaling us with tales about how, at his previous employment, someone actually did try to take a photocopy of his own nether quarters when he was inebriated. Except he didn’t say nether quarters and he didn’t say inebriated. “I never thought that actually happened in real life,” I said.

“Oh, it did, trust me.”

“He must have been – quite a character –“ I said. That, I have learnt, can be a handy phrase. But Tina said, “Never mind quite a character. A tedious oaf who would be lucky to get off without being sacked. You know your trouble, Helen? You never tell it how it is. Oh, I’m not saying you’re a liar so don’t give me that look!” (I hadn’t been aware I was giving her any particular look!) “But you can be mealy-mouthed!” The next day she apologised and said she had probably been a bit inebriated too (which I doubted as the wine allowance wasn’t that generous and I sometimes think she has hollow legs) and I said it didn’t matter, but then I thought that actually it did matter. And that I would be less mealy-mouthed. Starting next year.

Well, now it IS next year. And this is where the intention turns into the reality. Oh, I’m not going to be intentionally unkind or anything like that. God, that makes me sound so sanctimonious. But I maintain that there’s no harm to telling someone that the colour of their new coat really suits them even if the shape does make them look like the Michelin Man.

I haven’t told anyone else about my intention. Such intentions are like wishes made when you blow out the candles on a birthday cake (not that I’ve done that for years and I thought it was over-rated even when I was a little girl!) and best kept to yourself. But not for the same reasons, of course. I’ve not even told my long-suffering significant other Robbie, and I’ve not even told my Mum, and for once her antennae, generally fine-tuned where I’m concerned (though I love her to bits, yes, it can be a relief not living under the same roof, not that I’d ever tell her, of course) don’t seem to have picked anything up.

At least there’s something liberating about not having made any resolutions about not taking too many cabs, though of course that doesn’t affect my finances! Still, this morning the first day back at work after the holiday, the weather genuinely was foul. I know most of the drivers with Coastal Cabs, but there was a new bloke today, who told me he was called Tony. And though, in my experience, most cabbies DON’T shove their opinions down your throat, there’s always the exception that proves the rule, and Tony was one of them and boy, could that man talk. And I didn’t agree with what he was saying. Well, apart from the weather being foul and having had a quiet Christmas. Now I tell myself that if he’d said anything downright obnoxious – racist, homophobic, whatever – then I wouldn’t have let it pass and would have let him know it made me feel uncomfortable and I didn’t agree with him. But somehow he just managed to avoid crossing my red lines which I’m afraid are all too frequently a wishy washy shade of pale pink. All the same, my mind, filled with that “intention” kept prompting, nagging, niggling. Say something, Helen. Let him know that you don’t agree. You don’t have to be rude. But you don’t have to just let it all pass. So what did I do? I came out with more of my repertoire of handy phrases. “Well, that’s one way of looking at things”. “I can see why folk might think that.” “We all have different experiences I suppose.” I even gave him a fairly generous tip.

It was a very quiet day at the hub. We were all absolutely fine when Reg (who’s a decent sort, despite his questionable Christmas party stories) asked if it would be okay to leave a bit early as he wanted to visit his grandmother, to whom we knew he was close, who had just moved into a Nursing Home. There was no need to prevaricate or be studiedly polite about that. But it did cause me a pang of conscience as I remembered my Great Aunt Patricia – Auntie Trish, as I always called her – who had reluctantly but pragmatically relocated herself to a nursing home when she became unsteady on her feet and who admitted, “It’s a nice enough sort of place. I won’t go so far as saying it’s like a hotel, but it’s fine.” But when I visited her – which was generally a pleasure, as she’d always had a soft spot for me, and she was as sharp as a handful of needles – she wasn’t sparing in her criticism of some of her fellow residents. “We all can grate on people’s nerves at times, Helen, and I know for a fact I do, and don’t even feel that apologetic about it. And if some poor soul is starting to lose their wits – well, there but for the Grace of God and all that. But I’m not going to pretend everyone in here is good company, because they’re not. And I don’t know which are worse at times, the non-stop whiners or the Pollyannas. Don’t even get me started on the ones who treat the staff like servants. Being old doesn’t make you a nice person, let alone a wise one, and don’t you forget it!” Auntie Trish had noted my tendency to gloss and to be glib, and – I only remembered it now – she, too, had used the phrase mealy-mouthed. Auntie Trish died five years ago – with her wits still intact – but now I silently promised her that I would try to do better.

Tony has asked me if I would like to come with him to The Dig at the weekend. We both have an interest in archaeology, but mine tends to be limited to watching Time Team and having a look at the primeval forest that is exposed on the beach at low tide. If the weather’s nice. He’s far more hard core and his local history group (of which I am nominally a member) is currently excavating a site that has been exposed by evacuation work done for the building of a new discount supermarket. There are rumours that something may be there, but it is decidedly time limited and they only have until the end of February to actually find something or give the site over to the supermarket. So they dutifully and optimistically troop out to the industrial estate. There is a touching realism about them. They don’t expect to find the Anglo Saxon Hoard, and would happily settle for some interesting potsherds and be sent positively ecstatic by a rusted and encrusted brooch.

The forecast for the weekend is vile (I don’t know why they don’t save a fortune on Met Office bills and just announce January will be horrible) and frankly I would prefer to spend Saturday defrosting the freezer and cleaning the windows (and they are my least favourite household tasks) than going on The Dig. Why doesn’t he get that? Well, the trouble is, I know the answer to that question. He doesn’t get it because I haven’t told him, and though he is by no means insensitive to my thoughts and feelings – anything but – he isn’t psychic.

I find myself almost hoping I catch a cold. Oh, nothing too awful, but the kind that gives me a perfect excuse – nay, a good reason – to spend the weekend wrapped in a duvet drinking Lemsip (or coffee with a bit of brandy in it), doing crosswords, and watching reruns of The Big Bang Theory instead of scrabbling around on the industrial estate. But my nose remains determinedly unrunny and my throat resolutely unscratchy.

Tony arrived at exactly the time he said he would to take us both out to The Dig. He is scrupulously punctual himself (or phones if he will be as much as a couple of minutes late!) but forgiving of a lack of punctuality in others – myself definitely included. But this time I was ready. I even had my proper rain-proof and not just shower-proof Parka on, and my heavy duty wellies and woolly hat. I looked the part. Or did I? I’ve always suspected that quite a few of the group saw right through me and would have much preferred it if I’d said quite frankly that I wasn’t into that kind of thing. He was, as usual, like an endearing puppy straining at the leash when it came to The Dig. But even the most endearing and most adorable and adored of puppies can be – well, ever so slightly tiring on occasion. But there was still the tiniest tinge of anxiety that he didn’t try to hide. Time is definitely running out before the site is handed over whether anything is found or not. But it was only a fairly small cloud on that particular horizon (unlike the real ones that hung dark and heavy and I knew were just waiting to start sending down a barrage of freezing rain until we got to The Dig). “It’s amazing how often things are found at the last minute,” he said, “Perhaps it’s because people are more – well, intent – when there’s a time factor.” That made a kind of sense – I supposed – though I could have wished he hadn’t used the word intent, as my own particular intentions had not exactly come to fruition.

“Well, have the early birds caught any interesting worms yet?” he enquired of Tammy and Matt, who were already there. No self-respecting worm would poke its head above ground in this weather, I thought, and also wondered in passing just how many worms might have been dissected in the process of the excavation, a thought that seemed to trouble nobody, not even Matt, who was a vegan. Well, I couldn’t pretend it bothered me unduly either. And the excavating machinery would be far more lethal than the spades.

I delude myself that I have perfected the art of at least looking as if I am wielding a spade in a vaguely competent manner. The truth is that it would not bother me remotely if I never so much as saw a spade again in my life, let alone digging with it.

Mind you, today I discovered that even avid hands on archaeologists (well, most of them) have their limits. I won’t say there were those hailstones the size of tennis balls that you hear about, but I swear some of them approached the size of a marble. I was sure my face was torn to ribbons, though when I fearfully put my hand to it there was not so much as a millimetre of blood the same pale pink as my figurative red lines on my glove. Tony, bless him, was the one who said, “People, let’s retreat to our cars for a bit. The worst of this will probably pass over.”

I think even Tammy and Matt were quite relieved, though of course they’d never have admitted to it.

No five star hotel (not that I’ve ever stayed in one) could have been more welcome and wonderful than the inside of Tony’s weatherbeaten ancient estate car that always seemed to smell vaguely of – well, of The Dig! My face was going through that stage of aching more as it warmed up, but I told myself it would pass, and told myself that I knew there was a flask of coffee in the car. “Helen, I’m afraid I’ve been a bit of a –naughty archaeologist,” he said. That sounded rather like the title of a vaguely salacious 70s film, but I was listening! “I – found what I think is a brooch,” he said. “Though it still doesn’t look like much. Still, I’m terribly hypocritical as I’m always the one who’s stressing the proper way of doing things and pooling our finds and all that. But I want you to have it.” Well, if he hadn’t told me that it was a brooch, I would never have guessed, and it was as well that my reluctantly wielded spade wasn’t the one to unearth it. But as it sat there nestling in his hand – he had taken his gloves off – somehow that little clod of earth that seemed to have a bit of twisted metal in it transformed into something beautiful and precious. And this was where my default position would have been to say something like, “Oh, that’s interesting,” or “I appreciate it, Tony, it’s a lovely gesture, but I wouldn’t want you to compromise your principles.”

But I didn’t say that. What I said, loud, clear, and joyful was, “Tony, I love you so very much!” And we embraced each other, and we stopped hearing the hailstones pounding on the car, and didn’t even notice when they cleared up.

In the end, things came right at the dig. Well, more or less right. They found some potsherds and even a couple of household implements, or what were probably once parts of them, and a couple more pieces of jewellery. But the brooch is still mine. It has cleaned up nicely, though it’s by no means the best piece they found. But I don’t care. I will wear it tomorrow, when Tony and I get married. Oh, he bought me a lovely engagement ring, an opal, that we both prefer to diamonds. But we both know that beautiful as it is, it matters less than that little bit of metal that will be pinned to my dress as we exchange our vows.

And talking of vows ….. what about that intention? Well, I can’t swear my mouth has never been mealy again because it has. But I still like to think Auntie Trish would be proud of me!