16th May
It started in blurry storm infused drama and ended with a promise of eyebrow raised mischief; an assured tribute!
I sat in an exam invigilation today gazing out of the window at the lightening and noted how the rain, being so heavy and all, blurred my view. Through the merged Monet-esque deep green of the wet trees surrounding the building I watched everything get a little panicky just for a moment. Just for a moment the water in the river started boiling, the clouds huddled together, shoulder to black grey shoulder, growling and rumbling along with the thunder. Then a flash, sharp and bright would pierce through towards the ground as if fiercely stabbing what lay beneath it.
Two boys had their backs to me and were hurriedly typing away at their IGCSE ICT exam. I’d fallen off the wheelie swivel chair that was my invigilator throne and was confused momentarily having landed without dignity upon the floor. I’d misjudged how high I needed to lift my thigh in order to rest the opposite foot beneath it, misbalanced… and simply fell off. Another flash of lightning, rumble of thunder and I shot up. Red faced (although I’ve no idea why seeing as no one had seen the ridiculous self instigated comedic lurch to the floor) and was currently unable to stop that involuntary breath of sharp laughter one tends to blurt at something stupid that they’ve done. I did my best to contain the snorts while my charges continued tap tap tapping away: oblivious. Silently, I grimaced, involuntarily laughed to myself once more, corrected my clothing and commenced walking slowly around the room, hands behind straight back, facial expression fixed and serious: a determined and exemplary professional.
In addition to unnecessarily falling off chairs, today I spent some time with the science department after school. They needed to use up the last of the liquid nitrogen they had for ‘Science Week’. We liquidised air inside balloons, we froze leaves then savagely shattered them like the hulking manly geeks we all are. We tried to make beer ice cubes but gave up and drank the beer instead; we huddled around like the fortunetellers of MacBeth and stared into the smoking polystyrene tub. It’ interesting scary stuff, liquid nitrogen, dangerous, a silent killer if you’re stuck in a lift with it yet despite my seemingly logical suggestion, it is not a means by which you could save yourself if you happened to have been bitten by a snake. I surmised that surely by freezing your arm with Liquid Nitrogen the vemon would be halted in its cursive destruction of your body? Immediate application thus enabling the victim more time to seek the appropriate medical assistance. I thought it rather a clever idea until it was pointed out that a canister of liquid nitrogen is not usually the first thing you’d pack when preparing for a hike in a place where poisonous snakes are lurking and also that by freezing (essentially burning) your arm by pouring liquid nitrogen onto it, you would in fact rather be causing your cells to burst and die. Bang goes that idea then, might as well let the venom run its course. Incidentally, and for your fact seeking gratification (although not solidified fact) the best thing to do with a snake bite is to simply wash your arm. Apparently the poison only goes so far in due to the fact that the snake will stab and run to prevent its being captured. The poison sits mostly at the top. Isn’t that a fascinating thing? Worth a try at least. Remember that the next time you take the dog to Ruislip woods or nip down to the savage warrens of Uxbridge town centre – you never know!
I must admit, something that’s not as much fun as playing with liquid nitrogen is another far to potent expat realisation that working abroad can be tough when you know people at ‘home’ could need you. That sometimes, even if you feel in your gut that you could make people feel better, you simply have to deal with the fact that you decided to move away. I was glad of my silly science geek fest session and of the moment when you realise how funny simply falling off a chair can be; because for a fleeting moment I was all too aware of loss and the implications of having decided to be away. For a moment I felt everything at once – just took a blurry scene and a bruised arse to trigger it.
She was fiery was Betty. Back in the day she drank as much booze as tea (probably more) and smoked like a chimney. Come to think of it, she smoked those colorful cigarettes. I always thought them awfully posh, not just due to the array of smooth elegant colours distracting one from an unselfconscious blatant marketing ploy but because of that gold piece of paper that flapped up as you raised the lid on the box. No pansy cigarette were these, oh no. They were the classy killers that were so cool that they necessitated a slight golden shield to cover them from the distasteful outside world, revealing themselves only to the deserving smoker of choice.
I remembered that when we stayed with aunty Betty, she would let us watch The Rescuers and put drinks on her glass table if we were very careful. I remembered that she would walk us up the little hill to the shops near her to buy some tutt from the hardware shop, every time letting us believe we might not be allowed something this time before relenting and allowing us to buy that ornate thimble, mini screwdriver set or everso useful giraffe shaped ice cube holder. Tea was served properly and food was laid out properly despite the momentary delay in deliverance. I remember the books in her cabinet that she would allow me to leaf through and the couple she let me keep. I promise I’ll read ‘Blitzcat’ and ‘Lorna Doone’, Aunty Bet.
I remember that my aunty Betty, who had been sick for a while, recognised me when I visited last Christmas and I remember feeling like I was something very special because she did. How even without realising, she’d bestowed a gift. I remember sitting with Mandy, waiting for her to get back from wherever she’s been on the ward, her wheelchair being pushed by the unfortunately orderly whose turn it was to suffer the mistempered slanderous accusations she had decided to bestow, and listening to her batter the poor man with a strength of tone that countered her now frail body; I am sure all shoulders on the ward hunched slightly at her approach.
Her strength. Her Fire. The later flashes of sadness she occasionally let slip yet her refusal to allow these to become regret or remorse. Her kindness and her laugh, whether that was accompanied by a raised cigarette and a head thrown back that summer in the garden or a wheeze, cough and a shift in her seat towards the end. The laughter inevitably sprung from something naughty: a sneaked dram of something strong and sharp that the nurse or carer had banned; a rebellious refusal to accept something she didn’t agree with or hearing a story about us doing the same. She was a brilliant lady latterly prone to outrageous accusations, short tempered retorts and misjudged assumptions due to her age and mental deterioration but these aside, she was such a character; such a loving and passionate lady that she was and is quite an inspiration. I shall raise a glass to you, aunty Betty, and remember those stories of racing in the Isle of Mann and of naughty children in your café; of books and tea served properly, of singing along to ‘will you rescueeeeeee meeeeeeeeee’ with you and my sisters; of bad wigs and biscuits and of many other things that will inevitably filter through and turn into stories inspiring full head back laughter.
I did something naughty yesterday and played ‘annoy the commuter’ on the train by blocking the train doors in apparent western naivety to prevent the stampede for just a precious powerful moment – it was fun, you’d be proud!
She went to Shanghai 