Tuesday, 4.00 p.m.
My challenge doesn’t specify how to ‘treat’ a homeless person. What sort of treat should I provide? I don’t want to be condescending or give them something useless. My treat must be… what? Valuable? Unique? Useful? I group-message my friends:
If I were to treat you, what would you like?
Please be realistic.
Half an hour later, the results are in. I skip through the suggestions: a good book, restaurant meals, trip in a Limo, spa pamper… I stare into space. How about giving myself – my time? That would be useful and valuable and unique and definitely something that money can’t buy. I need a second opinion.
Pippa is in her bedroom, knee-deep in homework. I take her a bowl of chocolate to (hopefully) improve her mood and get her interested in my task. “Brain food, Pips.”
“Hey, Mum,” she replies, snatching the bowl out of my hand and turning back to her work. I perch on the end of her bed.
“Help me out here. If I were to treat you, what would you like from me – apart from chocolates,” I smile.
“I don’t need to be treated,” she says indignantly. “I don’t have a problem, and I’m not ill.”
“No, silly,” I say, amused. “Treat as in spoil – not treat as in cure or make better. If I were to give you a special treat, what would it be?”
She sucks on a chocolate. “What I’d really like,” she says quietly, “is for us to hang out like we did when you made Sunday dinner. I really enjoyed that.”
My instincts are correct. The greatest gift that I can give someone is my time – time to listen, to sit with somebody and then, maybe, offer more if I possibly can. I note on my laptop the profound comment that Pippa’s just made. I need to find more time to chill out with my daughters.
That night I contact a local church and offer to serve food in their community café on Thursday evening.
Thursday, 6.00 p.m.
May, the person in charge, has been most welcoming, and has informed me that I will be serving portions of shepherd’s pie. She’s allocated me a buddy called Pete. May reliably informs me that Pete is a seasoned volunteer with a great sense of humour, and that he likes the ladies.
The minute I meet Pete, I just know that we are going to get on. He gets down on one knee, takes my hand and bursts into song, albeit very badly, to the tune of Daisy Daisy. “Amy, baby, give me your answer do. I’m Pete an’ crazy, oh to be working with you.” He stands up again. “Welcome to this place of kindness and service, Amy. Behold your gallant knight, who will protect you from the marauding masses about to descend upon us.”
“Wow, what a welcome!” I laugh. “Tell me what I have to do. I don’t know how to behave, and I’m a bit nervous. These ‘marauding masses’ can’t be that bad, can they?”
Pete is in his forties but looks at least ten years older. He must’ve had a tough life; he’s wearing what was once an expensive white cotton shirt that’s now badly stained with a fraying collar, his hair is lank and his face is leathery. As Pete articulately describes my duties, my eyes are drawn to his delicate hands. Although we’ve only just met, I inexplicably feel completely at ease with him. He reminds me of my dad.
Pete gives sound, honest advice. “Remember that homeless people are just like you or me. When they come up to you, they might meet your eye and smile or want to talk. Some will thank you as you serve them. Others might be tired, depressed or hungry and will simply want their food served quickly. Just be yourself, Amy baby,” he grins. “I can tell that you have a good heart.”
Service begins. I observe Pete cracking jokes as he works. However, I can tell that it’s a front. Although he’s a great laugh, there’s sadness behind his smile.
The time flies by, and I realise that I’m having a ball. Even collecting dirty crockery and cutlery and wiping down the tables is enjoyable. As I work, I reflect on my achievements so far. I have successfully made twelve people smile and seven laugh at my jokes. Three have looked at me as if I am mad, and I am now clearing a table while having a wonderful conversation with a lady called Julie and her teenage daughter Bianca about how best to deal with cyber-bullying through social media.
I notice Pete watching me. “I’m not slacking as I chat, you know,” I call over, not quite sure if I’m breaking any rule.
“Take five, Amy baby. Here’s a cuppa. Now, look around you and tell me what you see?”
I do as instructed and observe thirty homeless people eating in silence or staring into space. “Pete? Isn’t there anything for these people to do once they have finished their meals? Some of them look, well… bored.”
“Interesting. What could we do about it, babes?”
I think for a minute and whisper in Pete’s ear. We approach May, and I make a couple of calls. An hour later, thirty homeless people are no longer bored. Becca, my hairdresser, is offering free haircuts. Harmony, my beautician, and two of her team are performing head rubs and doing mini-manicures. Claire’s giving lessons about using social media, and Bea’s supervising raucous games of bingo and cheat. There is a buzz in the room. I see Pete and May chatting and laughing. I feel good.
By half past nine, everyone, apart from the staff, has gone. “Do you know why I really came here today?” I ask Pete, chewing nervously on my finger.
“Not really, Amy baby,” he yawns. “Why are you here?”
I open up to him about nearly everything: my epiphany, my year of self-discovery and adventure and this week’s challenge – including how troubled I am by Geoff’s prejudicial attitude.
Pete listens intently, and as I finish, he hugs me. “You cheered many people up tonight, and you gave me and May lots of ideas for improving our service here. Come back again and perhaps bring your husband along – maybe we’ll be able to change his mind about us.”
“I’m beginning to think that Geoff could learn a lot from this year of mine, and I definitely plan to come back a lot more in the future.” I look him squarely in the eye. “It’s been good for me.”
It’s gone midnight when I write up my diary entry on my laptop. I think of Pete. Lovely, kind-yet-sad Pete. I want to keep in touch, I type. You have a story to tell. I’ve learned that I’d like to volunteer more regularly once this year is over and be more giving, although I doubt that Geoff will be too chuffed. How can I open his mind to the possibility? If I sell him the benefits, he won’t refuse me, will he? Perhaps we could volunteer together? I yawn and stretch. I don’t expect Geoff to be waiting up for me or to be interested in my experience. No, I can clearly hear that he’s in bed, fast asleep and snoring like a train.
Week Two. Friday, 2.15 p.m.
The day has finally arrived, and I am waiting for Him at the café we agreed on. I have purposely arrived early: firstly, because I have been wearing out my kitchen carpet pacing to and fro like a border-patrolling sentry; secondly, to ensure I secure a table in the right location; and thirdly, because I need to control myself. I cannot let him see that I am unbelievably, incredibly, ridiculously nervous.
Unfortunately, the café is busier than I would have liked for a Friday afternoon in April. There appears to be a parent and toddler group meeting at one end of the room and a raucous coach party of pensioners taking tea and cake at the other.
The rhythmic ticking of a clock on the wall to my right is grating on my nerves. With every tick, my blood pressure rises; the passing seconds feel like an eternity. I try to immerse myself in the latest copy of OK magazine. However, instead of madly enthusing over the latest fashions, baby arrivals and celebrity events as usual, I aimlessly flick through its glossy pages, willing Him to arrive and for our business meeting to be over. The door to the café opens and I automatically look up to see who it is.
2.22 p.m.
Café door opens… I look up… No, not Him.
2.23 p.m.
Café door opens… Still not Him.
Café door opens… Bloody hell, it’s Josie Jamieson. What is she doing here? He is going to arrive at any moment and Mrs Gossip will see us together. What shall I do? I need advice right now. Claire’s at home. I’ll call her.
“Claire, in approximately six minutes I will be with Him, and Josie Jamieson’s just swanned in,” I whisper, panic-stricken. “Should I casually rock up to her, explain that I’m about to have a business meeting and walk away, or should I ignore her presence and wait to see what the fallout is? She’ll put two and two together and make five – you know – that I am on une mission secrète, having un fling,” I say in my worst French accent.
“Say nothing and wait and see what she does,” Claire giggles. “That would be really fun. But ultimately, it’s up to you.” I glance up the clock and my stomach flips. Four minutes before He arrives. I can’t ignore Josie. I’m damned whatever I do, so I stride purposefully over to her.
“Afternoon, Mrs Richards. You’re looking smart. On your own?”
I fire out a totally unplanned response. “Oh, I’m just about to have a fli… a business meeting with a work colleague,” I stress emphatically, pointing to my briefcase. “So, I’d better get back to my table as he’ll be here in a minute. Just thought I’d say hello… and let you know… so… see you soon!” I glance up at the clock again.
“Well, enjoy.” She looks at me strangely and, thankfully, she pays for a drink to take out and leaves.
2.33 p.m.
The door opens. I look up. No.
50 seconds later.
The door opens. I look up. No.
2.35 p.m.
The door opens. I look up. Yes.
Now then, Amy. Into role. Be friendly, smile and use positive body language. Think business meeting, think ‘book’ and ‘advice’ and ‘guidance’. Do not think ‘CCC’. A throwback rogue thought from my challenge as a Sex Chat Line Operator crosses my mind. Think ‘professional’, ‘awesome author’… and… Action.
“Hi,” he smiles. “Let me get you a drink. It’s on me.”
I watch as he goes to place our order and relax, just a tiny bit. I check him out. Scruffy t-shirt, oil-stained jeans, trainers, unbrushed hair, tattoo… Yep. No change. Yicht. I send Claire a quick text:
He’s as scruffy as ever.
Think I’m over it.
He returns with our drinks; tea for me and a beer for him.
Our table is square with four chairs placed around it. He opts for the chair directly opposite me and places his drink, a notepad, a set of keys and a pen in a straight line in the centre of the table between us. I mirror him, placing my drink, large pad and mobile in a line directly in front of me, between us. Next, he repositions the condiments, menu and napkin holder and places them behind his drink, notepad, keys and pen in a second straight line. The battlefield is drawn. Two lines of infantry are in position, protecting their officers. I speak first.
“Thank you for coming here today. Jeez, I sound like I’m at work about to make a presentation,” I blush.
He laughs easily. “How are you, Amy? I’m sorry; I only have an hour so we’d better crack on.” His blue, blue eyes stare into mine…
Fifty minutes later we are still enthusiastically discussing challenge number fifty-one. He’s so easy to talk to, and I’m making loads of notes. There’s laughter and it’s all very comfortable. The café door opens and closes constantly, but I don’t look up, not once. Blimey, he really does know what he’s talking about, I muse as I scribble madly.
The hour is up and he gathers his belongings. My hand aches with writing, and I have pages of notes to mull over. I don’t quite know what to say but I know that I don’t want Him to go yet.
The café door swings open. I look up and gasp. It’s Geoff and Evie. What do I say? They are going to see us sitting together and ask lots of questions. I blink hard to check it really is them and automatically do what is necessary. I take a deep breath and beat a hasty retreat. I am without ammunition and need to protect myself from imminent disaster. “Oh, it’s my daughter!” I say breezily. “Better get off.” I leap out of my chair, grab my stuff and sprint across the café to greet my family. As I kiss Evie hello, I steal a peek at Him. His blue eyes signal confusion and hurt. I see him hover undecidedly by the table for a moment, and then I watch him go.
That’s that, then, I think as I head for home. I screwed up good and proper. He must have thought I was so rude, not saying thanks or goodbye and rushing off like that. My chagrin increases as the minutes pass. I’ve been such a muppet. He’ll never want to give me his time again. Perhaps that’s my sign. Yes. I’d better forget all about him, from now on. I have some notes to help with the fifty-first challenge, so I’ll try to go it alone.
I pull in at a quiet layby and rest my head on the steering wheel. I know why I acted as disgracefully as did. It’s because… I stare into space. “I cannot and must not communicate with you again. Farewell,” I whisper dramatically under my breath. “I’ll never forget, but perhaps it’s best if I try.” I turn the ignition key and head for home.
Saturday, 7.00 a.m.
I am supposed to be bag-packing in support of the Brownies at our local supermarket from half past nine, so I have dragged myself out of bed and showered. I am now sitting in the kitchen, attempting to feel more alive than I actually feel. When Geoff appears, bang on his usual weekend get-up time, I make him a cup of tea and hand it to him with a kiss – trying to be a good wife.
“I’m still pissed off that you went behind my back and bailed at Blackpool, you know?” he huffs. “And I’m disappointed that the blender’s become an expensive objet d’art. He shrugs his shoulders, wanders over to the Bowl of Chance and Opportunity and peers into it. He delves his hand into the bowl and draws out today’s challenge:
GIVE YOURSELF A SPRING CLEAN.
HAVE A COLONIC IRRIGATION.
He raises his eyebrows. “That’ll get you back for Blackpool, and it’s miles better than that ‘helping the low-lives’ one,” he mutters, before leaving the room to wash the cars.
At Work. Monday.
Amazingly, I have discovered that Hairy Nina has this treatment on a regular basis. I call her Hairy Nina because she openly embraces her natural beauty and refuses point blank to wax, shave, pluck or bleach a single strand of her facial hair. I think she is completely mad, yet brave in the extreme. We discuss her colon-cleansing experience over lunch. “So, what happens, exactly?” I ask, forking spaghetti bolognaise into my mouth and trying to avert my eyes from her moustache and mono-brow.
“In a nutshell, a trained person sticks a speculum up you and flushes you out with warm filtered water. It’s fascinating seeing what’s been sucked up. I’m sure I noticed something shiny in the viewing chamber the first time.” She takes a spoonful of pasta bake. “Oh, and you might have your stomach massaged gently to dislodge any gunk stuck to the sides of your colon. It doesn’t hurt, though.”
“It sounds rather unsavoury to me,” I reply, somewhat perturbed. I stop eating, my appetite having mysteriously disappeared. “How do you feel afterwards?” I ask, guarded.
“Tired, but in a nice way – as if I’ve had a good workout. Some people feel like they’re reborn.”
With that, we return to work. I secretly Google ‘Colonic irrigation’. I have so many questions running around my head. I want to know if it really hurts; what it looks like and if it’s as bad as having an enema. If it is, there’s no way I’m having one. I suffered one of them in labour and nearly fainted. I note down the name of a couple of interesting looking YouTube videos to watch later.
9.00 p.m.
I’ve just logged into YouTube when Pippa comes into the kitchen, her appendage firmly attached to her hand, and looks over my shoulder to see what I am up to. “You’re not, are you?” she shouts over her music.
“Not yet,” I
reply cagily, pulling her earphones from her ears. “I’m researching and am about to watch a clip to virtually experience what it’s really like. Care to join me?”
“Gross. Why would I want to see that? I’m off.”
I watch the clip in silence and knock back three shots of Drambuie. Wine is not enough.
Thursday.
Nina holds my hand in the clinic’s waiting room because I am trembling. I don’t think I can… I keep thinking about the clip and the possible side effects. I remember the enema when I was in labour. “Nina, I know I’m a wuss, but I simply can’t do this. I don’t think I’m going to learn anything of value. Don’t try to persuade me otherwise. Please take me home.”
I fail the challenge, and I don’t care.
Week Three. Friday, 5.00 p.m.
SWING WITH THE MON-KEYS.
I can’t bring myself to think about this challenge yet. The last one was so awful and, given Geoff’s reaction to my recent ones, I’ve fibbed about failing it. I turn to a favourite failsafe coping mechanism – baking – for relief from my mental disarray.
As I roll out the dough for an apple pie, my thoughts inadvertently return to Him and our meeting in the café last Friday afternoon. It’s been eating away at the back of my mind. I’m ashamed at my appalling behaviour and lack of manners.
Regardless of the fact that I have decided to never, ever see or talk to or text you ever again, I think I should make amends and apologise, I decide, while frantically cutting out the rounds.
The phone rings. “Hi, Grandma.”
51 Weeks Page 9