A Tin of Buttons

A Tin of Buttons

There aren’t enough days in the week is something she remembers her grandmother saying; not enough hours in a day, not enough time in the world. But she never really gave much thought to these words when she only came up to the loose-tied bow that sat at her Nan’s apron-ed waist. She’d sit and watch as the white-haired woman fussed about in echoey cupboards and boxes under beds to find whatever it was she was searching for, draw it out and carefully present it to her as if it might have been a precious diamond from the Crown Jewels. ‘Here,’ she’d tell her wide-eyed granddaughter. ‘Here it is. I knew it was somewhere safe. Now you must have it.’

She’d take whatever it was her Nan gave her. She’d hold it in the palm of her hand, cradle it as she might a baby bird and concentrate to make sure she felt the same magic . Their heads, bent over the object together– even now she can smell the lily-of-the-valley scent her Nan used to dot on her wrists and the soft space at her throat–they’d stay still and silent for the longest time, before finally Nan would curl her granddaughter’s fingers around the precious object, securing in within her childish hands as though she now held the secret of the universe.

She kept everything her beloved Nan gave her; even if it had been a faded picture of a handsome man in an old newspaper, his eyes a smudge of pin-pricked dots, the edges of the paper yellowing. She’d kept the jawbone of a field-mouse, the downy-white feather which an angel had given her grandmother one morning whilst she’d been weeding the row of sweet-peas. The long, dangerous-looking pin with the gold ribbon at the top which used to keep ladies’ hats on their heads, and the soft spools of lace which Nan always made sure she removed from her favourite petticoats before being torn up and used as dusters. She had a tin where she kept all the buttons which her Nan said hadn’t anywhere to go; might never have a friend unless they stayed with other lone buttons, and she cherished this tin the most.

She has eight now. A tin for every decade of her life.

She looks up when the bells which hang from the door handle announce a visitor, and watches the girl make her way over. Smiling, she takes the white-wrapped package the girl offers her and smiles back, holding the paper as gently as if it might be made of meringue. Tentatively the covers of the package are peeled away, revealing a large gold button the type which young boys might have worn on their Sunday best suits; depicting twisted gold rope encircling an anchor. They keep their heads bent over the button for a long time, until the girl draws away with a satisfied sigh and goes to the rear of the shop where the tins of buttons are kept.

‘I knew I’d seen one somewhere,’ she tells her grandmother, opening the lid of the first: the smallest, the tin with the dullest sheen on its top. ‘Now it’s where it belongs.’ Experienced fingers search and swiftly find the same-shaped button and, once plucked from the orphanage of other solitary buttons, the identical pair sit on the counter top.

Looking up from the buttons she sees the echo of her own grandmother’s eyes in these, her granddaughter’s, a sweet long-ago scent catching in the air around them. ‘Here.’ she pushes the tin towards the girl, smiling. ‘It’s yours now; you must have it.’

written in response to the Creative Writing Ink image prompt April 8th 2020

A Change of Mindset

I wasn’t going to post anything relating to the current COVID_19 world pandemic because, well, don’t we all see enough about it already without me having my little say? It’s hard not to, though. I mean the first thing I search for on my Oracle of life (actually a Samsung) is the latest/overnight stats relating to this disease; and that’s before I’m even out of bed. Before this ‘thing’ got a grip on the world I’d be saddened enough by, let’s say the latest Trump-ism and the state of Boris’s hair. And that’s before the myriad images of mistreated animals would start to flood my timeline.

It occurred to me this morning, though, as I was spritzing my bed-hair preparing for another stay-at-home day (which, actually is what I’m already used to, having practised social distancing and self-isolation for the better part of five decades) that I can’t be the only one who is thinking differently than the norm during these worryingly peculiar times.

For a start, it’s Sunday today and instead of hearing traffic and excited voices outside my window, preparing a day in the sun, there is birdsong and calm. Nice, of course. But strange enough to make me pause and take notice. I don’t pause nearly enough, even though my daughter might believe otherwise; I have a 24-hour (at least 18 hour) racetrack going on inside my mind constantly; seriously, even my dreams need a couple of hours going through when I’ve woken up – and last night I’d never seen a toilet so big in my life, and oddly enough, not filled to the brim with the usual disgusting matter, but empty save for some nuggets of recently dispensed sh*t which may or may not have been my own, but also a quite delicious looking apple strudel (homemade I believe) which needed forcibly shooting down the U-bend) I know. You just don’t want to go there. So pausing is becoming a thing I do a bit more now. Observing, perhaps. Listening out. Heeding.

Nowadays if somebody passes our front window, I tend to stare at them with my interrogative mind, wondering what on earth they’re doing out there which constitutes a flouting of the rules. Is this their designated exercise? Do they think wandering about whilst scrolling on their phone counts as exercise (I actually can’t answer that because for me it may well be) or are they on their way to visit a vulnerable person with some necessities? If they are, then where is this bag of necessities? Come to think of it where is their bag full stop? I scan the rest of the road to see if a Police patrol car may have spotted this inveterate and whether I might get to see some action for a change. Ah it’s OK. They’ve got a dog. I didn’t see that what with the little brick wall and such. That’s fine then. As you were. Nothing to see here.

The number of people who are wearing jogging attire these days has either quadtripled or else I never noticed them before. I’m assuming that these mavericks are either the stir-crazy who are forced now to work from home and need to pound the pavements in a bid to free up their otherwise stagnated limbs and frazzled brains, or else these are people who have dug out the exercise clothes they’ve had stashed at the back of their wardrobe for decades and decided to use this uniform as a ‘get out of jail free’ card should a police patrol car be in the vicinity. ‘What me, officer? This is my designated exercise for the day. What’s in the backpack?..just some weights (8.5%ABV) to give me more of a workout… you know.’ Yeah we know. And none moreso that that white-haired woman staring out of her front window with that interrogative mind of hers going at full pelt.

I’ve started taking my time with other things; apart from the rampant ogling out the window. For instance if I’m eating something particularly hard – a nut, say (I have a penchant for Brazils) I eat them more slowly. Because it would be the worst thing in the world–especially for a Dentaphobe–to crack a tooth or dislodge a filling in these trying times, because there won’t be anyone to fix it for me if I even did know what telephone number to call and whether or not to insist that yes, of course it’s an emergency, it’s IN MY MOUTH, without worrying I might be depriving another NHS patient with underlying health conditions, the privilege of having my seat of repair. So I chew softer. With more thought. I think about what I’m about to put in my mouth and weigh everything up. Is the taste going to be worth the worry afterwards?

I have more Brazils in a bag in the cupboard than I’m used to, let’s just say that. I’d call it rationing but it’s not; it’s real and present danger.

Thankfully I’m not one to suffer from indigestion, unless I accidentally ingest or even rub against a bell pepper and then you won’t see me for a while because I’ll have taken up residency in the nearest WC; I know, TMI. Anyway, these days (these current pandemic days) if I have a slight pain in my belly I have to then run through every single thing I ate during the day; perhaps a rogue onion/carrot/Brazil? Because I bloody cannot have appendicitis right now; how the hell would I even explain myself to the 111/999 people? Would they even be interested if I had appendicitis? Ought I to mention I also feel feverish (I probably would be if it were real appendicitis anyway, right?) and have sore throat. Geez, it would be just my luck to die of a burst appendix with a side order of septicaemia and not even be noticed or registered on the daily death tally on the news. As if my life isn’t insignificant enough as it is already. And the funeral I always imagined might somehow become chock-full of repentant friends, lovers and acquaintances who never realised the extent to which I touched their lives whilst still breathing? Now limited to two. You couldn’t make it up.

The things we take for granted, right? That there will be somebody – some lovely somebody – on the other end of the phone to ask you to list your symptoms and reassure you that it could easily be trapped wind if you just get off the sofa and move around the room a bit while they hold on and await an update. The same kind of somebody who will suggest you pop (always a ‘pop’, indicating it probably is nothing more than trapped wind, even if your elbow is bending the wrong way with an exposed piece of ragged bone sticking from the skin) to A&E and they can take a look at it.

Right now? not a chance.

It’s up to everyone to be more mindful of what we’re doing at the moment. From wearing those too-tight exercise pants, to popping that darker-than-normal penultimate Brazil in your mouth because you’ve a penchant. Give the penchant a wide berth. Step away from it. In fact bin it. Our NHS workers have more than enough to contend with right now without you testing the limitations of your bodily capabilities. Bend at the knees when you lift something; do things more slowly and you won’t wrench a ligament; eat with a sense of ‘this might be the last Linda McCartney sausage I get to eat this side of Christmas’ and savour it. Listen to the birdsong, inhale some real fresh air, wonder what your mates are doing but don’t suggest meeting them; run a marathon up and down your stairs and have somebody film it for you for the sake of getting on the 6 o’clock news; just do everything with careful thought for those who have no other choice but go into work and work on saving lives.

Another thing I’ve been wondering: medical people, our current front line workers; how come they are amongst the most poorly paid workers in the country if not the world? What could possibly be more important than wanting to try and save lives every day? I don’t get it. Bank Managers and their ilk don’t even come close. Footballers? Reality TV people. Somebody needs to explain to me in words of two syllables or less, why exactly people whose profession; whose vocation it is to care, support and heal is valued so much less financially than other jobs?

I hope a lot more mindsets are altered in the wake of this and people begin to realise, whilst they’re slowing down and savouring their lives, that the grabbing, selfish, Me, Me, Me way of thinking doesn’t work; doesn’t matter; because in the greater scheme of things, it’s caring that counts.