The little things

A warm Summer’s evening in Cambridge pre lockdown:

Before lockdown, a friend and I used to meet frequently to watch movies at the Arts Picturehouse. How I love it there … just being able to sit with a drink and relax in ambient surroundings, to be able to see movies made by brilliant directors , who view the world through a wider lens.

I look back on those times with such pleasure.

The evening in question, I was wending my way in that direction, via Cambridge market square. Summer sun had given way to a warm and balmy evening, and the weekend stretched ahead full of possibilities. There is something about Friday nights that I have always loved … freedom!

I noticed the young man dismount his bike. It was the smile that struck me. It’s always been the little things which have drawn me to people: a warm smile, kindness, a depth to the eyes.

I had noticed the flowers in his basket, the vibrant colours, no doubt intended for a vibrant person. But he had secured his bike and was about to walk off without them. Don’t forget them, I thought; she (or he) will love them.

‘Don’t forget your flowers’, I shouted.

Turning back, he smiled. Retrieving them, he plucked a stem and handed it to me.

‘Thank you’, he said.

Then, it was my turn to thank him, as I happily turned towards my destination.

The encounter has always warmed my heart and brought a smile to my face. I imagine two young people talking of their hopes and dreams, of their studies and where they might lead, as the night draws in around them.

As for me? I placed the stem in a vase on my return home after a lovely evening.

Standing on a train from Doncaster to Leeds post lockdown

I’d had a dreadful journey. The trains were all over the place; I can’t remember why. I’d had to make an additional change at Doncaster. The train was heaving and, situated in the corridor next to the doors, I was juggling with work and my head was crowded with worry about the situation at home.

I barely noticed the man who had made his way to the corridor ready to alight in Wakefield. My suitcase was blocking one of the doors.

‘Do the doors open on this side’, I asked.

‘No, over here’, he replied.

Disgruntled by everything, as I was, that was where the conversation might have ended, but he said something else, and I found myself commenting on my dire journey so far.

‘You’ll get where you need to go’, he said.

It was at this point that I really ‘saw’ him, his kind, warm eyes and pleasant smile. And his comment really struck me on so many levels, because it touched something at my core.

‘You’ve got a very positive attitude’, I responded.

‘Well, I suppose I have, I’ve worked in the NHS for over 20 years‘, then, changing the subject, ‘but you’re not from this area’, he said, ‘your accent isn’t from round here’. Neither was his; he had what I took to be a slight Scottish lilt.

‘I am’, I said. ‘I was in London last week where people frequently comment that I’m from Yorkshire. I don’t belong anywhere’.

‘You belong everywhere’, was his reply.

He will never know how that comment resonated. I am, after all, very much a ‘citizen of the world’.

‘What do you do?’ I asked.

‘I’m an oncologist’.

‘Such an important job’, I responded.

‘I suppose so’, he said reflectively, ‘even if the outcome isn’t always good.’ It was almost a question. ‘Yes’, I said.

I don’t know how we got onto Germany, my time living in Stuttgart and the time he had spent there too, but then Wakefield was upon us, and he had alighted.

He helped those who were seriously ill every single day, and there I’d been, feeling disgruntled about nothing. I was embarrassed by myself.

Sometimes, people come into your life only fleetingly, but they leave an imprint.

Such moments of connection are so important.