Words on the Wind

On a week away this summer a rotund man says

 It must be a real pain just sitting there taking in the sunshine, as he passes while waving his arms around to take in the sunny blue sky, sea beyond and screeching seagulls.

My stomach rumbles. 

I mull over how long I should leave it before I mention my hunger to Mr H, knowing he will offer to fetch me something as I laze in my deckchair, smelling of sun cream covered skin. Maybe an avocado bagel from the kiosk I think...

I wonder how much they cost a day? 

£11 I call out as the two ladies pass. They stop, turn their heads and smile a thank you.

Hello you are through to British Gas if you have a boiler breakdown press 1... fades with the phone owners footsteps crunching on the pebbled beach in front of us.

It was grey on Tuesday but we still went for a swim a mature lady giggles as she and her companion walk, engrossed in their friendly chitter chatter, oblivious to my pen scratching across the page of my notebook.

Almost everyone peers inside as they pass. Unembarrassed curiosity disappointed when all they see are two chairs occupied by Mr H and me, our rucksack, knitting, books and shoes abandoned on the floor. They are hoping to see a quintessential beach hut. Pastel blue and white interior with shells dangling from string, a kettle whistling on a camping stove, empty cups awaiting the hot water while pretty, tied back curtains flutter in the breeze.

Sand in my shoes a small child moans, nestled in his Dad's arms as they wander towards the bucket and spade shop...

Nosey dogs of all shapes, colours and sizes are eager to investigate the inside of our hut before being yanked away by their lead, held by an absent minded owner. 

A people conscious, bucket and spade laden grandma walks ahead of her dawdling grandson calling out we are holding everyone up here. And when they stand aside, like a queue at temporary traffic lights, the trailing hoards rapidly filter past. 

As the sea recedes it exposes a moss covered rocky prominence which I am itching to explore but when I mention it to Mr H he rolls his eyes saying it will be too slippy for you and I don't fancy fishing you out of the water with a broken ankle. I know he is right so I am content to watch as adults and children clamber all over it, standing and staring.  And instead I imagine they are looking into pools full of sea anemones, limpets stuck to the rock like glue and crawling, creeping crabs.

A young girl's words to her boyfriend are carried to us on the breeze, take a photo but wait until I get further away from you I will look slimmer then. I grin knowing that is something I am likely to say to Mr H. 

As the sun dips down towards the water and the air cools, dehydrated children trail behind their equipment laden parents, their eyes watering as they suck rapidly on straws sunken into cold cups of drink, looking anywhere but where they are heading.

Shall we have a walk into town Mr H suggests as he starts to gather our belongings at the end of this beautiful Mindful day...

The Last Load

I hear the rumble of lorry wheels. They are here I shout to Mr H.

We step outside into the cold darkness.

It’s Wednesday evening on the 10^th of November. We have waited all day. I have been like a jack in the box every time a vehicle drove up our road. I am shattered. I have done more sit to stand exercises in the last 11 hours than all week.

My physio will be pleased.

Outside the huge lorry slowly chugs towards us as I wave frantically hoping he can see me in my navy clothes as they merge with the dark damp air.

The lorry driver gets out. Walks around the back of his monster of a lorry and raises the hatch. He disappears into the dark echoing vault. He eventually emerges with a pallet wrapped in plastic and makes the slow mechanised descent to the ground.

He wheels the load over to us as we stand in the road saying thank you, thank you, thank you, with beaming smiles.

The driver meanwhile says absolutely nothing! He takes a photograph of us standing by the pallet and we say thank you again to his back as he walks towards the lorry, gets inside and drives off.

There is no fanfare. Just the two of us shivering.

Let’s get a knife Mr H says…

He tears the plastic off and carries box after box into the back room.

I rip one open and stand motionless. Staring down at the result of five years work.

I stroke a cover. Lift one free of the box. It is heavy, heavier than I had expected. And shiny. And big.

It is full of my words. Photographs I have collected and painstakingly chosen to include. Stories and memories of many ladies and gents who were once members of Adult School Classes within the Midlands.

My first book has been published.

Thirteen years to the week after my life changed because of a brain tumour, I have become a published author of a book on Social History and the History of Education within the Midland Adult School Union.

I am totally utterly silent. Overwhelmed as tingles run down my arms and spine. I would never have believed it was possible.

The Last Class. The Story of the Midland Adult School Union 1845-2020. Written by Dawn Hamill.

I have spent the last five years plodding through archives, reading old books and interviewing past and present members of this remarkable Movement. I have discovered that my own family history was woven into the world of The Adult School. I have shared some truths about my own journey through life up to and after the brain tumour. A tumour that changed my world. But gave me the time to change my path in life.

The Rich Tapestry of Life never ceases to amaze and thrill me.

The book is available from Brewin Books Ltd. Also Amazon. It can be ordered from WH Smiths. If you have a query, please feel free to email me differencedawns@gmail.com