Writer's Notebook

Morning

"Hi Jean, it's lovely to see you."

"It's great to see you too. And you're looking so well."

"You too. How long has it been?"

"Oh, it must be over a year now. You just sit down and I'll get you a nice cup of coffee."

"Oh please, I'd much rather have something cold."

"Squash?"

"No, I'd prefer something to drink please."

"Water then?"

"Yes, I suppose. I mean water'll be fine, I guess."

...

Evening

"Hi darling, how's your day been."

"Run off my feet. I've hardly sat down all day. We were run off our feet at the shop and when we finally did get some peace, I had to go to the travel agent's and get some brochures for the cruise we're thinking of doing. Then, when I got home Jean called round. I met her on my way back from town She was just in Aber for the day so I insisted she drop by for a little chatter. Didn't say much though. To be honest, she was a bit strange. It's only now that I've had a chance to look at these brochures. And I'm really excited about them. There are some fantastic destinations."

"Are you sure, we can afford one?"

"What do you mean? And take that funny grin off your face. Of course, we can afford one. We've been through this a thousand times. And don't forget it was your idea in the first place."

"I'm sorry love, it's just I got a rather strange phone call from Ron. He wanted to know how he could help us in our difficulties."

"Our difficulties?"

"Yes! Jean rang him up the moment she'd got home after your visit together. She had some coak and bull story about you're being... shall we say, less than the perfect hostess. Apparently, all you offered her was water."

"But that's crazy I offered some of the home-made raspberry squash I made last week. But she didn't want any."

"Well, she's saying you only offered her some sort of vegetarian snack and when she insited on a drink, you gave her nothing but water. She feels pretty insulted and told Ron, she never wants to come here again. He took the matter in a completely different light. He thought we must be in dire straits. He phoned up to offer his help."

"But what on earth gave him that idea?"

"Well, he knew you weren't usually miserly. And was sure, you hadn't intended to insult Jean. So he figured vegetarian snacks and water could only mean we were little short of financial ruin."

"But... I mean... Well, what could have given them that impression?"

Dear Mr. Grantham-Bell,

Thank you for your very detailed report which I have just finished reading. I regret not being able to fulfil your wish and replying within 24 hours, but the vagaries of communication here in the heart of the jungle meant that I only received the report this morning. In addition, your numerous suggestions for change are most thought-provoking and require time to digest and to filter. Rest assured that I shall give them the required thought and provide you with a detailed reply as soon as possible. But permit me now to explain how your visit was perceived here in Boganga.

I'll admit that most of the co-workers here, both national and expatriate, are puzzled as to the motives behind your visit. They picked up on a few statements made in your welcoming address: wanting to see first-hand what was going on; desiring to get to the heart-beat of the organisation; your need to listen to the project co-ordinators and their concerns. They listened to and picked up on a number of these, but, I'm afraid, they found behaviour incompatible with your desires - hence their perplexity. A few examples will suffice.

Your decision to cancel your visit to Leballam caused great consternation. I realise I may be partly to blame for this but if you look over our correspondence you will see that I pointed out several times the impossibility of completing a 100 Km round trip in 2 hours, given the state of our roads, not to mention that the afore-mentioned 2 hours would scarcely suffice to get a true impression of what was going on there. Insult was then added to the already existing gloom when you hired a plane to fly over the dispensary to take photos. After all, you had to have something to show the supporters. But pristine, photogenic buildings is certainly not what this project is about, and the workers felt brushed aside.

I do not know how well you feel your meetings with each of the project managers' went, but most of them were very unhappy at having only fifteen minutes to spend with you. In a country where establishing a relationship is of far greater importance than talking business, your lack of real concern was transparent. Several consider your trip to have been worthless since discovery takes time, time which you weren't willing to give. In addition, I am not sure if you are aware that you, yourself, set the agenda for each of these meetings by having your pre-defined set of questions, and not taking an interest in what others had to say. I might at this point be permitted to point out that most of the recommendations in your report only serve to scratch itches which do not actually exist. But had you been attentive to what the managers had to say, maybe you would have come close to recognising the real problems we're facing.

Finally, I will not try and claim that the financial help you extended to several of those in need was not appreciated. Due to the drought of the last three years food supplies are at an all-time low and seed has to be imported at very high prices. Your aid has certainly made a big difference to many here who are struggling to keep their families alive. And each of these families has specifically asked me to thank you on their behalf. However, your refusal to kneel with them on the mat around a hot pot of Chai with them only served to further the impression that you showed little interest in them as people, despite your generosity.

Sir, let me finish by saying I am proud of ComeToMyAid International. I am proud of the work we have done here and the way we are bringing hope and support to thousands of families in this apparently God-forsaken part of the world. I am also proud of my own part in that work.

I am? At least, I was. But now I find myself seriously having to reconsider my position. So if I might be permitted to make one final request, I would beg you not to answer this letter by email within 24 seconds. Change, lasting change requires time.

Yours sincerely,

U.R. Hope
(National Director ComeToMyAid International)

Heights of sublimity, depths of depravity;
Untold limitations, yet countless opportunities;
Majestic beyond compare, paling into insignificance;
Anonymous, yet love by the creator of all;
No one can sound the depths of this being.

That's me folks. Oh yes, and you!

Change is dream, once even hope
Hope like a beacon; fading, enthralling
Keep going, you can, you will;
All is lost, since nothing remains.

Once,
then twice,
then followed another
I lived, believed, grasped,
felt all well, at last,
until eternal optimist, eternal pessimist became
nourished by doubt of failure
hope's flame put out
I lie down,
I quit
enough

Life, experience, knowledge: trinity of enemies
campaign with loud slogans: change futile,
become what you are, desire nothing else;
weeds which strangle hope's last breath.

They spread themselves out over the scanty expanse of green in front of the terminal building. This was the perfect ending to what had been a near perfect holiday. Five days exploring various sites, meeting new people, immersing themselves in the rugged beauty of the Welsh countryside. Under such circumstances, even speaking English had come easily. And, of course, the weather. They had seen the pictures, they knew what to expect. Luscious, green vegetation didn't come from days of burning sunshine. But even on this last day the sun smiled benevolently down upon them, just as it had done for four of the five previous days. What more could they want? Well, actually, there was one thing, but that too was on its way as they started to unpack the picnic bags raising eyebrows from more than a few passer-bys. One last picnic, one last memory.

"I just wish we had decided to stay that extra day. After all who needs a day to rest up after a holiday like this."

The sentiment was echoed by all as the bread spreads were passed from hand to hand.

"Mind you," piped another voice, "I'm glad we found that place that baked French bread. Imagine having to put up with rubber bread for five days. I guess there are some things we French will never get used to."

"Then again, this wine is excellent. I never thought I'd say that about a wine not from France."

Everyone raised a glass and toasted to that. Sweet praise indeed, thought Daffy - the only Welshman in the group. The trip to the vineyard had been one of their objectives from the start but they'd very nearly missed out. In fact, it was only due to the good graces of the vintner that they'd been able to see it, at all. Even he had forgotten that everything closed earlier over here. Then again, they'd made it his worthwhile. Each one had parted with at least one mixed box and some had bought a box of each variety.

"This, for the airport!" the vintner had waved cheerfully, thinking the more he improvised on his English, the likelier they would be to understand. Now the last drops were gone and one by one they collapsed back in the grass for a very French siesta.

"Daffy, give us a few of your Welsh tunes to dream along with."

Daffy got out his mouth organ and soon the notes were floating up passed their ears up and out over the sea towards France, as the others closed their eyes in forgetful bliss, as the final call for the missing passengers had gone out with no reply. Their luggage was taken off the plane. Their yearning for one more day in Wales was to be granted after all.

Ian couldn't help but shed a tear as he saw the mangled state of Lenny the Lion, once the dog had finished with him. He gathered up as much of what remained as he could and put everything in a small plastic bag. Upstairs, little Davy was waiting at the doorway for the news. Not that even he could have had any doubts, once they saw the dog at work. At the sight of nothing but the plastic bag, Davy began to cry and soon father and son were engulfed in a duet of despairing lamentation.

Ian picked up his son and carried him into the living-room. He spread out Lennie's remains on the coffee table and turned to pick out a photo album from the shelves behind. It didn't take him long to find the photo. Three proud boys in the sailors suits sitting on the photographer's sofa, each sporting a lion of appropriate size on their lap. It had been Ian who refused to give up his lion. He had thrown such a tantrum that the photographer had let him take the lion home in a bid to restore sanity to his studio. Lenny was now his.

Years went by; Ian grew up, Lenny with him. He always remained a treasured possession even if Ian no longer slept with him. The day he left home, he placed Lenny in the large trunk in the loft. That way, he knew where to find him if and when the time came when Lennie's services were again needed.

Davy stared bleary eyed as his father began this story. Never had he imagined that Lennie was as old as his dad.

"I'm ashamed to say that I more or less forgot Lennie in the years that passed. I was very busy with all my exams and learning to do my job. Then, of course, I met Mummy and she was all I could think about. But one day, Granny fell ill, so ill that we knew she was going to die. So I went up into the loft and sorted through the old trunk where I had put all the things I had had when I was a child. That was when I saw Lennie again. It was just a few weeks later that we found out we were going to have our precious little Davy. And I knew Lennie would become your little friend. It was the first present you ever had, the day you and Mummy came home from the hospital."

Ian took another another album and flicked through its pages. The photograph of his wife sporting their little bundle of joy while Lennie looked on protectively, moved him once again to tears. Davy jumped and ran towards his room. He came back a few minutes later with his school book which he opened to an article on Dr. Christiaan Barnard. They had been talking about him and his work at school. He slipped onto the sofa next to his dad.

"Don't cry Daddy; all we have to do is send Lennie to this man. Our teacher says he could open people up and put new pieces in them. Then he would so them back together again and they would be as good as new. I'm sure, he could help Lennie."

Arthur was easy prey. Not that he was stupid. Indeed, it took us a long time to find a way to get to him. I guess it was due to his secretiveness. He wasn't a popular boy, and was almost always alone. Being his next door-neighbour, I can probably claim to have known him as well as anyone, not that wasn't claiming very much. I've often wondered why we picked on him. He never did us any harm. I guess it's just part of evolution, the fittest taking it out on those weaker.

It was Arthur's sister who provided us with both the opportunity and the means. If anything, she was the worst of us all. I don't know what she was like when they were home, but in public she was ever tormenting the tongueless, little slug, as she alayxs called him. His parents, on the contrary, cherished and did what they could to encourage him to express himself. This included buying him an expensive leather-bound journal with a lock in which Arthur wrote every day. I learnt this from Maria the day she discovered that thanks to my brother, I was in the throes of becoming an accomplished lockpick. She had no idea what he wrote but was burning to find out, so together we hatched a plan. Arthur kept the journal locked up in the drawer of his desk at home. But Maria had the same desk and the same key. All we had to do was wait for an opportunity to get Arthur out of the way. This came sooner than expected, when Arthur blew up in class after being teased by one of the younger boys, I suspect at Maria's instigation. This happened quite often and the teacher found no better way of dealing with him than keeping him in the classroom for two hours after school.

To be quite honest, the journal made pretty boring reading. Arthur may have known how to write, but had nothing to say. Shakespeare himself would have had trouble making something of this guy's life. But one of the more recent entries contained the following:

"Enna walked home with me today. No idea why. She kept trying to talk to me. I felt afraid of her."

Looking back what we did was unforgiveable. We didn't mean any harm. But I'll never forget the interest that lit up in his face when I asked him if he didn't want to sign the ... Of course, he never even saw the carbon paper underneath the sheet he signed. Imagine our astonishment when, within a week of receiving that Valoentine's card, Arthur and Enna became an item.