One warm balmy evening just a couple of weeks ago, I found myself heading home by taxi from the British Hospital to dump my stuff before heading over to Nicola’s lovely garden for a glass or two of chilled wine to smoothe the wrinkles of a hectic worrisome day.
As we hurtled along Italia, I reflected on what a perfect evening this one was, a taste of summer nights to come, and realized, too, that I now understood how and why ‘they’ all speak of having someone in hospital at the British Hospital – it always sounds such a blend of relief, pride and frustration. The care DH was receiving was good, no doubt of that; and here doctors run as late here as they seem to anywhere; he wasn’t at all bothered by the attractively served but very bland food, nor really bothered by the fact that nothing he’d selected had actually arrived on his tray. He found the loud voices in the corridors rather trying at times, and closed the door which almost invariably was soon opened by someone wanting to take blood, his blood pressure, deliver the newspaper, serve a cup of tea, change his drinking water, make his bed, or replace used towels. Excellent services, and all very well spread out throughout the day. And, as if to fill in a couple of unscheduled, tranquil time slots, the emergency call button had acted independently, summoning worried nurses to see what was wrong, somehow achieved without so much as bat an eyelid on either his or my part.
I arrived home at around 8pm. As the taxi drove away my groping hand failed to locate any keys at the bottom of my tote bag, and I knew with a sinking feeling that I was locked out. It was really my own stupid fault for allowing myself to be distracted, but hardly surprising under the circumstances. That morning had begun early with the arrival of the painter who began sanding and scraping outside my bedroom window at 7-30. Although I’d have welcomed another hour or two of sleep, this was not to be an option, and I needed to water the plants, anyway. For various different reasons, several friends chose that morning to phone, and of course, I cannot resist answering the phone, even when I am busy. Deep down I knew I should have nipped along Calle Murillo to the little local store, early and while I had time, to buy the necessary paper towelling for Terese to use cleaning the windows that day, but by twenty minutes to eleven, with just enough time to do that errand at last, Christine arrived, concerned aboutDH, and needing her one-on-one condition report. Dennis, the contractor who was arranging some carpet on the stairs then called in to discuss that job and the work his painter was doing, but also to get his personal one-on-one update on DH’s condition. The painter needed the bedroom window opened to get a ladder out onto the balcony. Teresa my cleaning lady was bothered and quite agitated by the mess the sanding was making and wanted to know if I still wanted her to clean the outsides of those windows affected. And so it went, this way and that, until at almost noon; I changed handbags so my outfit would look more coordinated, left the chaotic house without any further delay, and headed for the hospital to see DH, update him on things at home, soothe the fevered brow, and focus attention on him for a while.
My friend Nicola had rung during the afternoon to see how we both were, suggesting I drop round for an early evening wine; and when I arrived at the locked front gate at sundown, I felt the delay would be minor. There was a locksmith’s premises within 100 yards, and all I had to do was get him to come around, do his magic tricks, and I’d be on my way. The locksmith had closed for the day but answered his mobile phone number and said he’d be about ten minutes coming. I rang Nic to let her know I was running a little late but would be there soon, bought a newspaper over at the little kiosk, and although he actually took twenty minutes, but having something to read, I barely noticed.
The gate from the street into the garden was a little difficult however. None of his skeleton keys seemed to work, and it came down to a couple of hefty screwdrivers wedged between the gatepost and the gate, and a good shoulder heave which slightly tilted the brick gatepost off its foundation on one side so that I thought the whole thing might topple, but the gate sprang open, and the pylon settled back into position. Food for thought as to how easily THAT security feature was breached.
In gathering gloom we now moved into the front entrance area where the race was on to get the door open before dark, since of course the outside lights had not been turned on at 3pm, and the door is sheltered from the streetlight outside. We were also on name terms, now, and Claudio had a set of little bits of steel and wire with which he began to pick the lock. Confidently. He twiddled and rattled, putting them down and changed hands, alternating the pieces, shaking his hands for relief, followed by more twiddling and rattling. After about twenty minutes, the first part of the double barrel lock shifted and we were on the home stretch, I thought. So far the process had taken forty minutes, making it an hour since I first phoned Nicola to say I’d be late. So I called again, and since she had been expecting me any minute she expressed surprise it was taking so long. However I confidently responded that I’d be there shortly. Just then Gerrie phoned to see how DH was, and her first question was “Where are you?” but she was not expecting the answer I gave. Martin our local vigilancia strolled up and shone his torch at what looked like someone breaking into our house… and came in to the garden to lend his support. I felt sure the presence of the torch would help Claudio immensely, and my fatiguing spirits lifted at that point. It was around 9-00 pm.
Martine asked why I hadn’t phoned the security company for the keys they have, and my reply was that I had but no one had answered, just a series of recorded phone messages which I found a little unsettling, too! He called, managed to get through to someone, who said they would have to check but felt it would be OK to send them as soon as possible. The ‘checking’ was to phone DH’s mobile number, which he answered from his hospital bed, and immediately phoned my mobile in some anxiety to inform me that the security company were reporting an incident at the house, and that they needed the keys. I had been working through this ridiculously protracted outcome of my own stupid carelessness, with no intention of telling him of any of this until at least the next day. If then.
The keys arrived with the security company fellow about 9-40, during which time Martin’s torch battery had faded and Claudio was again diligently fiddling and tapping with his bits and pieces in total darkness. But Martin found another torch in the meantime, and so we were now able to see quite clearly that the key fitted into the lock, and would turn one half way around, but not the rest. Clearly Claudio’s diligent fiddling and tapping had misplaced something so that the lock would not open at all. The security guy was called off to another matter, left the keys, and said he’d be back. Claudio had an extension lead and a heavy duty drill in his car, and there was only one thing to do: drill the lock right out.
Now the time was around 10-15. What surprised me as this process got under way was that none of the neighbours came out stickybeaking to see what was being drilled at this hour, in darkness, somewhere outside our house.
At almost 10-30, with work on the doorlock proceeding slowly and loudly, Nicola and Bradley pulled up outside the house with folding chairs, wine and nibbly bits of food, complete with corkscrew and glasses, and apologizing for not having thought of it earlier. And for not having a porta-loo to bring along! Then, just as the folding chairs were nicely placed on the front driveway, near enough to supervise but away from little bits of flyig metal and dust, a cry went up and the door was open. I stepped in, deactivated the alarm and turned on the lights. Claudio explained he’d have to bring a new lock, cut and bring back new keys, which would all take an hour or so. The security man came, satisfied himself that all really was in order, and left. Martin went off to continue his evening rounds. Nic and I settled ourselves out in the back yard for a glass or two of wine, some nibbles and chat under a starry sky enjoying the warm balmy evening, until finally, shortly before midnight, Claudio returned. I could now lock up, and Nic could return to her own home.
Overall, it had been a perfect night for the outdoor event it became.
© Alison Schwabe Nov 2005
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A wandering running stitch with a french knot every now and then. Once the edges were turned in with running stitch, the rest of the design was less fiddly. I just love the knot texture. However, although I am not going to unpick what I have done, I now know that for the next one, I will join each thread with a large knot on the outside, and threads hanging, or maybe not, and all that will become part of the texture.
