I didn’t see him at first. He was sitting on the ground just outside the toilets down by the harbour. He called out to me in the dark as I walked by. I couldn’t hear what he was saying against the wind and rush of the tide. I stopped walking. He was wearing a white woollen hat pulled low over his face. Pardon? I said. Again it was hard to distinguish his words. Was he getting a little frustrated? Chips, he said, do you want some chips? He ate as he spoke, his hand digging into a white paper bag. I was touched. No thank you, I said, you enjoy them. I couldn’t see his response. Did he shrug?
I’m a Martha not a Mary, said the character played by Emma Fielding in the radio play The Organist’s Daughter. She was Buxtehude’s daughter, destined to marry the man who took over her father’s position. Martha was Mary’s sister, the practical one, the one that did around the house.
I’m a Martha not a Mary.
I dreamt of people beginning to gather for an event. They sat in pairs, singly or in groups of three on a grass bank. Some ate, some talked, some looked at mobiles. Waiting. Waiting for what?
Off to work now. They called finally, and with two. I am grateful.
She promises a good day today. We shall see.