Quick, quick, quick, quick, quick

Quick, quick, quick, quick, quick.

I am sitting in the corridor of the care home, after talking to D, who has been telling me about sitting with the coffin of his mother in Guyana when he was fourteen, to make sure that no-one stole it. You are a man now, his father told him. You must do a man’s work.

In the corridor, there is a queue for the hairdresser, and in the queue is P, who Pippa is working with. Pippa sits opposite her, and I watch my colleague over P’s shoulder.

Quick, quick, quick, quick, quick.

P punctuates her sentences with quick, quick, quick, quick, quick. She laughs a lot, throwing up her hands in joy, but then the words fail her, and it’s quick, quick, quick, quick, quick. I watch Pippa watching P, listening, caring. She is, in the most profound sense, paying attention.

Quick, quick, quick, quick, quick.

Pippa leans forward, puts her hand on P’s shoulder. P’s talk slows down. Pippa listens. P talks. The sentences, although they don’t all flow, lose their tic. There is no quick, quick, quick, quick, quick. When D had been talking about his mother he had started crying, and I’d found myself leaning forward, taking his hand, paying attention.

I feel incredibly moved as I watch Pippa – watching her listening gives me a great feeling of peace and love. Listening, really listening, paying attention is a rare and beautiful thing, and something to be reclaimed. Quick.

Peter Salmon