What's in a Name? Soul Searching in Spain

This past year has been personally significant and challenging in such an overwhelming number of ways, it is hardly surprising that one small fact got a bit overlooked in the script.  In the back of my mind, I knew it had happened, but I have hardly had the time or mental space to think about it.   This, therefore, is one of the many reasons why I am so grateful to have had the opportunity to roam in Spain this summer.

I have just returned from a trip, which only took three weeks, but has probably given me at least three years' worth of things to reflect on.  On the way, I caught up with some old friends I think about nearly every day during my life in England.  I also made some fantastic new ones (I hope) and, of course, encountered a number of people who were merely passing through, but nevertheless made some kind of impression on me.  The last of these was an Australian ex-criminal I met in a hostel in Madrid (I didn't say they were all salubrious company).  Having spent five nights effectively running away from my 'hostel family' in Cadiz, I felt duty-bound to take this mildly dejected figure who had just lost his surfboard on a midnight walking tour of the city.  My slightly grudging kindness was repaid the following night, when I caught up with him after a couple of Spanish-measure gin and tonics, and felt like talking.  The Spanish-measure gin and tonics led, predictably, to one of those conversations that you wake up from the next day, thinking 'oh god, what was all that about?'  Nevertheless, after, in a very British way, declining his various offers to 'digitally fuck up' the men in my life ('No, no...that's really not necessary...but thank you'), talk turned to family and, in particular, grandfathers.  During the course of the conversation, it emerged we both had grandfathers who died when we were very young.  I also talked about the grandfather I never knew at all.  His name was Charles (Charlie to his friends and family) Barnes.  He was my father's father and, now that my own father is gone, I have very little, apart from some brief recollections from things my father told me and a few collected writings, to go on.  However, Charlie has been important to me for some time, not least because I think (or hope at least) that a little bit of his spirit lives on in me.

This year I reached the age of 43, which means I have, unfairly it seems, outlived him.  Charlie had hypertension most of his life and died at the age of 42.  He passed this on to his son who, thanks to modern medicine, lived a full and relatively happy 83 years.  In fact, if it wasn't for modern medicine, I might never have been born.  Looking back, I think the fact that I was approaching 42 has been driving me for a while now.  It is this realisation that made me pick up my father's 'memoirs' today and start scouring them for references.  To be honest, I was disappointed.  My father always talked about Charlie with such fondness that I was expecting a bit more.  Although, in a way, what is there is quite revealing.  He starts by comparing the two branches of his family, maternal and paternal.  The maternal side, it seems, were aspirational and liked to think of themselves as, what we might call today, upwardly-mobile.  The Barnes family, however, were, in my father's words, 'almost entirely respectable working class and all the jollier for it'.  Going on my own recollections of my father, I would say he benefitted from both influences and, if anything, was a little more 'Mead' (his mother's side) than Barnes.  As a young adult, however, I was inspired by his descriptions of the Barnes family so much that I used to keep a photograph of the long-deceased Charlie, in his 'later' years, above my fireplace.

One of the best things about Charlie is, he loved a good party.  This is something I have definitely inherited, as people on my latest Pueblo Ingles programme can probably testify.  Unlike me, however, he was also an accomplished musician.  He could play the trumpet very well by all accounts, whilst his two brothers played the banjo and drums respectively.  Christmas nights in the Barnes household were a good-old Eastend riot according to my father, with a whole improvised jazz band going, including his mother on the piano and Charlie's mother on lead vocals.  At this point, there isn't really much more to say about Charlie, apart from the fact that worked for the Post Office and did a good line in frugality, preferring to use cut up telephone directories he got from work rather than toilet paper.  Whereas the partying is a natural inheritance, I could probably learn a thing or two from him here (although my father was no different in this respect, and that had little impact, so perhaps not).

Apart from liking a good party, however, the thing that inspired me most about Charlie was his smile.  I have two photos of him, one as a newly-enlisted teenager, where he is undeniably handsome, and one where he has obviously been living a good life.  I like the first, mainly because he has beautiful eyes (when you look closely, you can see they are full of the honesty and vitality of youth) but the second was always my favourite because of his smile and obvious evidence of having lived life to the full.   In difficult times, particularly in my mid-twenties, I kept that photo as a reminder, not only to enjoy and make the most of life (however short) but also because I knew that, had he known me, he would have loved me.  That doesn't mean my family didn't love me, but I always found myself aspiring to Charlie's apparent warmth and even bravery, and I think this has served me well so far.  I am also inspired by his kindness.  Tellingly, my father's last 'memoir' entry concerns Charlie.  He talks about a treasured, glass post horn that hung above the fireplace in his family home (I'm not entirely sure what a 'post horn' is but evidently it has something to do with hunting).  As a child, my father had broken the horn and, in an act both devious and ingenious, managed to hide the break using a pencil and a piece of tassle.  Years later, during one family party, Charlie decided to take the horn down and play it.  Of course it didn't work, but he passed the episode off with the minimum of fuss and a lot of forgiveness.

When I realised I was approaching the age of Charlie's death, I think panic started to set in.  Now I am effectively living the part of life he never had a chance to experience, I feel that I need to do it well.  Right now, I am not sure exactly what that means but I am fairly sure that I need to start looking at the people around me in Spain.  Over the past year I have been struck by the sweetness of Spanish culture.  That's not to say all Spanish people are sweet (far from it, in fact I love the fact that they can be the opposite of sweet sometimes) but I really respect their sense of community and obligation to others.   And some are just genuinely sweet and lovely.  It's not always easy for British people to understand but I think I am learning.  I really hope that, in the course of time, I develop some close friendships within the Spanish community, and understand more about what makes people who they are.   One reason I still do the Pueblo Ingles programme is because it is an opportunity to meet people and talk to them in a much more meaningful way than you would do normally.  At times, the one-to-ones are almost like having a drunken conversation but sober (although it is quite possible to still be drunk from the night before).   Another important thing about the Pueblo Ingles programme is the belief that everyone can 'bring something to the table', whether that be different cultures, beliefs, experiences or just simply themselves.    This year, we were given a set of group discussion topics, one of which was around belief in the afterlife.  I don't personally believe in an afterlife but one of our group (an Italian, actually, but that's another story), talked about his belief that his grandfather watches over him.  Maybe, in a way I believe that too, simply because of my inheritance.  Maybe the piece of me that is like Charlie is what I currently bring to the table.

In his memoirs, my dad starts off by talking about how much he used to hate his middle name of Sidney and how he used to toy with the idea of changing to it to something more glamorous, like Sinclair or St John.  This made me laugh, not only because of his bizarre preferences, but because I used to hate being called Melissa as a child.  In 1970s Britain I felt this singled me out.  Then I used to hate it being shortened to 'Mel' in case people thought I was called 'Melanie', which was even worse.  More recently, I have clung onto Melissa as my 'Spanish' name and particularly the name for Pueblo Ingles programmes.  As soon as I got on the bus, I had to drop this, in favour of Mel, because I wasn't the only Melissa.  At first this seemed odd, what with Mel being the name adopted by close colleagues and close friends only, but after a few days, it seemed entirely appropriate.  I now love the fact that I have Spanish friends who call me Mel.

For me, one of the themes that ran through this year's Pueblo Ingles, was the idea of 'letting go'.   In my case, it was sensitivity about my name.  In the case of another young Anglo, it was about a pair of shoes.  I realise, of course, that, on a deeper level, this is about letting go of the past and embracing the future.  One thing I have realised, however, is that you can't actually let go of the need for others.  In the early days of my marriage break up, I felt so detached from others and so inhuman, I found it almost impossible to really care about what was going on in anyone's life, even my own.  That's changed now and, if this latest trip to Spain has taught me anything, it is that you need others and you need to be important to others.  That's normal and human.  Apart from a passion for music and parties, I like to believe that Charlie loved others too.  He served in the First World War, got married, raised two successful children and managed to create a happy environment for him and his extended family on very limited resources.  His life was short, but I think he did a good job.  I know what my passions are and that all I need to do now is follow them.  Perhaps what I really need to let go of is fear.   And maybe I need to reclaim the name Barnes.