The Magic Of Acts Of Kindness
It’s rush hour at Paddington station. Commuters stream down the stairs to the Hammersmith and City line, everyone hell-bent on getting home with as little interaction with their fellow-passengers as possible, headphones in, eyes on phones.
As I step onto the top step leading down to the platform, I’m aware of something in my peripheral vision breaking the pattern. A glitch in the commuting machine. At the foot of the stairs an elderly woman is sprawling, one leg bent awkwardly beneath her, the flow of commuters parting around her and closing up again as it reaches the platform. There’s something heart-clenching in this unexpected indignity, her skirt riding up above the knee to reveal flesh-coloured tights.
I’m too far away to do anything but gasp and even in the moment it takes to do that, three people – out of nowhere, it seems to me – are by her side. A man crouches on her left, easing her up from her prone position. A woman is gathering up her scattered belongings and another bends down, talking to her in a low voice, one reassuring hand between her shoulder blades.
The stream of commuters carries me down the stairs and past this small drama as the three strangers help the shocked woman to her feet. I board the tube and the scene closes as the train pulls away, leaving the milling crowds on the platform behind us.
A small, unremarkable example of human kindness you might say, but the incident stayed with me. The way the help was given – immediately, calmly, without fuss – was reminiscent of trained professionals. These people carried out an act of kindness in the way paramedics deliver medical care.
The memory germinated in the back of my mind for several weeks, eventually emerging as a question. What if acts of kindness weren’t random?
Ever since I was a little girl who used to lock the bathroom door and make magic potions in the sink from a mixture of various bubble baths, shampoos and body lotions (shh, nobody tell my mum), I’ve always been beguiled by the idea that there’s more to life than meets the eye. While some authors labour to depict life with brutal honesty, my aim is to build a world where we can escape it. Or at least escape the humdrum of normality by peeling back the surface and revealing what might be going on underneath, the hidden seams and channels that open up vast possibilities.
Acts of Kindness is my debut novel and at its heart is an exploration of the power of acts of kindness. There’s something moving about experiencing a random act of kindness, whether as giver or receiver. There’s even something moving in hearing about one.
The BBC Radio Four programme ‘Saturday Live’ has a section where people can call in to thank strangers who helped them in the past. Sometimes the incidents being described happened twenty or thirty years ago, but the impression they made is so lasting that people are still desperate to express their gratitude all these years later. Listening to it never fails to bring a lump to my throat and when I examine why that is, I think it’s that altruism is an inexplicable, almost magical thing. We can trace humankind’s self-serving traits – greed, selfishness – back to our individual survival instincts. But witnessing an altruistic act reminds us that we’re also in some way connected to others in a way that raises us above our most base impulses.
As I write this, the world is in the grip of the COVID-19 pandemic and we need acts of kindness more than ever. The only bright points in the rolling news coverage are individual human interactions which show us that for every person stockpiling toilet roll there’s a landlord contacting a tenant to waive the rent for the foreseeable future. Altruistic acts of kindness are always valuable but in an atmosphere of general fear and anxiety, to be able to spare a thought for your fellow human being is humanity’s superpower.
Acts of Kindness is part thriller, part romantic comedy. It has nothing momentous to teach us about coping in the era of coronavirus – nor would I want to attempt that, I’ll leave any such undertaking to better equipped writers. But when it comes out in early 2021, whatever state the world is in, I hope it will offer a place of escape where readers can be reminded of the magic of small acts of kindness.
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Heather Barnett has been making things up and writing them down ever since she could hold a pen. She studied English and French at the University of Leeds and has since written at every opportunity, from copywriting to stand-up comedy and sketches. Her influences are eclectic, encompassing Jane Austen and Douglas Adams at one end of the alphabet through to Jeanette Winterson & PG Wodehouse at the other. Her debut novel was kick-started with the help of sessions at the Faber Academy and Arvon Foundation, and then regularly impeded by two attention-seeking cats, with whom she shares a house by the river in Newbury. She is head of marketing at an agency in Oxfordshire.
Follow Heather on Twitter @WritesHeather
Category: On Writing
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