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My first Love

Last night after dreaming of mirror writing, which included the words etanutrofnu, emmargorp and rehtom, I was cast back into a deep memory. It was of my first love, Christopher. I was no more than four years old and he was around ten. 

My grandmother had been a nanny to his family, until our needs outweighed theirs. He was the youngest of a clutch of boys living together on a large farm with their father and an ancient great aunt – their mother having died years before. Nearby, faithful cowhands lived in tied cottages and kept a weather eye on things. My brother and I would spend school holidays there, my grandmother resuming her duties whilst we became part of the family: eating daily breakfast at the kitchen long-table alongside 15, or so, others.

It was at the farm I learned the joys of dipping for minnow, tying straw dollies, and rolling in hay. All with Christoper. All innocent play. We spent our daytimes together; his closest brother being four years beyond him and mine seven more than me. My brother allied himself to the big boys, fishing and ratting and shooting. Christopher and I stayed closer to home: me, with my basined dark hair; he, blonde, locks left long at the front – to flop with an upward thrust curl. He was a boy of sunshine and when given a boy doll by an aunt I named it for him.

In my dream I was back playing in the farmyard, heard the noises, smelled the smells, in the early summer soil. It was morning, and idyllic. Primroses grew between flagstones and beneath one of the windows was a bench. I was not yet big enough to sit on the structure, unless Christopher lifted me there – which he often did. This day though he lifted one end, placing bricks under the foot, creating a slope.

It had the appearance of a slide but, bringing a paper wrapped package from his pocket, he said, ‘It’s a present for you.’ This was an unexpected kindness and one I’ve never forgotten. I unwrapped the soft brown paper, as he watched. Inside, hard yellow plastic showed itself to be a line of four ducklings. They had red beaks and waddling red feet. It was cheap and it was tawdry and the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. What’s more, it was mine. In return, I gave my heart – if I hadn’t given it already.

I looked up from the ducks to Christopher. His head bowed like one of the stone angels in the village churchyard, he smiled shyly back. I couldn’t have loved him more. Gently, he showed me how the ducks, placed on the high end of the bench, would wobble their way down the length and that, if we were careful, we could catch them as they fell from the end. I couldn’t trust myself to do that, fearing the treasure would smash to the floor and be broken. I did, though, trust him.

At other times I might be found sitting on his knee, or leaning into him with my arms round his waist, as we lounged on one of the sofas in the upstair games’ room – while the older boys played billiards. Or I’d hold his hand as we marched across bristly stubble to tell our brothers lunch could be had. But another memory surfaced after I’d woken from the dream. One I’d not thought of in years. It was tangible and redolent and brought me to tears.

Sometimes, Christopher would take me to the milking sheds, to watch the cattlemen at work. I can just remember when this was done by hand and my being enthralled by the rhythm of the work and the music of bovine murmurings and plashing of the milk in the pail. I was too small to do milking: the cows vast in comparison – although I was not once afraid and could often be found clambering on a fence to talk to them, they chewing cud and listening to my words. I remember too, feeling terribly sad when milking was mechanised – worrying it might hurt the cows and that lack of human contact was something they’d miss. It being, in its own way, a form of love.

Sometime around then, Christopher took me to visit the goats. Carrying a tiny stool from the house he then collected another, larger, and a zinc bucket from a side shelter. Opening the gate to the nanny’s enclosure, we went in. She came over, leaning against us, pushing and nuzzling into our clothes. It was funny, with Christopher trying to hold her back telling me she’d eat my dress if I let her. He sent me to gather fresh grass to distract her. There was plenty, outside the pen, out of her reach. I brought back an armful.

The goat was happy and so was I. Christopher sat himself on the larger stool, at her side, the small one in front. He invited me to sit, then placed the bucket at my feet. I was entirely cocooned by him, his arms reaching around my shoulders as he guided my hands to her teats. The warmth of him, his sunny breath, the encouraging words in my ear, the rhythm of movement, contact with her flesh, the sound of the milk as it came and as it hit the pail, were together entrancing.

In the years after those heady days, I saw Christopher only sometimes. We lost touch after his father died, although I met him one more time after I’d left home. I would have been sixteen and he was just married. Later again I heard he was working at a local garage. Kevin, my best friend from junior school, also worked there. He was the validation for my tomboy antics; I always leading him into trouble. (I’ve written about Kevin elsewhere on this blog.) In many ways Kevin was a substitute for Christopher. Sometimes I wondered if they spoke of me, or knew how I’d felt about them. I wondered, too, how they ended up as work mates. I thought about visiting the garage, but I never did. Lost loves are best left in the past, where the trust you had in them can exist in the aspic of memory.

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Getting stuck in:

Keen to get started in my new role, I asked to use one of the photographs offered at interview for my first foray into archive poetry. Permission was granted, with the senior archivist tracking the image down and sending a digitised version for inclusion here. It’s the one I chose at the time as it allowed me to talk about the likely date, social status, the relationship, the lack of backdrop and why that might be, the costumes worn and the fabrics of the time. I spoke about how I would teach a workshop based on this image, adapting my approaches for Yr 9 students and a more adult group.

On receiving the copy, I determined to write poems relevant to the time – and exploring the situation. As I wanted to begin writing, prior to my induction into the archives, I chose not to pursue additional information – preferring to cast stories around the enigmatic couple, questioning who they were, what the occasion and why they chose to record the event.

Theses first poems have been written with a Victorian tone but move into alternative structural configurations. I hope you enjoy some or all of my work. Feel free to drop me some comments regarding the posts, which poems you prefer and why.

Best wishes,

AG
Poet in Residence: Portsmouth City Council Library and Archive Service [2019]
January 29th
Image courtesy of Portsmouth City Council Library and Archive Service: for whom this blog is being completed as part of the Portsmouth City of Stories, Arts Council funded, project.
Archive ref: 700A/3/2

The Couple
(Names and Date Unknown)

You sit there in your Sunday best
its unwashed cloth, closeted
from moths, so you’d impress.
No backdrop framed a life for you
except, a plain one, unremarked:
a future, stark.

The printed likeness of your faces,
shadow-toned, without due smile,
no wily graces; no breath
to lift your hearts, beyond
the ribs that clutched them, then,
and in which cage they ceased:
hands dropped away, again, released.

The future gone. No dreams
to ride out from the storm,
no place to hide as maggots swarm
and render body back to bone:
in your cold grave, there, alone.

The names that grew themselves to you
became detached,
no longer matched, to whom
you once held claim in that life’s cruel,
cruel, and bitter game.

Amanda Garrie
[January 2019]

In Grace

In wardrobe clothes they pose,
she out of widow’s weeds – no longer lost.
Her bonnet trimmed with roses, growing there
beneath the brim; his watch-chain,
borrowed, not to cost a penny more
than pitiful allowances afford.

It’s not a time to dance or flounce
bright rings, as is the fashion
of those who’re wedded-once,
but time to be sedate. He elevated
to higher status in reward: equals, now,
in all things the church and law allow.
No time to contemplate quite how they might
consummate this union they undertake.

He meek, she hardly mild but forced to seek
solace in another man: one past
his peak but, whom she will shape to be,
her champion – for when their middle years are done
and she is weak, from every child and burden;
the toil and heartache, that must come
to those who strive to live a life, to build
themselves a place
to gild themselves in grace.

Amanda Garrie
January 2019


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Holiday in the Isle of Wight

Going through a tiny box of my father’s effects, I was shocked to come across this ring (see pic), my mind immediately catapulted to somewhen around 1964. We were staying in a B&B at Totland Bay, at the western end of the island. The proprietors, a Mr and Mrs Scott, had a mulberry tree in their garden.

Just down the hill, was a small shop that, besides selling groceries, had a few touristy things – including a tray of rings. I blew a good portion of my holiday savings, paying 1s 3d for it (approx. 7p) – having gone back time and time again to look at it, before committing my money. At what point it left my possession, I have no clue. That my father kept it astounds me. It is still a pretty ring but, of course, not worth anything except for the evoking of memories.

On that same holiday we walked Tennyson Down, my mother bought a glass lighthouse filled with the coloured sands of Alum Bay and I began reading ‘proper’ poetry. We visited Carisbrooke Castle and various picturesque spots on the island. Freshwater Bay was a particular favourite. The Freshwater Bay Hotel being somewhere my father would later take groups of schoolchildren on month long geography field trips, from landlocked Oxfordshire. Perhaps we had gone there so he could reconnoitre the place or, perhaps, when searching for a suitable location for such trips he remembered the landscape and its features and made the arrangements.

It was on the beach at Freshwater that my mother liked to sit, on a towel, on the sands. She was not a slim woman but wore a form of bikini, that we might now call a tankini. It was a deep orange with black spots the size of ping pong balls. Her hair was a tad longer than short, was very dark and framed her gentle face in soft, natural, curls. I can still picture her, there on the beach. Sadly, there are no photographs or not that I’ve found.

My grandmother accompanied us on the holiday: I remember my father being cross when she collected the plates up after dinner, to save the staff a job, although I don’t remember her ever coming to the beach. I think she preferred to sit under the mulberry tree and drink tea. She was a gossip, so goodness only knows what stories she shared with the other houseguests or even the staff. I do remember the Scotts to have been very kind to me and I suspect that had something to do with Nanna.

Beyond this, the holiday seemed fairly normal, in that there were no ‘mother moments’ even though she often hived herself away in the bedroom and it was just me and my father who went exploring. This was one of four of such holidays that I remember. There is, however, another memory from this sojourn that scored itself in my mind.

The day was sunny and my mother had ensconced herself on the beach. I can envisage the towel she lay on, as Dad and I made our way over to the arch rock. This was a distinctive geographic feature, since eroded by the sea. We walked on the blocky rocks to reach it, then went on further. He kept an eye on the tide and we duly returned to my mother all safe and sound. Hot, my mother wanted an ice-lolly and my father went off to get it. I went into the sea.

There were plenty of other people in the water, including a man and his son who seemed good swimmers. As a member of a club I spent many hours swimming each week, and sitting on the bottom of the outdoor pool holding my breath for as long as I could; I felt confident in the open sea, enjoying being buoyed up as each wave came in.

The boy and I egged each other on: feeling the freedom of swimming away from the less brave, we were knowingly out of our depth. I remember waving to my mother who waved back, before turning away to toast her other side. The boy and I were swimming around each other and laughing. His father was nearby.

In a new challenge I turned to swim out further, but saw a huge wave coming in like a wall. After shouting an alert to the others, I watched in awe as it crowned above me, the height of a house, curling down towards us. The force of it was already pulling me in towards it. There was nothing to be done. I couldn’t outrun it. Taking the biggest breath I could, I tucked myself into a ball.

I felt the water taking me down through gravel and sand. My back and right leg were grazed along on the bed. I was tumbled over and over and over. My lungs were bursting and still it went on. I could hear rushing and roaring in my ears, but all else was eerily silent. Then the tumbling stopped.

Disorientated, I opened my eyes and saw difused light, which I reckoned to be sky out past the surface. I swam up towards it. Breaking through, I gasped breath, not a moment too soon. Then again. Allowing myself to float starfish style, for several minutes, I finally found the strength to swim back towards land.

There was no-one else to be seen in the water. When I tried to stand, back near the shore, my legs wouldn’t hold. Two people came and helped me on to the beach. They asked if I was okay and, reassured, let me go. As I reached our patch of towels, my mother turned back towards me and smiled. Then my father arrived with two different ice-lollies and an ice-cream. He’d had a look in the little church, which was why he’d been so long. I chose the strawberry Mivvi, the best of both worlds, but sat shivering wrapped in a towel as I ate it.

I didn’t tell my parents what had happened, not then or later. If I had I’d have been in for a good telling off – but I always wondered if the boy and his dad had made it. They were nowhere to be seen on the beach – for the rest of that afternoon, nor whenever we went back that week.

note: I have vague recollection of my brother being with us, as my father and I walked to the arch rock, but no other memory of him on that holiday. He was not a swimmer, however, and more likely to be found fishing from some outcrop than languishing on the beach. He would have been about 16; I was about 9

Make it happen! Mandi G

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Divided

I was four when my mother, detained under ‘The Mental Health Act’, was taken to a secure facility for the insane. My brother was eleven. Nanna, who already lived with us, seemed to think it was our fault so I was sorry I’d ever been naughty. Routines continued as usual and we were fed and clothed at least.

My mother’s absence was almost total for two years, but one Christmas we were told there would be a visit home. Dad explained she would feel strange and that we shouldn’t be too forward with her. I worried. What did our mother look like? Would she remember us?

The visit was to see how she coped. She didn’t. She didn’t even look at me and when we were left together for a few minutes she started fumbling at the things on the sideboard, and making funny noises in her throat. Then, with a dash, she ran from the house screaming we were trying to kill her. She was wrong, but I could see she was scared. She ran to a neighbour’s. I followed, then went back for Dad. The ambulance took her from there.

Sometime afterwards, my brother was taken to see her at the asylum; a mistake Dad never spoke of, nor repeated. I was saved that trauma.

Later yet, when a combination of new drugs promised to tame her, our mother was moved to what Nanna called ‘a new-fangled clinic’. It was the early 1960s, I was eight and we had hope.

One evening after tea, Dad drove us in the old blue Austin Cambridge, to where our mother now stayed. The building lay hidden from the road, behind dark trees, but the twin entrance and exit gateways spoke of grandeur. He pulled the car into the crescent drive and there stood The Elms: Victorian, austere, huge. Bay-windows threatened from either side of the wide front door. Lights blazed from them in defiance: one room revealing perhaps forty community chairs pressed against its bare walls. Two ornate ceiling-roses seemed mocked, by lengths of dark flex from which dangled bare light-bulbs. The room was soulless with no people.

We waited on the stone steps, the sound of the doorbell echoing into the house. Then the door, heavy on its hinges, swung smoothly open and we were ushered in.

The grey haired nurse said, ‘I’ll tell the doctor you’re here,’ her starched uniform billowing as she walked away, and the sound of her shoes loud in the silence.

She took herself into a room where one wall had been replaced by glass, crisscrossed by wire. It reminded me of the cage I had for my rabbit. Everything here was strange.

The nurse had gone through, and beyond, another glass partition that led to an office. I could see two men there, in grey suits. One was seated and smoking a pipe, the other leaning towards him hands resting on a paper-ridden desk. They were talking and kept on doing so, despite the nurse’s presence. Book shelves flanked an unused fireplace.

Dad was sharp: ‘Don’t stare,’ he said.

I was sure he spoke more to Nanna than us, she was the nosy one, but I took his cue and looked down. The black and white hall tiles had been set diamond-fashion, so they looked more sophisticated and less like a chess board. My feet fitted perfectly across each diagonal and I couldn’t resist a few hops to scotch my boredom: whispering, ‘Don’t step on the cracks, or the devil will get you,’ as I jumped.

Nanna grabbed my arm saying, ‘Stop that,’ and I was made to stand still like my brother.

Brubby stood, in his school cap and gabardine mac, moving sometimes to pull up one of his long grey socks. He had new school shoes, but I still wore my summer ones that had little three-petalled patterns and dots cut out from the white leather. My socks were long ones too, but white with patterns knitted into the nylon. They were not as warm as my brother’s. I wore a blue serge skirt with straps that went under my jumper and which stopped it from slipping beyond my waist. That was Nanna’s idea. I looked around.

The hall was large, in keeping with the house, and a wide staircase with a curved wooden banister rose from it. You could smell the warmth of the beeswax someone had used to make the wood gleam. I wondered if my brother wanted to slide down it like I did. He was probably too grown up, so I pushed the idea away and imagined walking elegantly down the stairs instead. I would be wearing a long silk dress, which would swish against the gloriously carved newel-post, attracting the attention of guests at a summer ball. I was prone to make believe. Dad encouraged it, but Nanna didn’t approve of things that weren’t true – except when she told lies.

I looked beyond the stairs, where chipped cream paintwork sat in contrast. There were two doors firmly closed: one to the room we’d seen from outside and the other, further into the hall, on the right. I could hear voices murmuring from behind it.

Tugging Dad’s sleeve, I asked, ‘Is my Mum in there?’

‘Perhaps,’ he said, and left it at that. He looked tired.

Brubby pointed out a passageway just by the stairs. He was a few steps forward, so I joined him to see. There was a faint whiff of boiled cabbage. I wrinkled my nose at him. He nodded, doing it back.

Just down the passage, and set back, was a second stair, parallel to the main staircase and divided from it by a wall. This stair was narrow though, with no carpet. I was about to ask why it was there, when a man from the glass room appeared. He’d put on a white coat, but hadn’t bothered to do it up. I couldn’t remember if he was the one with the pipe, or the other one, but it hardly mattered.

‘Mr. __________?’ he asked.

He opened the door to the first room, the one with the chairs. It was cold in there and we weren’t invited to sit. I was glad because the chairs had no arms or homely cushions and I didn’t like their clashing colours: red and orange, grey and aquamarine, all mixed up one next to another. It was horrid.

Discounting us entirely, the man spoke only to Dad. He said he was a psychiatrist. He asked lots of questions and his tone was neither friendly nor respectful. I didn’t like him and I didn’t want to remember his name, so I didn’t fix it in my brain.

He asked, ‘Have there been others in the family with a nervous disposition?’

Dad said, ‘Not that I know of, but I assume you mean in her own family, not mine. Mrs _________ will know more about that.’

I was glad Dad was being snooty too, but it seemed strange to hear him give Nanna’s proper name.

‘Is that important?’ Nanna asked, then added, ‘My father may have committed suicide.’

I looked at Brubby. This was new to us. Nanna never talked about her father except, sometimes, to say he’d been a fool. We listened quite agog.

‘He drowned in an eel pond,’ she said. ‘What happened wasn’t really clear, but he’d taken off his watch and clothes and no-one in their right mind would want to swim with eels. Would they?’

I thought that part would be right, so this might not be lies.

The psychiatrist made a note then said, ‘Current thinking suggests your wife’s condition is hereditary, Mr ___________.’

It was the second jolt of the evening. What was he thinking to say it out like that? He might be forgiven not knowing this eight year old girl had a strong vocabulary, but my brother was fourteen and would certainly know what he’d meant. There were four of us to hear it, but not one spoke of it again: each letting the implications fester on in us. Shame on that man.

Dad used his quiet voice to ask, ‘Can the children see their mother?’

The reply was matter of fact. ‘That won’t be possible. Your wife has had electric shock treatment and is now recovering. It would be better if you came back alone in a few days.’

I was worried. Electricity was dangerous and I didn’t like the thought of someone using it to shock my mother. And what did that mean? But I wasn’t in a position to challenge this man. I hated him. Not only was our hope removed, but fear had now been added.

(to be continued.)

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The Power of Smell

As a toddler, most things that happen to you are in the daytime, with mothers being the likely fillers of later memory gaps – especially in the 1950s, when hands on mothering was encouraged. My mother was never a reliable witness though, due to her diminishing grasp on reality, so the caulking for this tale has been periodically provided by my brother.

I had just had my second birthday and Brubby was nearly ten: it was December, it was cold, and my mother was ironing in the only heated room of the house. We were with her. Brubby was up to some familiar and apparently annoying antic, causing our mother to shout at him. The sound made me jump and I lost my balance, putting my hand out for the nearest thing – the fireguard. Being the common type we had in those days, it was designed only to keep sparks from the room, it slipped away casting me into the fire.

My mother snatched me up and ran to a neighbour, whilst Brubby was left to fend for himself. It seems he had the presence of mind to unplug the iron, or things might have been worse. Perhaps he stayed to mind the house, or perhaps another neighbour took him in. Either way, he must have been worried about me and, perhaps, blamed himself for what had happened. By chance, my left hand landed high on the baffle-plate at the back of the fire, saving me from falling face down into the grate. The palm and fingers of my hand were, however, completely seared. Now, I don’t remember any of this, and most definitely don’t remember any pain although it must have been severe. I do, though, have an enduring memory of the months that followed.

I was rushed, by whatever means, for medical attention: probably from the District Nurse, who lived at the other end of the village. Certainly, it was she who regularly changed the dressings: a yellow square of camphor and lanolin soaked gauze, carefully taken from a flat metal tin, was placed onto the palm of my hand using tweezers; a layer of soft lint followed and a light binding of gauze held it in place. Then, I was tightly bandaged from the finger tips to the elbow, using thicker gauze bandages that had no give in them. This was to stop the air from getting in and me from flexing my hand. It must have worked well, because I remember not being able to play with my toys properly. I also have a vague recollection of one of Brubby’s long socks being used, to cover the bandage and keep it clean. I don’t think I minded, as I looked forward to seeing Nurse Ashby: I was captivated by her bright eyes and bouncy brown hair.  As she painstakingly dressed my hand, she kept smiling at me and then, one day, she gave me a present. It was a book. She had bought it especially; I thought she was lovely.

After a few weeks, the tight gauze bandage was exchanged for a crepe one and I was able to move my fingers, the tips of which now peeped out. They were pink and plump and shiny, like new born mice. I still couldn’t pick things up, but I was pleased: this bandage gave some room for me to sniff at the ointment soaked dressing. I loved that smell. In fact, I became so attached to it that, when the last dressing was removed, I cried and cried. I shouldn’t have worried, the smell had permeated my flesh; I slept happy, my hand to my nose, every night for weeks.

With no disfigurement and no mental scars from the incident, I have never blamed anybody. Why would I? The care was excellent and the action so prompt, I was saved from a skin graft; because I was so young the distinctive whorls returned to my finger ends and I have a lifeline as does everyone else. Of course, my mother said it was her fault; mothers blame themselves for lack of vigilance and beyond that I thought she meant because she’d yelled. Years later, though, she said it had been done to punish her. Why she thought she might be punished, and by whom, was not then clear.

For a long time there’ve been more modern ways for treating burns but, just sometimes, I’ve caught the smell again – it always triggers visual flashes of Nurse Ashby, and a feeling of being content. How lucky!

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The Circle of Life

Besides a budgerigar, we always had a dog and fish, giving us a fair perspective on how life worked. At Hook Norton, where I came into the family, it was no different.

There, in a small glass tank, we had a goldfish with a fancy flowing tail, a pretty silver fish who glittered as he swam past and a black-velvet molly. The first of the fish to die was the molly. Its inner balance was lost and it was floating upside down, just below the water’s surface. It was struggling to get lower in the tank; the black veil-like tail moving pathetically in the water: we knew that black molly it was sick. Dad removed it incase it infected the others but, when placed in a separate bowl, it showed a fight for life and was duly returned to the tank. It seemed renewed – swimming strongly, round and round then down, to prove it. The next day it was dead.

These days such occurrences often end in an unceremonious flushing down the loo; back then we had no such facility. The village had just been connected to the local water system, but there was no mains sewage. We had guzzunders where a night-time wee could be had by the bed. For anything more, an expedition to the outside ‘facility’ was required. There, in the Modern Elsan Chemical Toilet, the family would sit to deposit their bodily waste. One at a time, of course.

There was no lid to our Elsan: my father said rats hearing humans try to hide, with a lid that would likely be in the toilet,  jumping out at you to escape when the lid was raised; on the other hand, with no lid they would simply scarper and not offend your sight – which was, of course, preferable. (I still baulk at toilet seats being down.)

These days, the village still has no mains sewerage, but tankers come regularly to empty the waste from underground repositories – the houses, now having the same flushing toilets found in other places. But in the 1950s we were expected to deal with it ourselves: once a fortnight, my father would dig a deep pit at the far end of our garden, as other householders did, and our banked-up deposits would be buried – adding nutrients to the soil.

My father was a keen gardener and produced much of our fruit and veg. He always said, ’You can’t get better than home grown rhubarb.’ then would chuckle at the anticipated joke:

‘How do you get such good flavour?’

‘Why, I put manure on it, of course.’

To which the imagined guest, represented by us, would chime: ’I prefer custard on mine.’

He had a great sense of humour and was always playing with language to create jokes for our amusement. If he heard a good joke it would be added to his repertoire and be repeated over several years.

But the death of a pet was no laughing matter and to cast our molly into the Elsan vat, where it would remain visible, was unthinkable. As it is, I have no recollection of how the disposal occurred but, knowing my father, its minute goodness would have been put to good use. Come to think of it, he always said how good fish blood was for tomatoes and roses – so perhaps a little of our molly has circled through life in other, more fragrant, forms between then and now.

The budgie Cheeky’s departure was more traditional, with a suitable box selected and a burial following. After the functional cardboard casket was interred, beneath one of the garden trees, a replacement bird was found. This one being less willing to talk. Our opening gambit, ’Who’s a cheeky boy then?’ eventually got either an ’Hello’ or a ’Pretty Boy’ response, and sometimes a whistle, but we had to work hard for it – while he weighed us up with his tilted head and cock-eyed stare. Sadly, Cheeky no. 2 never did become a fully integrated member of the family and he sealed the line, being the last of our budgies. The molly wasn’t replaced either; his erstwhile companions meeting their demise somewhere in transferral to the new house, when I was seven. We had fish, beyond this time but only when we compromised our parents by winning them at the fair. Those were endured with the expectation they were not long for this world. Our spaniels fared slightly better.

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Pets, Emotions and the Embedding of Memory

image from Wikipedia
image from Wikipedia
Our parents were keen that my brother and I learned about life, compassion and loss, by caring for pets. Of, course I say parents, plural, but my mother could not always be part of this equation and I have no knowledge what her real influence was, apart from the budgerigar.

Our budgie, joined us when I was a baby. He was, apparently, my mother’s choice in that she refused the more common blue variety, insisting on one that was bright green. A few well placed yellow feathers gave ours the look of a cheeky boy, so that’s how he was named – Cheeky for short. If this was my mother’s choice, it reminds me there was a fun side to her that I seldom glimpsed, but I think it more likely my brother’s call and that the pet was a distraction for him when I was born.

It was, though, when a replacement was needed I witnessed my mother’s insistence on the colour. I was about eight, at this point, but didn’t ask her reasoning. Her brother, my uncle, had an aviary of such birds but mainly blue; perhaps my mother saw a green one as an oddity, echoing her own strangeness, or perhaps, to her artistic self, the pop of colour brought her joy. Anyway, it was our first edition Cheeky that provided one of my earliest memories – anchoring, for me, a period where my mother was at home and where life must have equated to somewhere near normal.

It was the practice in those days, to place very young children in the fresh air for the afternoon; coach built prams accommodating offspring until around two years of age. These ‘naps’ lasted in the region of two hours and happened more or less year round, barring thunderstorms or other times of driving rain. It gave mothers a welcome break and built resilience, both mental and physical, in their children.

On the day in question, I remember it to be pleasant, later fixing it as being autumn – on account of coloured leaves swirling above my head. I recall liking them and the nearly bare trees, against the pale blue sky. I was pleased too, because my mother brought Cheeky out to keep me company, saying it was a nice day and the air would do him good. His cage hung from a chrome stand and had an elasticated ‘skirt’: a bag made of lightweight plastic, slipped over the cage base, stopping thrown seed from strewing on the floor. (Note: much of the detail for this description comes from our having the cage for many years, so that I saw it daily, bolstering the visual memory, nonetheless I was aware of the bright gleam of sunshine on thin metal bars, at the time.)

I know that, as I glimpsed the cage, I chatted to Cheeky in my own way. But it was when the breeze strengthened and the cage began to swing that I became excited. I can remember trying to sit up,  putting my hand on the left side of the pram and pulling so that I was half raised. I would have been strapped in, of course, and frustrated not to sit up entirely – but then his cage came crashing onto the pram. I rolled back with the shock, bundled in all my warm clothes, but rallied and took up the conversation again. Cheeky, agitated by his unexpected flight, began to calm down. (Note: this detail of reasoning, comes from subsequent reflection on the embedded visual.) But here is the strangest thing: I can remember, and have always remembered, thinking, ‘I have a friend to talk to now; Cheeky is my friend,’ delighting in the fact. I absolutely remember trying to tell him the word friend, but was also conscious my attempts at the word were not right, trying again and again. I have then to deduce: I had the capacity for thought and for embedding memory, but not the language to articulate it. I knew my chat was merely babble.

Now, I am sure many will say this is a false memory, that presents itself as real: that it came from versions others told. I cannot prove it otherwise, but can say this: my brother, seven years older than me, was shocked to hear me speak of this a few years back. He, as the only witness, told me more. Apparently, he arrived home from school to find the cage tipped onto the pram, as I describe. He could see it had blown over and worried that our pet was hurt or flown. When he saw all was well he became  amused at my jabber, being more than he had heard me talk before.

In the way of older brothers, he decided to entertain me with his superior knowledge, explaining birds ate seeds, but others also ate worms. To show me what he meant he proceeded to find one, bringing it to let me see. And yes, you’ve guessed, I grabbed it from his hand and gobbled it right down. Terrified he’d poisoned me he ran for help, telling only of the fallen cage and fretting for the rest of the day, in case he was found out. Thankfully, I have no memory of the worm event, excepting a vague image of my mother, with her dark hair and housework pinny, rescuing me from the garden where my brother had left us.

As to exactly when this all occurred, I can’t be sure, but clues remain. The visual chain memory hints at the second of my homes, making me nearly three, if my assumption of autumn is correct. On the other hand, my brother insists it was before we moved (a garden also overlooked by trees), putting me at less than two. Elements of the story suggest this to be true. I don’t really accept I could embed such memory earlier than this, although the instinctive consumption of the worm might contradict that. Beyond this it is the absence of my grandmother, who joined our household when we moved, and the presence of my mother that seems to prove my brother right. That I had the capacity of thought, with only some understanding of language and without the means to articulate it is, however, undeniably clear to me.

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Where it all began

early days at school
early days at school

I began life in rural Oxfordshire: in a village of both political and religious dissent; a place that harboured secrets and where tales of witchcraft still whispered in the walls. Within that context, I was nomadic from the age of two.  

My mother suffered from serious mental health issues and, although her mother (Nanna) was drafted in to fill the mothering space, I was determined to be free range. Family time and energies were caught up with other things and, with a close village community, my wanderings rarely caused concern.

Perhaps it was the notion of things not being right at home that lead people to take me in, or perhaps I was an enchanting child. Whatever the reason, I walked through open doors and many that were normally closed. I was welcomed at tables where others feared to go and it is that broad church of experience, that began to carve the person that is me.

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Who Am I?

Who am I indeed? Who are any of us?

If we are the sum total of our experiences, why am I not the same as those who shared those experiences with me? Current thinking suggests mindset has much to do with it. I think they might be right.

I’m a very positive, pro-active person. Afterall, you’ll never know if you can fly unless you jump; they might just be telling you that you can’t, so they have the power. So I jumped. And here I am.

What I am needs more explaining: I learned early on, when life gets tough you can curl up like a woodlouse and either dry out or get trodden on, or you can push yourself on towards a different now. That isn’t always easy and sometimes can only happen in small steps – but those steps add up and the difficulties, once overcome, give you a very valuable perspective. Check out my posts to see where some of my perspectives come from.

Locations:

Physically: now usually somewhere near the south coast of England, but have been known to travel to much of Europe; Croatia, Bosnia; even India, fulfilling a promise I made when I was four.

Mentally: mostly in several places at the one time, but always enjoying the ride.

Spiritually: an eclectic mix, essentially atheist but totally believing in the physics of persistent energy – everything that has ever existed is still out there in some form, or another. So, lets keep it positive folks.

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Opening the Door

This blog is intended as an episodic memoir: piecing together, and reflecting on, the shards of my past. To me, the entries will be factual, although caution tells me my perspective cannot always be correct. I do not seek to offend, indeed most persons mentioned are no longer with us, but it should be noted the events and circumstances that created me, the consequential philosophies I’ve come to hold, do not sit easily in the normalised world.

It is written in conjunction with a PhD in Creative Writing, beginning 1st October, 2015 – born of a lifelong interest in literary representation: the projected outcomes being the creation of an abstracted novel, and the publishing of an academic treatise exploring both the research findings and the creative process.

I’d be privileged if you would join me on my journey.

AG