Open Writing

My grandfather was a life-long sufferer from asthma. A doctor once told him that the best thing for an asthmatic was to go and live in South Africa. Well, yes it was if you were a rich asthmatic.

Grandfather was poor. He instead, had a high pile of pillows in bed at night. When he couldn't sleep because of his asthma he made models of ships; exact and beautiful models of the old sailing ships and tea clippers with each and every tiny detail correct and in proportion.

Grandmother's name was Mary-Ellen. I saw her only once. That was when I was three years old. She was eighty-four and it must have been shortly before her death. I remember my mother lifting me up and saying, "Kiss your grandmother." I leaned forward and did so.

It was a very small face for an adult. Mary-Ellen must have been a tiny lady, because my mother said she remembered Uncle Charlie picking her up and sitting her on the Welsh Dresser, saying as he did so: "Ma, if I'd realised how little you were, I'd never have let you wallop me when I was a youngster and had been naughty!"

Mary-Ellen had second sight. One night she woke Grandfather and told him that she had seen Jenny, her older sister, standing at the foot of the bed. Jenny's figure had remained there for a few minutes and then vanished. Two months later a letter arrived to inform her that Jenny, who was the wife of a sea captain had been buried at sea, after dying of yellow fever.

I'm sure my mother was a bright, intelligent child. She left school in 1902. The school-leaving age had recently risen from twelve to thirteen, much to her disappointment. She had longed to be a working girl when she was twelve, earning a wage. She resented that extra year. Eventually she became a nurse at the Homeopathic Hospital. I'm not sure what length of time she worked there, but I know she left because the hours were long and the work arduous and very poorly paid.

Nell became a waitress in a restaurant in Hatton Garden. Hatton Garden was and still is the centre of the jewellery trade. This was where she met and fell in love with Ernest, the man who she became engaged to. He was a diamond buyer and was based in Hatton Garden.

My mother always wore an engagement ring with six large diamonds. She also possessed a platinum chain with a beautiful pendant decorated with diamonds and pearls suspended from it. There were also a number of unusual pieces of jewellery, brooches, bracelets and a gold watch. My father certainly never bought these as gifts for her. He was never more than a constable in the police force. Certainly not wealthy enough to buy the many items of valuable jewellery that she possessed.

Strangely the only pieces I ever saw her wear were the engagement ring and pendant; the others remained locked away. Occasionally when we were alone I would try to persuade her to let me see her treasures. Alas I can only remember her once granting my request.

What happened next was that war was declared in August 1914. In 1915 Ernest travelled to Russia in his capacity as a diamond buyer. While he was away my mother met my father, then stationed in London. He was a handsome man, standing well over six feet and must have looked something really special in his Coldstream Guards uniform. Like many young girls I think she became carried away by the idea of a romantic wartime liaison. They were married in January 1916 and Eve, my eldest sister, was born in October, the same year.

Two years later, when the war ended, my father decided to rejoin the police force and that was how my parents came to be living in Warrington, though neither of them were from the north of England, or even particularly liked living there.

Joan was born in 1920. Somehow my mother's life peters out after London. I always think of Mum and London, as if in her mind she dwelt forever there.

My father died in 1956 when I was living in Kuala Lumpur. He had suffered for many years from rheumatoid arthritis and heart disease. Initially I felt shocked that he was dead and buried before anybody bothered to inform us of his death. Somehow I always felt closer to him than my mother. He was far kinder to me than my mother ever was.

When we returned to the UK in 1958, the children and I stayed at my mother's home. I missed his presence, but I never heard her mention him again. She did talk about Ernest though, often. That is how I know so much about him.

I have a photograph of my mother as a young woman. It is a beautiful face. Hair swept up, in her high-necked white broderie anglais blouse, she is a picture of dark-eyed Edwardian elegance. Her mouth is gentle and soft. My daughter, when she saw it, spoke disparagingly, "I never thought she looked like that!" No, but I love to think that she had looked like that when there was joy in her heart.

I can recall all her memories of London: the horse-drawn cabs, the excitement of music halls and theatres, restaurants where Ernest took her to dine, and dancing at the Trocadero. My mother's memories took her back to a time before she met my father. That is the time she wished to remember.

Restoration

It was a blue door, American Colonial in the catalogue,
Embellished with brass and intricate shapes in bevelled glass.
Not only the door: bricks were re-pointed, paint and windows shone.
Who would have dreamt all those years before
Such regeneration on that street of shoddy houses?
My fingers longed to lift that brazen knocker.
"I lived here once - This is the house where I was born."
No! I dropped my hand, appalled,
Yet still I longed to see what further magic
Had been wrought upon remembered shabbiness within.

You left me a treasure house of gifts - and passions –
For history, paintings, music, bargains and books.
Above all you encouraged me to read
And gave me time to be a bookworm.
Time that you never seemed to have.
Your feistiness and avid curiosity are mine.
You are a part of me - the good and bad -
Until at last I do not know where you end and I begin.
I know you!
I understand you better than I do myself.