Sitting in the orchard with Steph

Twenty-six years ago, I left Exeter, where I’d lived for nearly ten years, to move back to Essex and get married. It was an exciting time, but my emotions were mixed. I was leaving a place I loved, a job I enjoyed and friends who were so embedded in my heart that packing up and saying goodbye was almost too painful to bear. On the other hand, I was looking forward to spending the rest of my life with the man I loved, with no need to spend all our disposable income on phone calls and train journeys from one side of the country to the other.

The first year was very hard. I missed the place and my friends with a physical ache. Every weekend I could, I’d head back to see them all, but inevitably as time went on, my visits grew less frequent. We stayed in touch by phone (this was pre mobiles) and by visits, but I was working full-time in London and we were in our first year of marriage, so as time went by, although we stayed friends, that constant contact slowed down.

Over the last twenty-six years, I’ve realised how fortunate I am. I’ve got friends who live hundreds of miles away and might only see me once every ten years. In spite of that, when we meet again, it’s like not a minute has gone by.

Last September, one of my oldest and dearest friends from those days got married to a lovely man. I was so excited at the thought of going back down to Devon again. We all met up for a meal on Friday night at a pub we used to go to. It hadn't changed, but I found driving through the city a strange and surreal experience. Road names and pubs and areas which were as familiar to me as my own name were still there, but threaded through with new roads, new houses, new everything. It was a bit like landing on Mars but finding your entire village replicated there.

The wedding was wonderful. It was a joyous day. I saw some friends who I can’t have met for about twenty-eight years. We hugged and starting talking at top speed about the old days. Even though lots of water had gone under it, the bridge remained unchanged.

Waking up the next morning, I gazed out of my window on to the shouting green of the Devon hills. I’d forgotten how much I loved them. I’d also forgotten how narrow Devonian lanes can be. Living here in rural East Suffolk, I spend a lot of my time driving down muddy roads and either pulling over or driving backwards to let another vehicle through. These, however, are like the M25 compared to the narrow ribbons of tarmac upon which I presently found myself. It was just after breakfast time and the whole day stretched ahead of me. I texted an old friend. “What are you up to today?” “Nothing much,” came the reply. “Why?”

Half an hour later, I was driving into a tiny village in Dartmoor National Park. My friend and her husband were doing up a house they’d been left by her grandmother, which I hadn’t seen for years. After the grand tour, we ambled out to the orchard her great-great-grandfather had planted at the beginning of the last century. It was one of those afternoons you remember forever. The late summer sunlight filtered through the apple trees on to the tufty grass studded with windfalls. In the distance, I could hear cows mooing. A wood pigeon flapped by.

We sat and talked, and laughed, and reminisced, and were silent. It was beautiful. It reminded me of things I’d loved and experiences which had shaped me. Before I left, we picked bags and bags of Ponsfords, a rare apple which originated in Devon in the nineteenth century. At home, I made jelly with them which we’re still eating now. I make apple jelly every year, but this was different. The Ponsfords produced a rich, deep, glowing jelly like nothing I’ve ever seen. Held up to the light, each jar seemed incandescent, ripe with promise. It tasted pretty good too.

It’s good to look back and to realise that however far in the past good experiences were, they are still with us. It’s a long way to Devon, but I’d travel a lot further than that to see my friends again.

Images by Pixabay

Hair Toss, Check My Nails, Baby How You Feelin,?

It’s been a rough week. I won’t lie to you. Thank goodness for writing, which always helps. Last week’s blog, Christine Keeler’s Eyelashes, hasn’t done what all my other pieces do. I think about them, write them, publish them and let them amble out into the world by themselves. Christine won’t leave. Like a shy child hiding behind its mother’s skirts, she’s still very much on my mind. The very last scene in “The Trial of Christine Keeler” just won’t go away. Out of jail, pretty much friendless, still young, still beautiful, Christine walks into a club and pushes her way through the crowd on to the dance floor. She dances with abandon, her eyes closed, her arms up in the air, not for attention, but for herself. I found this scene incredibly poignant as that’s the last image the viewer has of her. Not the tired and ravaged face of a woman who has had to fight all her life, or the hunched figure walking down the street, head bowed, or the worn-out woman dying of a pulmonary embolism. A final hurrah before the millstones of the establishment grind her down.

Driving back from gymnastics with my 11-year old on Monday night, Lizzo came on the radio. “I love her!” my daughter exclaimed, turning up the volume. “She doesn’t care what anyone thinks about her.” We sang along (me badly, her well) to Good As Hell, a fine track. I watched The Brits on Tuesday night and there she was again, dancing, singing and radiating positivity. I sat there, beaming ear to ear. Why? Not just because I like her (I do), not just because her songs are unbelievably catchy (they are). It’s because she is who she is and she is comfortable with that. Her backing dancers are called The Big Grrrls. I’ll leave that there for a minute.

Lizzo is big on body positivity. Nearly every interview you read about her will mention that. Should it have to? I think not. Who cares? She sings beautifully, she’s a great role model. Does it matter what she weighs? Reading through the papers, apparently it does.

Since I started writing this blog, I have posted it first thing on a Thursday morning, every week. I’ve never been late. I was kind to myself last night (cold coming on, very tired) and decided to finish and post it this morning. Funnily enough, just as I was putting it together, a post popped up on Facebook. It was from a person I like and respect. She is a doctor, has two young children and is incredibly eloquent and principled. She was furious as what she described as: “Utter, misogynistic bulls**t. In a world where people are feeling so inadequate already this is just toxic! Nice job, patriarchy- well done for ensuring she never shirks her caring responsibilities for one moment.”

The post which had enraged her was an update from a couple called Sharny and Julius. I’d never heard of them. They are a “fitspo” couple who post to their followers about their fitness programme. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. Fitness and health are something to aspire to. However, on the latest post, the following words appeared, about Sharny, who is a mother of six:

“Instead of raging or hiding, she has the energy to outplay her kids with boundless joy until they are laying on their backs, completely exhausted, deeply contented and infinitely loved.

Instead of headaches and arguments, she’s still got (lots of) energy for loving after the kids go to bed, and lots of time for meaningful work after her profoundly satisfied hubby drops off to sleep.”

You could look at this as a testimonial for the fitness programme FitMum which Sharny and Julius run. It’s obviously working and that’s great. However, what is deeply concerning about these words, to me, and to my friend, is that they underline the constant feelings of not being good enough, too tired, too fat, too worn out to be all the things a woman wants to be. I am delighted that Sharny feels so energetic. I’ve researched her page and it makes me happy that she stands proudly in a bikini with her stretch marks on show. She’s birthed six children and doesn’t pretend to be perfect. But that second paragraph concerns me deeply. After a full day of working and parenting, she loves her hubby till he’s profoundly satisfied, then when he’s nodded off, she addresses her meaningful work. Is it just me or does that have an echo of The Stepford Wives?

“Instead of”. Instead of – what? Ordinary mortals, juggling work, families, housework, responsibilities could read this and think “Why can’t I be like that? What’s wrong with me?” This world is not short of messages telling women they’re not good enough. I’ve got a headache as I write. I have no energy. But I know that I am a good wife and mother and that I do my best. What about a woman struggling with depression, or low self-esteem, or an abusive relationship? What might she think, reading these words?

And finally, I can’t sign off without mentioning the death of Caroline Flack. You won’t have to spend much time googling before you find examples of the kind of toxic, cruel, abusive journalism that surely contributed to this woman feeling that she had no alternative but to end her life. Lighting the fire last night, crumpling up balls of newspaper to get it going, I read a news snippet by a syndicated national woman columnist about Caroline Flack which made my blood boil. Her entire page was thinly veiled criticism, snide remarks and downright unkindness. Isn’t life hard enough already? I am writing these words with passion. I am aware that some of my readers may not agree with me. But that’s fine. We live in a democracy and I would be happy to hear your thoughts.

Image from Pixabay

From that young girl dancing in a club with her eyes closed and her arms outstretched, to Lizzo owning the stage at the Brits, to Caroline Flack alone and desperate, these are all women. All women who make choices and who have fought against prejudice and unkindness and barriers. As I said last week, I want a better world for my daughter. If her role models are people like Lizzo who wears what she wants and is honest, I will be a happy woman.

How am I feelin? Cross. But words can change the world and I’m darned if I’m not going to keep swimming against the tide.

Christine Keeler's eyelashes

I’ve been watching the BBC’s Sunday night drama, “The Trial of Christine Keeler”. As the story unfolded, I was gripped. I was born in 1966, only three years after the Profumo Affair, but Christine had been on the periphery for me for years. What did I know about her? She was young, incredibly beautiful, usually described as a call girl or a model and seemingly irresistible to powerful men. It turns out I knew next to nothing.

Perhaps because the screenwriter was a woman (Amanda Coe), we saw the story of an abused, malnourished child growing into adulthood in a world where power was firmly in the hands of men, mostly rich, privileged ones. This is a narrative only too familiar in our supposedly enlightened times. Me Too, Time’s Up, Don’t Look Away – the list goes on.

There’s a very short scene in one episode where Christine finds herself in prison. Standing in front of a female prison officer, she gasps in shock and pain as the woman leans forward and rips off her false eyelashes. It’s a tragic foreshadowing of the many humiliations yet to come. Earlier in the series, another set of false eyelashes goes missing, this time in the marital bed of John Profumo. It’s sort of OK, because she finds them, but it really isn’t because nowhere is safe. Just because Mrs Profumo is away, just because she’s young and pretty, just because she’s mixing in exalted company doesn’t mean she isn’t going to take a long, slow, agonising fall, well-documented by the intrusive lenses of Fleet Street.

I put on “Life on Mars” again recently and that’s a hard watch. For someone like me, born in the Sixties into a world of routine sexism, homophobia and racism, the scene where Liz the WPC walks into the smoky room filled with leering male police officers felt like a slap in the face. That’s what it was like. If you were a girl, you were fair game. I’m lucky. I’ve never been raped or sexually abused, but I’ve been groped on the Tube more times than I can count. Smutty jokes, innuendo and the underlying knowledge that no-one would listen if you told were absorbed by girls of my generation, almost without question.

Abi Morgan’s legal drama, “The Split” is back. I loved the first series and I couldn’t wait to watch the first episode on Tuesday evening. One of the many things I like about it is that the main characters are all women and they don’t play out that old crowd-pleasing trope, the Two-Dimensional Female Character. We see them at work and at home, doing their best to balance home responsibilities and a career. Infidelity, bereavement, divorce, disappointment, the glass ceiling – it’s all there, but our female protagonists get up in the morning, apply their work face and put in a full day.

There was one scene in Episode One which for me evoked those feelings of the girl born in the Sixties. Three of the four women, mother and two daughters, are now working together at a law firm. The third daughter comes into the office to share exciting news. We see them laughing loudly, throwing their heads back and broadcasting their joy. However, we’re shown this happy scene through the lens of the male gaze. Zander, the Senior Partner is standing in his office. “This place is going to pot,” he mutters, taking off his glasses and staring angrily at the laughing women.

Immediately, I felt that old shock of fear. The men aren’t happy! What’s going to happen? Abi Morgan is far too good a writer for this to be a coincidence. Dismissed by several papers (none of which I have any truck with) as “soapy”, “The Split” holds a mirror up to our society and sadly, part of that reflection has to include the past.

From Christine and her false eyelashes, WPC Liz and her struggles every day through routine sexism to the Defoe women and their complex lives, none of it’s easy. Thank God that my daughter will never have to plough her way through this toxic brew in the same way that my generation did.

Every generation has a new issue with which to contend. Global warming, cyber-bullying and single-use plastic pollution weren’t things we Sixties kids had to deal with. I hope and pray that the girls of my daughter’s generation won’t ever feel that shock of fear and apprehension that I’ve felt three times this week.

As someone said back then, what’s so funny about peace, love and understanding? Search me.

Memory ......

No, not the song from “Cats.” Although feel free to warble it as you read this week’s episode. “Mid-niiiiiiight, not a sound from the pavement. Has the moon lost her memory? She is smiling alone.” And so on, and so forth.

As I’ve mentioned before, I often wonder what the inside of my head looks like. I suspect it’s rather like an attic with mysterious chests half-full of treasure, half-full of tut, piles of dusty papers, toys and books I can’t bear to get rid of plus a whole heap of random stuff. Quite often these days (and I think this writing process is the reason why), one of those memories will shuffle forward and tap insistently on my forehead (from the inside) saying, “Remember me? Would I do for next Thursday’s blog?”

Yes. This week you, long-held memory, are getting your day in the sun.

Before we get to my memory, however, let's go a bit further back into history and remember the millions who died in the Holocaust. It was International Holocaust Remembrance Day on 27th January and today on More Than Writers, a blog  for which I write, Philippa Linton wrote a touching piece on a book she'd read about a 15-year old Latvian Jewish girl. You can read it here: https://morethanwriters.blogspot.com/2020/02/no-happy-ending-but-love-is-stronger.html. It really made me think. I am free to write, to think, to go about my daily life, but so many are not. I have a memory from 30 years ago which has stayed in my mind and I chose to write about it. No-one is going to shame me, or punish me, or imprison me for talking about what I would like to. I believe that the price of that freedom is a good memory - we should never shy away from the parts of our history (and, sadly, our present) which are hard to look at without strong emotion. As writers, we have unique power to remind, to restore and to rouse. The pen really is mightier than the sword.

Let me take you to a beach in North Devon. It must have been about 30 years ago. My then-boyfriend, possibly fiancé, had come down to see me for the weekend. From 1985 until 1993, I lived in Exeter and I loved it and the friends I made there more than I can tell you. By the time we got married in 1993, we’d spent 8 years on our long-distance courtship between Devon and Essex, considerably enriching National Express, British Rail and BT in the process.

On this particular day, we were either in Woolacombe or Croyde Bay. Both have vast expanses of golden sands and are much beloved by surfers. It was a beautiful day. We probably brought a picnic. I can’t remember what we ate, what we talked about or what we did. But one memory has stayed with me as clear as day. At the time, then a writer in the making, I remember thinking to myself, “Interesting. I won’t forget that.” And I never have, although along the way a ton of other information has dropped out of my brain, never to be seen again.

A mini bus drew up behind us in the car park. Out jumped a large family group with the usual paraphernalia of a day on the beach. Picnic, drinks, towels, buckets and spades. There were three men, three women and quite a few children. The women had their hair in long plaits down their backs, two were wearing glasses and all had a neat navy-blue headscarf on their heads, secured by hair grips. On their left hands, plain gold wedding rings gleamed in the summer sunlight. The men all had beards and had matching wedding rings. 

Rugs were put down on the sand, pushchairs were unloaded and assembled and everyone had lunch. After a while, the men got up and took all the children down towards the sea. It was a long walk as the tide was out. The ladies tidied up the picnic for about ten minutes. Then they kicked off their shoes and started giggling. The sound of their laughter was infectious, joyful.

 They were all wearing plain dark-coloured skirts, white tops and dark tights. It wasn’t your typical British beach summer garb. I watched as they started running around, chasing each other and letting out peal after peal of joyous laughter. I sat there smiling. I thought, “I’ll remember this.”

That picture of three laughing women kicking off their shoes and forgetting their family responsibilities for a few minutes has stayed with me all these years. I never knew why, but perhaps their very difference, otherness stuck in my mind. They didn't dress like everyone else, but they were like everyone else. They had the freedom to travel, to eat and laugh together as so many have not in the past. Golden sands, blue skies, freedom, the tang of ozone in the air and three ladies laughing like children.

Memory. As it goes, that’s a good one.