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.