Delighted to see this review of my latest novel from the Eastern Daily Press.
Delighted to see this review of my latest novel from the Eastern Daily Press.
You see them everywhere with a spring in their step – ladies of a certain age with all the day’s essentials in a day pack on their backs. Sometimes the packs are seriously smart and the rest of the outfit too. More often, the clothes – and especially the shoes – have practical comfort first.
But whatever, the women bounce along as if a weight has lifted from them, especially if theyr’e alone.
The chances are that they started their working lives carrying handbags until motherhood left them unable to go out of the house without a baby, a buggy and a bag of nappies, bottles, raisins, wipes, spare clothes. By the time they got back to work there were briefcases, laptops to carry and a handbag big enough to carry emergency essentials for everyone in the family.
(I once emptied mine for a radio programme and as well as the usual – makeup, Tampax, Ibuprofen – discovered a penknife, corkscrew, football studs and a bike pump…)
These women have gone through their adult lives literally weighed down by work, family and responsibility for other people.
And suddenly they’re free…
So you see them in galleries and theatres, shopping, strolling, sitting in pavement cafes in foreign cities soaking up the sun and a glass of wine.There are lots of them in National Trust properties, country pubs and anywhere interesting. They have time and energy to look around them, explore new places, new experiences.
Hands-free, hands in pockets, alert, lively and free, literally, of the baggage they’ve had to carry for years.
Women’s liberation for grown ups.
The sheet must be at least 60 years old – probably bought in the early years of my parents’ marriage before my mother’s fancy turned to coloured sheets and patterns.
This sheet is plain white, made of thick, heavy cotton, worn soft by endless washings in the old wash boiler, hung to dry in the Welsh sun on the line between the apple trees, then aired on the rack above the Aga.
Because my mother always believed in keeping anything that might be useful, it came to our house in a huge bag of linen after she died. Some of the sheets I used, others I gave away. Some I cut up into tea towels, some I turned into Hallowe’en ghosts. This sheet just stayed in the bag at the back of the wardrobe, still immaculately folded by my mother, goodness knows how many years before.
Then our first grand-daughter arrived. Her parents brought a travel cot for when she stayed with us, complete with cheerful sunshine yellow cot sheet. But the baby never settled. She was a restless baby anyway but the travel cot seemed hopless.
Until one day I took the old cotton sheet, folded it in four, and tucked it into the travel cot.
Maybe it was the thickness of it after the slippery polycotton yellow, maybe it was the snugness, the softness. Maybe even it was the memory of Welsh sunshine and a great grandmother she never knew. Either way, the baby slept soundly.
Much relief all round.
The trick worked for her little sister too. Then this week it was the turn of our grandson Fred, nine months old and a hurricane force of robust energy and restlessness after his parents had moved out of their flat before going to America.
He wasn’t a great fan of strange cots but hurtled into this one and instantly crashed out every time. “Mmmm….” said my son, wonderingly.
And that’s why Great-granny’s magic sheet is going to America tomorrow. In a swish apartment in a swish part of Washington, Fred willbe sleeping on a 60 year old sheet.
My mother would have been thrilled to bits.
I love this picture of fisherwomen on Holy Island in 1857. They are dressed for work, assorted layers for warmth and practicality. Their feet are probably soaked through and cold. And their expressions as they look at the photographer clearly say “We’ve got work to do. Haven’t you anything better to do than take pictures of us?” Even the donkeys, laden with heavy baskets of fish, look fed up.
I’m sure – I hope – that these women had some fun and love and laughter in their lives but everything about them seems to reek of stoicism, of relentless keeping on keeping on, a daily grind that had little opportunity for treats and jollity. And they were the lucky ones who could make a living.
With all due respect to them both, they do not have the appearance of women who indulge themselves with creams and lotions or run through hay meadows with their glorious hair blowing free in the sunshine.
This is what the past looked like. It wasn’t picturesque and pretty. It was for many a world of work and care, of managing on very little and having to settle for less, when girls might have been gorgeous at 16 and ancient by 30.
Just remember this when you watch Poldark.
Well that’s it. Summer’s over. No more lazy days making the most of the sun. School starts next week. Time to swap flip flops for boots, order logs and get back to the real world.
There are spiders’ webs on car mirrors in the morning and a hint of chill in the air, refreshing, energising.
Holidays are over. Back to work again.
It’s a time to dream of new exercise books with all those clean untouched pages, new pens and pencils to make our mark. Even for those of us who left school a long time ago, the September air has a tantalising tang of new beginnings. This year will be different. All sorts of possibilities…
January has always seemed a daft time for a year to start. In the bleak midwinter we just want to hibernate and get through the dark until the spring comes round.
But September is much more crisp and purposeful. A good time for a fresh start.
This time we won’t mess up our execrise books. This time we’ll try harder. This time we’ll get it right.
All this and new boots too.
Happy New Year!
These girls striding out confidently in the 1970s could be anywhere in the western world. In fact, they were in Afghanistan in the days when the country was relatively liberal. Until the Taliban took over – then these happy young women and their daughters and granddaughters were forced to wear burkas, covered up from head to toe in a bid to make them invisible, second class citizens with precious few rights.
So what did these women tell their daughters and their daughters’ daughters of how life used to be?
We in the west are used to our grannies telling us of how life used to be harder, of how they used to work harder, dress more modestly and generally behaved better. They remind us of how lucky we are, of all the opportunities we have for education, freedom and ambition.
But Kabul grannies must tell their granddaughters a different story. When the Taliban were at their most oppressive memories of mini skirts and music and university must have been like fairy tales from some long-forgotten age.
That’s one of the ideas I explore in Amity and the Angel . In a society where religion rules and girls are just meant to be subservient to men, marry young and have lots of babies, it’s the granny with the long memory who’s the rebel, reminding people that there’s another way to live, a society with music and stories, where men and women are equal and free.
Well, someone has to keep the ideas alive. And you can always rely on Granny…
Blame it on my great grandfather. He was part of a religious revival that swept through North Wales over a century ago. While other miners in the booming coal town were busy drinking, gambling and looking for loose women, Robert Williams was singing hymns and preaching hell fire.
He wouldn’t have thought much of sparkly shoes…
Great grandad’s influence still lingered among my ancient aunts who were quick to condemn anything that might be fun. Playing cards were the Devil’s picture book – even when it was just snap with Mr Bun the Baker. Sundays were chapel, chapel and yet more chapel.
I thought these strict Welsh attitudes had died out until I visited the Western Isles. Sundays there were just for church. No playing, gardening, car washing or odd jobs. Even the playgrounds were empty, with signs saying “Respect the Sabbath”. It was the time of the Scottish Referendum. What would it be like, I wondered, if these people were in charge.
If people like my great grandfather ruled the world it wouldn’t be much fun at all. How would a spirited girl survive?
And that was the start of Amity…