I Like:
Coffee in the morning, loud music whilst I’m tidying, old Jimmy Stewart films, cuddles from my cats,
The hoot of an owl, art that makes me smile, a starry night sky, various hats,
Books all around me, a pot of Earl Grey tea, a cold bed to climb into, mother/son talks,
Doors that go nowhere, the smell of my clean hair, a freshly laundered nightdress, woodland walks,
stretching, singing, dancing, Spring, reading,
Old ladies jewellery, my husband’s arms around me, a 'real ale' pub, phone calls from Grace,
The sound of my old albums, Sunday roasts at my mum's, half terms from uni, Bath at night is ace,
bonfires, Hallowe’en, fairytales, writing, Christmas,
Driving somewhere I don't know, walking hand in hand through snow, dressing up for pleasure, poking around in old junk shops,
The smell of old and new books, the hoodlum look of rooks, pie and mash lunch, a Nick Cave song that never stops.
©Lisa Lee 2014
I Don't Like:
Well,
Fleas don't please, lice aren't nice and I'm not sure why we need stick insects...
A clown makes me frown, and a man in a dressing gown and I'm not too struck on over formed pects...
A glory seeking Tory with an over-privileged story,
A fame seeking wannabe with an under-privileged story,
A second rate musician with a *sob sob* story...
Engaging in small talk whilst sat in the chair
At the place where they expertly colour my hair :)
Chick-Lit too makes me feel kinda meh...
That may be unkind,
as I don't really read 'em.
So I guess I don't mind
and we probably need 'em.
(Just to make us feel better about our own lives...)
Oh, and,
I can't stand litter, or people who're bitter and I don't really get the point of Uggs (sorry Gem...),
Caffeine free coffees, and those flat 'Penny Toffees', actually Quality Street in general - I don't like them...
Can't stand ignorance,
Not keen on arrogance,
And all that self-importance
Is a complete and utter farce.
Can't stand racism,
Not keen on creationism,
And you can shove your chauvinism
Right up your arse! *Ahem* (So ladylike...)
©Lisa Lee, 2014
Where I Grew Up…
I spent my early years on a farm, in Walnut Grove, Minnesota, running through the endless meadows, arms outstretched, feeling the warmth of the constant sunshine. I even adored school, such as it was. There were just a handful of us, sitting in a wooden hall, on simple wooden chairs using slates to write on, when we had to write. Most of the day we were outside. I learnt about every flower, plant and animal indigenous to Minnesota. I learnt about the land and what would grow well there. I loved the wild flowers that filled the meadow between the school and my little house on the Prairie, I can still feel the scratchiness of the stems, smell the subtle scents as I ran happily through them.
I was pushed along in my pushchair to the squeals of pigs being slaughtered and the river Marden running red.
I learnt to walk in the shadow of the monstrous red-bricked abattoir that cast a shadow, no matter what time of day, along the ancient, and beautiful, Church Street.
I met my husband in the uninviting, unattractive and unfriendly Trotters pub.
Then, finally, I moved to King Bladud’s city of Bath.
You know, the guy with the pigs.
©Lisa Lee, 2012, edited 2014
It's All Over...
That's it then, Christmas, 2013 is over. I know this because not only has all the crap, beige food gone but so has my youngest son. Back to Guildford and his alternative life of not enough food, more than enough alcohol, university lectures and freedom from his mother.
I always believed that Christmas was about small children. It's something that is often said, isn't it, 'Christmas is for the children'. But that sort of implies that couples who choose not to have kids, by definition, are missing out. Well, we proved last year that that just isn't the case. I loved last Christmas so much that I was determined to achieve the same this year (last year, you know what I mean). Now our boys are adults, there's no 7am wake up call, no squealing, shouting and then the inevitable tears and (over-tired) tantrums. Everything is very civilised. We all gradually emerge. I cook a very adult breakfast of eggs and salmon or bacon. We open the Bucks Fizz and toast the day. Then, once we all have our second cup of tea, we start on the presents. Nobody rushes, everybody waits. It's the very epitome of relaxed. Last year was the first time it occurred to me that this was the kind of Christmas my brother and his wife enjoyed most years. Like a bolt out of the blue I thought, 'Hang on, it's not them that's been missing out. It's us! This is cool!!'
Boxing day brought the family together. My nephew provided the children; Grace, who is 4, Jack who's 10 (ish) and Cam, 15 (ish). Now, Grace was the child we all talk about at Christmas. Whimsical, funny, excited and full of wonder. She played for ages with my dolls house, she chatted endlessly about her presents. She did remind me of Christmases past, when Harry and Gabe would almost burst with excitement at the sight of their presents, take delight in the smallest effort made by anyone to include them in party games. But then I looked at Cam and Jack. They were brilliant, of course, but that was largely due to Harry providing them with an XBox to play on! Watching them reminded me of even more Christmases past and I felt a pang of sympathy for my nephew and his wife. You see, once they get to the age where they no longer believe in the jolly red-suited man and they know that it's down to mum and dad having enough money whether they get their desired gift or not, things change. It's sad! Sad because that day seems to arrive earlier and earlier now and because there are too many years between the age of wonderment and the age of legally being able to consume alcohol. Too many years of uncomfortable family visits and sulky poses for pictures. I do have to say again, though, Cam and Jack are not like this. Yet.
So this year (or last year...) was an eye opener then. Not only because I got to see the three ages of childhood at Christmas but because I also fulfilled that other tradition; family get togethers. Firstly, Gabe had to get to us from Guildford. I experienced all the motherly feelings and deep joy at seeing him all matured and confident. Then, today I completed that circle by hugging him goodbye, experiencing all the motherly feelings of pride and sadness. Knowing that Easter will be here soon and his return. Also , I got to do the mother of all get togethers; everyone at mine for Boxing Day! It was fabulous. Grown up, with a hint of wonderment - Perfect really. Happy New Year. Or Old Year. Oh, you know what I mean.
©Lisa Lee, 2014
I Don't Like:
Well,
Fleas don't please, lice aren't nice and I'm not sure why we need stick insects...
A clown makes me frown, and a man in a dressing gown and I'm not too struck on over formed pects...
A glory seeking Tory with an over-privileged story,
A fame seeking wannabe with an under-privileged story,
A second rate musician with a *sob sob* story...
Engaging in small talk whilst sat in the chair
At the place where they expertly colour my hair :)
Chick-Lit too makes me feel kinda meh...
That may be unkind,
as I don't really read 'em.
So I guess I don't mind
and we probably need 'em.
(Just to make us feel better about our own lives...)
Oh, and,
I can't stand litter, or people who're bitter and I don't really get the point of Uggs (sorry Gem...),
Caffeine free coffees, and those flat 'Penny Toffees', actually Quality Street in general - I don't like them...
Can't stand ignorance,
Not keen on arrogance,
And all that self-importance
Is a complete and utter farce.
Can't stand racism,
Not keen on creationism,
And you can shove your chauvinism
Right up your arse! *Ahem* (So ladylike...)
©Lisa Lee, 2014
Where I Grew Up…
I spent my early years on a farm, in Walnut Grove, Minnesota, running through the endless meadows, arms outstretched, feeling the warmth of the constant sunshine. I even adored school, such as it was. There were just a handful of us, sitting in a wooden hall, on simple wooden chairs using slates to write on, when we had to write. Most of the day we were outside. I learnt about every flower, plant and animal indigenous to Minnesota. I learnt about the land and what would grow well there. I loved the wild flowers that filled the meadow between the school and my little house on the Prairie, I can still feel the scratchiness of the stems, smell the subtle scents as I ran happily through them.
At home, Ma always cooked a huge dinner and Pa would sit at the head of the table, where he said Grace. At sundown my sisters and I went to bed with a lamp. We’d put on our mop caps and nighties, give each other kisses and, then, Pa would lift me up to the loft, where I slept. I loved it when he did this because the ladder used to shake when I climbed up, causing me a bit of a lurch in my tummy. As I curled up under my patchwork quilt, lovingly made for me by my Grandma, I would dream of adventures. I was always with friends and always happy.
As I grew up, I had to move on. I could feel myself growing away from the farm and it’s inhabitants. It was time to find a bit of grit. A bit of real life with all it’s grey areas as well as it’s light. So, at just 17, I sailed to England. I took a job as a servant in a small town in Cornwall. My new employer was a wealthy tin mine owner and the job came with a room in his home. It was nothing like the farm I’d left back in Minnesota. It felt cold, damp and there were pockets of gloom in every room, until Mr Poldark walked in. My teenage hormones turned virtual somersaults and although I had been warned about falling in love with an employer, I couldn’t resist him, nor him, me. If you’d been able to see us then you’d have known we were perfect together, for a while, anyway.
This is, sort of, where I grew up. I was a child, an adolescent and an adult who lived in her head. I would say, and I do believe, that we all do. But in weaving this tale, I have come to realise, that the truth is as strange, if not as romantic as the world in my head. For I grew up here, Calne, a market-town for porky pigs.
I was pushed along in my pushchair to the squeals of pigs being slaughtered and the river Marden running red.
I learnt to walk in the shadow of the monstrous red-bricked abattoir that cast a shadow, no matter what time of day, along the ancient, and beautiful, Church Street.
I met my husband in the uninviting, unattractive and unfriendly Trotters pub.
Then, finally, I moved to King Bladud’s city of Bath.
You know, the guy with the pigs.
I learnt to walk in the shadow of the monstrous red-bricked abattoir that cast a shadow, no matter what time of day, along the ancient, and beautiful, Church Street.
I met my husband in the uninviting, unattractive and unfriendly Trotters pub.
Then, finally, I moved to King Bladud’s city of Bath.
You know, the guy with the pigs.
©Lisa Lee, 2012, edited 2014
It's All Over...
LOSS
It's a shame you never loved me,
It's not your loss, it's all mine.
Who told them off,
then hugged them tight.
Who made them laugh,
with tales of plight.
And who loved their every flaw.
It's a shame you were my only one,
Yet I was one of many.
Because I always found out how
When you went away
You took the others,
But never me,
Or my brothers,
And it's bothering me now.
I have nothing to remind me,
'Cept a picture I procured.
Because you never really knew me.
Photos that I sent
You never saw,
Never opened,
Were found in a drawer.
And so that's my family.
It's a shame you never loved me,
Because I'm worth it, don't you know.
My First Brush With Danger
Small and peculiar, I was never one to demand centre stage.
Introvert and singular, even I failed to notice me age.
At the troublesome age of fourteen I obviously sought a gaze or two. The clothes became peculiar and singular, while I remained small and introvert. I should have been a worry for all concerned yet no one noticed me at all.
In a small town, as introverted as myself, I carved a non-name for myself. My outgoing confidence betrayed my inward awkwardness. My two large brothers protected my ice maiden cool. But that couldn’t last forever.
Pubs, pubs and more pubs. What else is a girl to do? I smoked and drank like a man, dressed like a wood nymph, froze people out. Until I met the dad of a man who was a friend of a friend. I liked that friend. I thought he was cool.
A drunken night, no words exchanged just gazes. “You confuse me,” said my friend. “You have no idea what you do to men.” Hmm, and I downed my pint and rolled another. Cold and indifferent, I shrugged. The dad of the friend (who I thought was cool), said,
“Your face is exquisite. I would like to photograph you.”
“All right,” said I and got into his car.
We head out of town, this dad and I, the friend (his son) in the back with me.
We pull up to a barn, a converted barn and I’m not as impressed as I should be.
I remember little else, I was pretty drunk I guess, though I do the recall the light switch.
It was on the wrong side of the wall and it mattered to me. Much more than what could’ve happened next.
I woke up the next day, in my bed in my house with my mum making breakfast downstairs.
My recollection was vague but I knew I’d been good, my friend had been there the whole time. For months subsequent I asked this chap, “Are the pictures done then, are they okay?” He just smiled and looked kind of sheepish.
Finally I asked and he said, “Lisa, they are the pictures of a quiet beauty taken by a lecherous, drunken old bastard.” He stopped short of adding, “Who, if I hadn’t have been there, would’ve taken full advantage of your own insobriety.”
That friend of mine remained confused about me but I became wiser that night.
For dirty old men are there throughout life but to get into one’s car is not right.
Broken Trophies
Oh, I'm used to the rowing by now. The crashing, banging, shouting and screaming. I listen automatically, sub-consciously waiting for the thump that will tell me he's gone one step further than before. The thump of a defeated body slumping to the ground, via a wall. It never comes to that usually. But it does tonight.
"Help me!"
Within an hour the police arrive. I show them into the living room and they start their routine questioning. I'm filling in the gaps, you know, the ones where the abused says nothing about previous nights of horror. She looks at me and casts down her eyes.
"You forget," I tell her, "I live right next door. I hear everything."
The policeman doesn't stop scribbling. His female colleague looks a bit green.
"God, I'm sorry!" the young woman exclaims, struggling to her feet. Well, I didn't see that coming. The carpet is now covered in vomit, the police woman looks white (which is more alarming than the green) and her colleague looks startled, like a deer caught in headlights. My neighbour has barely noticed. "Um, look we'll get off and I'll send another officer to finish off taking your statements." Then they were gone, the police. I can't help but wonder how they will tackle the animal when they're clearly terrified of a 'techni-colour yawn'. Finding the rubber gloves, I attempt to clean it up. Though, to be fair, it makes little difference to the altered state of the room.
"Thank you so much for doing this!"
"It's fine. It's what neighbours do."
"Yeah but, well, after the summer, well, you know..."
"Oh that. It's forgotten. Honestly. You did it, I shouted at you and now it's over."
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it." And I mean it. Please, I think, don't bloody mention it again!
*
It was hard to reconcile the woman in front of me with the one who wantonly ransacked my bin bags last summer. For almost a week she would wait for me to leave for work, walk around to my garden, untie the bags and start picking through my rubbish. I was flabbergasted, I still am! When I asked her what the hell she was doing? She replied,
"I just want the trophies!"
I told her they were all broken but she carried on lifting them out anyway. In the end I had to call the police. They didn't throw up in my house, by the way. They wouldn't have dared!
*
I waited a while, the police returned, we finished our statements and the animal didn't come home. "Will you be okay?" I asked.
"Um, yeah, yeah. Thank you again. I can't tell you how grateful I am. Especially after..."
"Honestly, please don't mention it! I'll check in on you tomorrow." I hug her and plant a sisterhood kiss on her bruised cheek.
As I walked through the hall to the front door I couldn't help but notice the broken trophies, all in a line on a purpose built shelf. Suppressing a smile, I said,
"Lock up behind me, won't you?"
A Moving Story…
As
I mull over the last 20 years, looking at the walls that have protected my
entire reason for living and recalling the woodchip wallpaper that adorned each
one, I find myself without any real affection for the house that became our
home all those years ago. I do not find this in the least bit strange, however
other people seem to.
For
all of those well meaning souls out there, here I sit, laptop in lap.
Newly
married and 7 months pregnant, I fell in love with a house. We had looked at so
many around the Southdown area of Bath, each time we came away feeling totally
depressed. So we widened our viewing area and looked at a cottage in Peasdown
St John. Well, it was perfect. There was a long, rambling garden that I could
imagine my children exploring in, the cottage oozed quirkiness. It completely
grabbed me and so we put in an offer. To our delight, it was accepted. I don’t
remember the ins and outs but, basically, it was ‘devalued’ by the bank. This
meant that either the seller had to reduce their price or we’d have to come up
with 3 grand extra as a deposit. It couldn’t be done and so we let it go. I’m
telling you this so that you understand that this house was never the ‘love of
my life’. It was a quick purchase as I was about to give birth and as such, we’ve
been extremely lucky. But, from the beginning, my soul has never really been
here. It stayed in the little cottage.
“It’s
going to be quite emotional leaving here.”
“I
think I’ll shed a tear or two. Especially when I pack up my room!”
“Lots
of good memories eh, Lise? It’s going to be a bit of a wrench isn’t it?”
No,
I think, it isn’t. I have been ready to wrench myself away from here for 11
years now. To find a new place that suits me better, that can accommodate my
need for anonymity. Wrench me away, I think.
With
a cup of coffee in my hand, I gaze out of the kitchen window and a smile forms
as I watch the chickens amongst the poppies and dandelions. They’re a fairly
recent addition to the family and very welcome too. As my mind drifts, the
image drifts too, into shadows of Harry and Gabe, toddling on the uneven lawn,
kicking a ball or riding a tricycle. Then I can see a young Nige, dressed as a
pirate, surrounded by a dozen kids. They’re all laughing fit to burst as he
throws himself from one imaginary treasure island to another. We did throw some
magnificent birthday parties for our boys. They are all etched into my memory
like veins of gold, ready to travel with me wherever I go.
As
I dwell on these birthdays and celebrations I cannot help but recall the down
side to it all too. “Lots of good memories eh, Lise?” Yes, I think, but many more not so.
I
had longed to be a mum and had high expectations of myself. I believed I would
be Mother Earth, surrounded with babies and cats and permanently smiling. I
would bake too. Soft, perfect sponge cakes that everyone would love. After a
traumatic delivery (emergency caesarean after a 26 hour labour) I remember
sitting in hospital thinking, I am never doing that again! But I knew I was going
to. Harry was not going to be an only child and besides, I was going to be
Mother Earth.
They
used to call it the ‘Baby Blues’. It wasn’t blue, though, it was a sort of
messy grey. That was how I saw the world for, what, years. Words like loneliness,
isolation, boredom and desperation floated around my head. I rocked back and
forth for hours at a time, sometimes to get Harry to sleep, others to break the
monotony of the day. Nige would get home and take over for me while I slept. To
say that I let myself go is an understatement. To say that this house felt like
my prison is not.
Then,
just over a year after Harry was born, I fell pregnant again.
By
the time Gabe was born I did at least have a network of friends. I visited
other people’s houses for coffee and even went out to the park occasionally for
the day. With this new-founded support I even passed my driving test. Suddenly
I could leave not just the house, but the area! It was brilliant! Although I
still fell in and out of depression, I felt as if I had a handle on it.
Watching my boys together, playing, arguing, just being, was the best therapy.
The house was coming together too. So, that was my few years of relative
tranquillity and feeling like a normal person then. They were pretty happy times
but, again, I carry them with me. Those memories of car journeys and days out
with friends are not triggered by the house but by the people. I never wanted
to be confined to the house again!
“I
think I’ll shed a tear or two. Especially when I pack up my room!”
We
still have the same bed both boys were conceived in, both boys have been nursed
in, comforted in and the same bed I was confined to when Gabe was about 3.
Coming
up to Christmas I’d been battling with flu symptoms, upset tummy, everything it
seemed. Nige had arranged for us to go on The Santa Express, in Minehead, where
the boys would get to meet Santa after a short journey on a steam train. It
promised to be a truly magical evening. I felt awful though. The car journey
was horrific, it was bitingly cold outside when we got there and the
complimentary sherry was like paint stripper. It was all a bit lame as I
recall. On the way home I remember looking at the many lit up homes and
thinking, why bother doing any of that? I think I was delirious but at hat
point I had no idea how seriously ill I was. In fact, I spent Christmas laid
out on the sofa during the day and sweating at night. I had vivid
hallucinations too where a glass roof would open above me, revealing a sort of
guru who talked me through my pain. Beneath me was cracked, baked earth getting
hotter and hotter. On New Years Eve I decided enough was enough. I went down to
Boots. I stood at the pharmacy and said, “I’m not sure what’s wrong with me but
I now have this,” lifted up my shirt to reveal a large red rash. The staff
collectively took a step back, one saying, “You need to get yourself to A &
E.” So that’s where I went.
I
left Bath RUH shortly afterwards, diagnosed with Scarlet Fever. I then spent
weeks in bed, on severe antibiotics. Over the next 2 years I lost all of my
skin, underwent reflexology to get my internal organs working properly again
and scared the shit out of my mum.
“It’s
going to be quite emotional leaving here.”
That
I cannot deny. Emotions are everywhere and seep into you when you least expect
it. Positive, negative, you get them all! So, yes, of course I’ll be emotional.
I don’t know yet if that will take the form of a jump and a punch into the air
or a cascade of tears. I’m betting it’ll be something in between.
I
have only once shed a cascade of tears in this house (or any other) and that
was about 11 years ago.
To
spend a day gardening with the family, laughing and smiling in the sunshine is
a wonderful thing. That is what we’d done and by 10 o’clock we were curled up
on the sofa, about to watch a gripping thriller (Messiah, with Ken Stott). The
phone rang. The news was brief. My world fell apart.
All
the wonderful memories of this house come from my boys. Watching them build
their brotherhood bonds has been the most magical part of their childhood and
my motherhood. Those memories can hide the previous ones of depression
adequately and give strength to cope with anything. Anything, that is, except
the loss of my brother. That cannot be hidden.
That
is when I first wanted to move. To wrench myself away from the solid
manifestation of my grief seemed to be the best way forward, the only way. I am
glad I didn’t though, I’m glad we waited. Though often awful beyond compare,
the last 11 years have seen me change quite dramatically. I can now deal with
all my quirks and oddness, embrace them and turn them into positive energy.
This is what I’m taking to our new home, along with inner tranquillity and an
abundance of laughter.
©Lisa Lee, 2012
Happy Bloody Easter!
Saturday, 31st March
They are sat together, pondering the evening ahead, when she says,
“I know. Let’s watch ‘Attack the Block’! Yeah?”
“Yeah, alright,” he replies. It takes her a while to, first, find the film and, then, put it on the nearly defunct DVD player. This was largely due to the Earth Hour, when every light in the house was off in a bid to save the planet. She could’ve waited five minutes, until 8.30, when the lights would be back on, but in a life lacking adventure, this was extreme.
“We’ve still got to watch all the trailers I’m afraid. Bloody thing won’t skip, pause or allow me to scroll.”
“Never mind. It makes a change to watch trailers.” She wasn’t listening.
“Let’s have popcorn! I’ve got some kernels in the cupboard.” So, in the kitchen, in the dark, she roots around the cupboards for the kernels, a large bowl and the novelty duck popcorn maker. Quest achieved, she goes back into the living room, sets it all up and settles down to the film. “Gabe saw this at the cinema, I think.”
“Mmm. When does he want picking up?”
“Well, he said 11.30 but I’ll check.” She picks up her phone, sends a text and then discards it again in favour of the film.
*
At 10.45 she sends another text.
Do you still want picking up at 11.30? Dad needs to know, as he’ll have to leave in a minute.
No reply. “I’ll try ringing.” No answer. She redials almost immediately. There’s still no answer. “Come on Gabe, for fucks sake! I hate this,” she moans to him. He says nothing, sighs a bit but doesn’t really stop watching the film.
BEEP-BEEP
“Ah!” She grabs her phone,
Hi mum. Sorry I forgot to say, I’ll be staying at Dec’s tonight.
She reads it out loud and then says, “That’s not right is it?”
“What?”
“ ‘Hi mum’? When did he get so considerate?” He laughs. “No really!” She re-reads it and types one back,
Okay. Be good xxx
BEEP-BEEP
“That was quick!” Too quick, she thinks, and unnecessary. She reads it,
I will x
“A kiss? Since when does Gabe sign off with a kiss?”
“For God’s sake, relax! You want him to text and he has.”
“I know but it doesn’t feel like him. What if someone’s nicked his phone, or he’s had an accident or, well, anything!” By now the film’s finished, Harry’s gone out and they’re putting the cats out for the night.
“You’re stressing over nothing. He’s stayed at Dec’s before. He’ll be fine.” He sets the computer up, “The Walking Dead?” he says.
“Hmm? Yeah, cool. Is that the zombie thing?” She climbs into bed.
“Perhaps he’s drunk and a mate’s sent the messages for him.”
“A girl, obviously.”
“Why a girl?”
“Who else would start, ‘Hi mum’?”
“True. Relax. Let’s watch zombies!”
*
Sunday, 1st April
At 6.30, quarter of an hour before the radio alarm goes off, the phone downstairs rings. She leaves it, knowing that she’ll never get there in time. Not without breaking her neck on the stairs anyway. Shortly afterwards, her mobile phone beeps. It’s right by her side, so she opens the message.
Are you up?
“It’s from Gabe!” she says, even though she knows he’s fast asleep.
She is just about to send a reply, when it rings.
“Hey Gabe. You okay?”
“Um, yeah. Can you like, come and get me?”
“Of course. Right now?” her heart pounds a little, anxiety creeps into her head.
“Err, yeah. If that’s alright.”
“No problem. Wait out on the pavement, where Dec was when we dropped you off. I’ll be with you by quarter past.”
“Cheers.” She’s relieved. At least he’s okay. At least that was actually his voice, even if it is stupidly early. She pulls on a dress that’s been lying on the floor for over a week now, finds some shoes and heads out to the car. Before she shuts the door behind her, she calls out, “Put the coffee on then!”
*
The roads were gloriously clear. She wasn’t panicking as such but she did know that speed was of the essence and so possibly drove a lot faster than she should have.
Half an hour after leaving she’s on the road where Dec’s mum lives. She pulls in, grabs her phone so as she can let Gabe know that she’s there. There’s another message.
Can’t you get here earlier?
“Bloody hell Gabe, I drove hell for leather as it was!” Instead of messaging him back, she rings.
“I’m here.”
“Okay.”
Just moments after that, he appears, sort of limping along the lane, lip swollen, nose bloody and white t shirt covered in his (or someone else’s) blood. His vodka eyes say it all. She says nothing, watches him struggle to get into the passenger seat. He looks at her, those still beautiful eyes betraying a rueful smile that his mouth is struggling to show. “So, what exactly happened here then, Gabe?”
“Apparently I fell down. A lot.” She nods,
“Fell down. Sure?”
“Yeah, that’s what Dec said.” She looks at his face.
“So you weren’t punched?” He looks shocked,
“No! I definitely wasn’t punched.” She looked closer. They were definitely grazes and not punches. With that cleared up, she starts the car and sets off for home. “What were you drinking, vodka?”
“Yeah.”
“Were you doing anything else?”
“Just drinking. Lots and lots of drinking.” We’ve all been there, she thought.
“Where were you when you fell over then?”
“Well, we wanted to go to the pub but we all got so drunk. We didn’t even get as far as Asda.” She laughs, then asks,
“Was it you who text me last night?”
“Nah. It was Chelsee.” She smiled, knowingly.
“Text your dad. Tell him to run you a bath.” It takes him four attempts but the message is finally sent.
*
As he makes his way upstairs, his dad throws him an enquiring look.
“Don’t ask,” he replies.
She sighs, “Did you run him a bath?”
“Sorry?”
“Never mind.” He never reads his bloody messages, she thinks, turning on the taps and pouring in lots of Radox.
“He’s thrown up in the car,” she calls down to him.
“Oh, right.”
While Gabe’s in the bath, she drinks her coffee and relives her morning for her husband. “I honestly thought I was watching The Walking Dead when he shuffled out of the trees!”
*
Three hours in A & E soon sobered her boy up. Although it was exhausting for them to be sat there too, she felt it was an important lesson for him and, anyway, despite her cleaning it, she could not make his nose look right.
©Lisa Lee 2012
What She Said, What He Said.
As they climbed into the newly changed bed, the
smell of ironed cotton filled her nose.
“I love the smell of fresh sheets!” she said.
“Me too.” He laid out his right arm so she could
snuggle up next to him. She did and he held her tightly.
“My hair looks cool doesn’t it?” She looks up into
his pool-like eyes.
“Yeah. It’s very red.”
“It’ll be redder next time. Although this time was
a happy accident.”
“Really?”
“Well, Karen wasn’t there today so Jen did it. But
my usual colour wasn’t there either…”
“What, did Karen take it with her?” he laughed.
“No, of course not! No, but they had the one above
it? It’s the same but has an ‘I’ next to it’s number.”
“So,” he asks, ‘what does the ‘I’ stand for?”
“I think it’s ‘intensive’. Or ‘interesting’!” She
laughs, sits up and hugs her knees. “It does look lovely though?” He smiles.
She loves how he bites his bottom lip when he does so. She loves how his eyes
flash as they squint ever so slightly. But mostly she just loves him, bones and
all.
Tracing a finger along her nose, she says, “You
know I have a fairy nose?” He laughs. “No, really! You see how it’s like a ski
slope?”
“Sort of, yeah.” He has to pull his head back to
get a better view.
“Fairies from miles around come to my nose for
their winter holidays. They don their tiny, weenie skis, stick their
cocktail-stick size stick things either side and whoosh!! Off they go! Little
bastards.”
“Why are they?”
“Why are they what? Little bastards?”
“Yeah!”
“Well, if they paid the going rate for a ski
holiday, I could get this bloody awful nose put right!”
He kisses her turned-up nose. “I love your nose.”
She closes her eyes, smiles. “Good job then.”
©Lisa
Lee 2012
Ego n a
sense of self-esteem
As a
child I soared, adored.
Only later, in the eyes of others,
Did
I shrink and wither in the shadow
Of my brothers.
Unsure
still of my place, face,
Features unseen, a stranger reflected
In
the mirrors that adorn walls at home,
Unaffected.
A
mother of sons loud, proud.
My position more certain, more assured.
I
look on in awe as they look to me,
Soared, adored.
©Lisa Lee 2012
Fairytale of New York
This is Elsie Ethel Bucknall, the most fabulous woman it has ever been my misfortune to never meet. My mum knew her though, very well, and has always made me aware of the adoration she held for her last grand daughter. Given my rather frosty relationship with my paternal grandma, I clung to this spiritual love and basked in the warm internal feeling it gave me.
Elsie was born at the beginning of the last century, 1904 in fact, the fifth child of seven to Alice and John Bucknall. They were an extraordinary family, the women in particular (which is so often the case), were a magical mix of independence, good humour and quirkiness with each one having a portion of fragility thrown in. Elsie spent her youth bed ridden with a nervous condition that prevented her from placing her feet onto the ground. Like a Princess in a fairy tale, locked in a tower, she could never go out and so was unable to meet her Prince Charming. Never attended the ball. But then, as if a curse had been lifted, she recovered from the supposedly unrecoverable, left her home and walked straight into the arms of her dream man. She was thirty years old.
Charles was a medical journalist serving in the British Army. He and Elsie were very much in love and by 1938, just four years after they were married, they were blessed with three children and an idyllic life in Jamaica. A Princess once again, Elsie wanted for nothing only this time she could take the children on long walks with the family dog whilst the nanny watched the baby. She could dance in her husband’s arms and need only go to bed when she was exhausted after a long day. It wasn’t to last, the war put pay to that. In 1942 Elsie and her family found themselves on one of eight boats bound for America and it was one of only two that made it.
Charles stayed on in America. Elsie was to take the children back home to a house in Hampshire, that he had bought, on her own. They said their farewells at Grand Central Station, as he left her with all her worldly goods and family by her side. She must have looked fairly wretched as an offer for Jill, the eldest child, was made. The lady meant well, I’m sure, and many children on that platform on that day were re-homed, but not Jill. I wonder if she’d known that for the past twenty-four hours she’d been carrying my mother in her belly, would the answer have been the same?
Back in Blighty, things were looking bleak. This marvellous woman who I never met, found herself in a remote bungalow, with no running water and an impossible range that must never go out. She also found out about that small ‘bean’ growing inside her, a wonderful parting gift and constant reminder of her beloved Charles. Never once did she consider how her life had taken this unfortunate turn. She never moaned and she never tired. She got on, making the most out of this cosy home and encouraging the older children to help with the endless chores. She wrote to Charles and he replied, long love letters written in magic green ink that danced off the page and warmed her heart. He came home once, after the birth of the ‘bean’. He named her Judith and spent his leave hugging, cuddling and cooing over his new daughter. Then he was gone.
In 1944, ten years after they’d met, Elsie received the telegram that so many women of that time received. He wasn’t dead, just presumed to be. For Elsie this meant she could never move on, even if she’d wanted to. She waited for him to walk in through the back door. She anticipated his arrival on a special birthday. She never let go of this and so, as if to avoid the inevitable disappointment, she travelled. Right up until my birth Elsie, my gorgeous, wonderful nana flew to Canada to stay with her daughter, Mary, on at least half a dozen occasions. She would stay on the gypsy camp that was my first home, sharing the ramshackle caravan with mum, dad, my two brothers and I, attired in her pristine, hand made suit and under corset. When we moved from there to a much more suitable house in Calne. She came and helped her rebellious daughter, the bean from New York, my mum, to plant bulbs. Then she departed.
I never knew her, you know, yet of all my family I feel I know her the best. One day I shall ask my mum what she was really like, but until then, this has been Elsie Ethel Bucknall, best nana there never was.
The Caravan
Eddie Bray had bought a caravan. It was one of many stupid
things he was destined to buy but to Liz and Cathy it was a palace. Whilst the
boys in the neighbourhood made dens in the hedgerows, using tires for toilets
and grass for floors, they had a super large playhouse with a proper kitchen,
c-plan seating and over-head cabinets. Though Cathy’s mum had deemed it
‘uninhabitable’, the girls barely noticed the mould on the cushions, thick
grease coating the tiny stove and general musky smell that filled the air. They
busied themselves with borrowed scouring pads and Vim, pointlessly scrubbing
The Caravan’s surfaces. Cathy gave up, leaving Liz to tackle the stove. She sat
on the damp seat cushions, cutting up newspaper into chip shapes.
“Here,” she called to Liz, “Make some cod.”
They sat together, making newspaper fish and chips, chatting
like two old fish wives. Newspaper fish wives.
Summer holidays meant that Braemor Road was an ‘open house’.
Friends drifted through each other’s doors for the entire six weeks. Liz
drifted mainly through Cathy’s and vice versa. Their mums worked together in
Harris’ Factory and so they too would drift in and out. Today Liz’s mum and dad
were creosoting the fence, taking advantage of ‘The Caravan’s’ appeal and their
daughter’s absence from the garden. But they could hear the two friends
laughing and singing happily.
“Two cod and chips please.”
Cathy scoops up paper chips and puts them onto a sheet of
newspaper. She puts a paper fish on top, “Salt n vinegar on tha’?”
“Um, yes please.” A frantic shake of an imaginary vinegar
bottle in one hand and salt pot in the other, Cathy then wrapped them up and
handed them to her friend.
BANG!!
Someone was banging The Caravan. The girls rushed to the
windows at the back, drew back the curtain and saw Martin, a kid from over the
road, muster up some saliva and gob on their beloved caravan!
“Oi!” shouted Cathy.
“What?” he laughed back. “Can’t do nothing!” And this is
when it happened. Liz, tiny and sweet, looked straight into his face, which was
level with hers as she was kneeling on the seat, and through the open window
she shouted,
“Fuck off!”
Everything went quiet, Cathy gasped and put her hand over
her mouth, Martin looked shocked and ran away. Liz’s mum called over the fence,
“Lisa Barnes, get back round here NOW!”
Creosoting was a God awful job but it had to be done and the
weather was on their side. Jude sat with her legs curled under her, doing the
lower part whilst Barry did the upper, twice as fast. All was peaceful until,
from the other side of the fence, they heard a high-pitched,
“Fuck off!”
Jude stopped brushing, so did Barry. They looked at each
other, barely containing the laughter. “Was that Lizzie?!” Barry was
incredulous.
“That was definitely her little voice.” They collapsed
again. “Stop. Stop! We can’t have her doing that!” Barry nodded, smiling.
Between stifled giggles, she shouted,
“Lisa Barnes, get back round here NOW!”
All of Liz’s bravery had evaporated. As her mum’s voice
entered her head, something shattered into a thousand pieces. Her precious
make-believe world had been invaded, first by Martin and then by her mum. She
walked around to her house, dragging her feet and sniffing back tears. She
couldn’t have known that at the time she was walking to her house, her mum and
dad were fighting back tears of their own, composing themselves to deliver a
telling off. She only became privy to that piece of the story twenty years
later, over a bottle of wine in her mum’s kitchen. Strangely, though she
laughed, she couldn’t help but feel a tinge of pity for the poor little girl,
dragging her feet along the back track.
©Lisa Lee 2012
Women Of Substance
I have never really thought of myself as small. I am a massive 5 feet tall and I feel this is about perfect for someone like me. This superb amount of confidence I have with regards to my height I owe to three extraordinary women. And earlier this week, I said farewell to one of them.
Family gatherings, when I was a child, were fairly infrequent and enormous fun. Trips to Stockbridge to visit my Grandma in Over Wallop and my cousins in Grateley and Broughton always felt a little awkward as so much time seemed to have passed between visits, it was difficult to get back to the familiarity we may have gained the previous summer. But at the centre of these get-togethers sat my two gorgeous aunts and my very beautiful mother. I wonder now, how three brothers from a small village in Hampshire managed to meet, let alone marry, Italian, Afro-Indian and Chinese women. But marry they did, with many cousins and myself to thank them for it.
*
At about 5 foot, my auntie Sue was the tallest. She’s my Chinese aunt and was the coolest adult I knew. We would visit her and uncle Robert (the youngest of the brothers) at their old house in Grateley where she’d feed us the best pork crackling you could ever imagine, after we’d exhausted ourselves swinging across the ‘chestnut pit’ in the garden. Like my mum, she was and is beautiful. Unlike my mum, however, she played the guitar! As a child, the coolness of adults depends very much on the presents they give you for Christmas. You could never get cooler than a hand-made art portfolio, lovingly covered in Laura Ashley wallpaper with ribbons to keep it closed. My brothers got a T Rex LP that year. How cool is that? I remember those early years extremely well, playing with Darren and James in the wild and exciting garden like little feral kids. It ended just after Dannielle was born and Sue and Robert separated.
*
The smallest of my aunts was Mary. To hear her talk or, as I remember most, call my uncle Adrian, you would never guess that she was only about 4 foot 8. I can see her now, knelt down on the floor, in front of the fire, thick, black hair down to her shoulders, rolling a fag. “Ade! Ade!! Adrian!!!” she’d shout, following up with a low cackle. I loved it. She was the epicentre of her family who willingly orbited her tiny frame. She was born in Calcutta, brought over to England and left at an orphanage. She was Afro-Indian, a mix that wasn’t, apparently, acceptable. I saw auntie Mary more than any other aunt as once a year our families would collide in an ethnic crash on the Isle of Wight. Her guardians owned a house there for the use of all the children they had cared for and their families. As I had no sisters I relished the opportunity to share a room with my stunning cousins, all girls together and I still recall Maria performing Kate Bush’s ‘Babooshka’ when we should have all been asleep. Her hair was as black as her mum’s and more than twice the length. She’d flip her head upside down, allowing this mane to tumble like tarmac, whilst wailing the chorus. Nichola and me would double up with laughter until one of the adults told us to be quiet.
I don’t know when they ended, those holidays. As we grew up, we all drifted apart I guess. I’m sorry for it now. They should’ve gone on for longer.
I said ‘farewell’ to her earlier this week, that fierce, wonderful auntie of mine. Though I really lost her years ago.
*
In between was my mum. About 4 foot 10 inches of fiery Italian stubbornness and beauty. I’m amazed my dad even bothered to try and tame her, his temperament being the almost exact opposite to hers. But he did and I think a little of her wildness found it’s way into him, making him the stronger of all the brothers. I am my mother’s daughter, blessed with the caution of my father. I’m not sure I command quite the same galactic performance, that’s what caution brings to the table, obviously.
*
It is no accident that these three women, women of substance, existed in different localities. To put them all together in even the same county could and often did, prove catastrophic, upsetting the natural balance of things. They are all like the earth. They have their own moons and planets in the form of their husbands and children, to complete their universe. As only one of the smaller planets, I can tell you now that childhood with them was exciting, bizarre, occasionally dangerous but always unpredictable. It just didn’t last long enough. That’s all.
Tomb Raider
“Look at us!” I say to Harrison, as I help him out of his raincoat in the hall. “Tut, bloody rain Harry, eh!”
“Yeah mum. Bloody rain.”
With my two little men dry and now ensconced in a Fireman Sam video, I get on with lunch. Tea cakes and a cup of tea. For three. I stand there, in the doorway, watching them both. Harry’s setting up his Brio train track and Gabe’s watching Fireman Sam rescue Sarah from the ice. The rain is relentless but it’s no match for us.
A year or so later, Harrison’s at nursery each morning and Gabriel’s at a toddlers group for three mornings a week. Our little band has fragmented. I pick up Gabe first, chattering non stop about the different things he’d done, he thrusts various models and pictures at me, which I welcome with a motherly pride. “Wow! You’ve done so much!” We carry on up the hill to get Harry. We stand with all the other mums in the playground. Harry comes out with two of his friends. He looks so grown up, with a serious expression on his face. He smiles when he sees us. “So, what have you been up to today?” I ask, with a hug.
“I got to play in the sandpit and water today mummy!” This was the best thing in the nursery, apparently. “Wow! Did you get wet? Did you make sandcastles?”
“No. We have to wear an apron. We’re not allowed to get wet, silly!”
We walked home, the two of them chatting, bickering a bit and looking tired. They slept on the sofa for a while whilst I busied myself around the house.
By the time their dad gets here, they’re wide awake and full of chuckles. I ask how his day went and he then enquires about mine. Harry and Gabe stop what they’re doing. They look up at me. It has never occurred to them that I may do something when they’re away.
“Well,” I begin. “Once I’d dropped off these two little horrors I had barely enough time to finish my coffee before the helicopter arrived. Then it was off to Egypt.” My husband laughs. “It’s no joke love. I’m afraid the Great Pyramid has been raided again! They needed me to assess the damage and uncover any clues to the perpetrators. Of course it was The Black Sphinx.” Harry’s mouth is wide open.
“Him again?” my husband asks.
“Mmm, afraid so. Anyway, I’ve put them onto someone else who can help.”
“Couldn’t you help mummy?” Gabe asks.
“Not if I wanted to get back here in time to pick you two up!” Harry is trying to form a word with his mouth.
“Helicopter?” his mouth stays wide open.
“Oh, it was only work. Nothing for you to worry about sweetheart.”
As they wander together back into the living room, I hear Harrison say to Gabriel, “Do you think mum’s Lara Croft?”
That’s me, I think, as I sort through all the laundry I’ve managed to get done today. Lara Croft!
Waiting...
This is a ridiculous way to spend a Wednesday night. To be roaming the house at half one in the morning, like some bloody neurotic ghost. I have my Blackberry in my hand so I’ll at least feel the vibration, as my breathing will surely hide the beep, of an expected text from Harry. The wandering from bedroom to bathroom is a selfish attempt at trying to wake up my husband who manages to completely bypass parental anxiety. I wish I could do that you know. It was the same 18 years ago, when Harry was born. If I wasn’t lying there with our newborn son clamped to my breast, I was pacing the floor with him, refusing to sleep, on my shoulder.
*
Right, I’ll text him again. See where he is. He said that Rhys would be dropping him off at half one. That was ten, whole minutes ago. I’ve been peering out underneath the blackout blind too. The wind is fierce and the rain looks pretty unfriendly. At least he’s not walking home. I hate it when he does that. I can visualise the route he’ll take and I pepper it with lots of miscreants, back from a night out. In my head it’s like a scene from ‘Shaun Of The Dead’ (and he hasn’t got a pool cue). I’ve got a text back. He says, ‘On my way bak, was in discord, had no signal soz.’ Reassuring. Apart from his appalling text grammar, he’s also a solo user of the word ‘soz’, for sorry. He probably got that from me. Or maybe they all use it now! Retro phrases are always coming back into vogue. So, maybe someone else has his phone, pretending to be him. Not really likely, and, anyway, it doesn’t matter because in about ten or fifteen minutes I’ll hear Rhys’ van pull up, the heavy door slide open and then Harry’s foot steps on the gravel path.
*
It’s now forty minutes since he text me that he was on his way home. Something’s happened. I’m back out of bed, on the landing this time. My husband has started snoring. No, not snoring. It’s more a sort of blowing through his mouth, his lips are making a flapping noise. He’s oblivious to the torment I’m enduring. Old sod! No, it’s not his fault. He’s right and, I suppose, I know, deep down, that Harry will be perfectly fine, if a little drunk. I know he has to live and being out at clubs, with his mates, is part of that. But what if Rhys has had too much to drink? God, I’ll text him again. I’m sure he’s sitting in the back of Rhys’ van right now but I’ll double check. ‘Shit Harry. Where the fuck are you?’ Let him know I’m a bit pissed off. I get an immediate response,
‘Nearly home’. You see, I said so. I’m going to get myself a large gin and tonic now. I’ll be in the kitchen all nonchalant and cool.
*
I can smell cider on his breath but he isn’t drunk. He’s had a night of memories that are his. I no longer have the right to know them. I casually mention that it’s way past half one. He casually replies with, ‘Yeah, soz about that. Rhys left early.’ I look at him over the top of my glass, ‘So I walked home.’
Great. I didn’t worry nearly enough.
"Hush Yer Gums!"
If you saw her in the street, you’d hold your bag a little tighter. If she were at a table near you in a restaurant, you would probably ask to be moved. But if she chose you as her friend, your life would never be ordinary again. She is Gemma, and you have been warned.
All make-up and attitude, I met her in the classroom. She stood in the book corner, eyes burning into me. I fixed my gaze on the floor. It had been a good many years since I felt the judgemental stare of a teenage girl and I didn’t like it. I barely nodded as a way of introduction and I dare say I passed a critical stare of my own, once or twice. But as she sat with the children, squashed on a tiny chair, I was intrigued. She was, in appearance, everything I’d been told to be wary about; blonde straightened hair pulled harshly back into a skinny pony tail, lip curling when not talking and, of course, white combats with trainers. However, I rarely listen and so there was no wariness on my part, just curiosity. In fact, it was she who was wary of me.
Underneath the ridiculously hard shell, I immediately saw the vulnerability. Outwardly brash, Gemma refused to go into the staff room, preferring instead the exclusive company of just Sarah (the teacher) and me. She would present us with fresh Pain au Chocolates on a Wednesday morning, a present from her Nan, who always got loads but then couldn’t eat them because of her diabetes. We’d scoff them in class during break time, as she told us her alarming tales of weekend mishaps, family disagreements and past outrageousness. Slowly her self-esteem grew and as she looked to me for advice, so did mine. Which is odd, as I wasn’t aware mine needed to.
Seven years on and there still is a wonderful naivety to Gemma. I don’t think any amount of living could change that. She has found herself a decent man, putting an end to the disastrous run of luck she’d had previously and ending a rather wonderful string of tales, it has to be said. But despite my lack of material, I’m relieved. Someone else can worry about her now, although, ironically, she probably worries about me more.
Dear Me...
Look at you, with your long black hair,
Look at you, with your long black hair,
White streak down the right hand side.
Your kohl lined eyes matching your black lips and rosary beads,
Anything that helps you to hide.
I’m smiling as I see you, in your blue lace petticoat,
Your 16 hole Doctor Martin boots.
A pirate on the good ship ‘Adolescence’.
With your gang of 4 recruits.
I guess right now you’re missing Rob still.
I can remember the pain of the split.
But there’s a boy at college who fancies you,
And he has his own bed-sit…
I see you at The White Hart Inn,
Working the bar, a favourite with the men.
Open your eyes more. Notice the attention.
Make eye contact now and then!
Oh, and remember John, with the red hair,
Who you went out with last year?
He’ll take you skating and he’ll want to talk,
Listen, for Christ’s sake listen. He won’t always be here.
Finally, I feel I should tell you
That what your mother said,
About roll-ups and Guinness not being for a lady,
Drinking alone seeming unseemly,
Speaking your mind as being foolhardy
And dressing just so as being untidy…
Well, all I can say is you’re a long time dead!
You’re doing just fine,
So do what you do.
Live a little more,
Love from you xxx
Happy Birthday
"I miss you. Every day I miss you. Why is it, though, that on birthdays, my birthdays, I miss you more?" As I sit here, sobbing uncontrollably, I ponder this thought.
Each day, since May, 2001, I have felt a yearning for your presence soar.
Each day I have thought of you and your irrepressible grin.
But it is today, over ten years later that I find myself inconsolable.
Not since my 36th, the birthday that bought in
My ascension to second eldest, have I been so distraught.
I think it is cathartic. I'm told that it's the best thing.
But deep down I know that's bollocks, I 'm reacting to the thought
Of no party songs to sing.
From now on birthdays, for me, have to be big.
I do not see any other way to take the attention from you,
My beautiful boy.
You have my love,
Undying as it is,
But I'm taking back my birthday!
I shall celebrate it with a bang,
With a song and a whistle if I choose.
You will always be in my soul Ben.
Because you, I cannot bear to lose.
"I miss you. Every day I miss you. Why is it, though, that on birthdays, my birthdays, I miss you more?" As I sit here, sobbing uncontrollably, I ponder this thought.
Each day, since May, 2001, I have felt a yearning for your presence soar.
Each day I have thought of you and your irrepressible grin.
But it is today, over ten years later that I find myself inconsolable.
Not since my 36th, the birthday that bought in
My ascension to second eldest, have I been so distraught.
I think it is cathartic. I'm told that it's the best thing.
But deep down I know that's bollocks, I 'm reacting to the thought
Of no party songs to sing.
From now on birthdays, for me, have to be big.
I do not see any other way to take the attention from you,
My beautiful boy.
You have my love,
Undying as it is,
But I'm taking back my birthday!
I shall celebrate it with a bang,
With a song and a whistle if I choose.
You will always be in my soul Ben.
Because you, I cannot bear to lose.
Relationships
We sat, as a mixed bag of people, a mixing pot of age, gender and experience when somebody mentioned relationships. An uneasy silence descended as we each privately locked on to probably, the worst example of a relationship in our lives, realised that we could never talk about it and panicked. The men in the group muttered their dissent, leaving me with the general impression that the word ‘relationship’ wasn’t in their vocabulary. The gauntlet thrown, I picked it up. I spoke about a stereotypical mismatch in personalities between myself and the mother-in-law, which is akin to resorting to a dodgy Jim Davidson joke, I know, but I didn’t want to land anything too solemn in their laps. For although the word is there in my subconscious, the whole notion of relationships is as baffling to me as it is to the blokes.
I have tried to be like other women I know, forging girlie bonds, nights out, pamper evenings and all that but it isn’t me. I loathe the company of women in general and usually end up with one of their husbands, drinking ale in the kitchen and putting the world to rights. Which always seems to be enough to end the relationship between their wife and me. As I’ve got older though, I can tolerate these evenings if I have to and have learned to avoid the spouses and their alluring ale. However, all I have gained are many acquaintances but no real friends. At least whilst putting the world to rights I felt engaged and worthy, acquiring friends with similar opinions even if I couldn’t pop round to see them whenever. I’ve stopped bothering now, which is a shame as I was quite a late starter. In contrast, my family relationships have grown stronger. It took the tragic death of my brother mind you, but ‘every cloud…’ as they say.
 |
| Me, Bianca and Ben, Christmas 1975 |
Nuts In May
So, I'm the youngest of three and the only girl. What a place to be. My two older brothers had a gap between them of about a year and a half. I didn't show up for another five years. It's fair to say I was constantly hassling my mum for a younger sibling, playmate, wanting to emulate the relationship Nick and Ben had. Not to be, I'm afraid. It was just me and my teddy, Gladys.
My family isn't a really close one. We don't have cousins visiting regularly or aunties and uncles handing out money on our birthdays. We were largely forgotten by the relatives in Hampshire. Something, I think, my mum and dad had sought. Being the youngest and the only girl is a very privileged position. Nick and Ben both protected and educated me in a way that my peers just couldn't. Whilst they were listening to Duran, Duran and Culture Club, I was shouting to The Stranglers and Theatre of Hate. I had the freedom and confidence to wear whatever I wanted; I followed no one. Though, for the record, I did have an almighty crush on Adam Ant! I suppose what I'm saying is that although we were quite detached we were also quite reliant on the power of three. Strange, but looking back that is definitely how it seems to me now; each one of us had a strength. Nick was honest, loyal, uncompromising and a boy of few words. Ben was full of tales, open, eager to help and a boy who wore his heart on his sleeve. I was a bit of both. Seemingly aloof, emotionally buggered, obsessed with the English language and telling elaborate stories. There, the 'Power of Three'! Then one was taken away.
In 2001, on May Day, I was happily relaxing after a day of shifting gravel in the back garden. Kids in bed, mother-in-law sat watching telly whilst Nige and I cuddled up for the evening. Then the phone rang. Nige answered. A bit of time lapsed, I sensed something was amiss. Phones don't generally ring at half ten at night. I remember screaming as he told me what I really didn't want to hear. Ben was dead. He'd been testing a second-hand mower for a friend and. Well.
Norah was left babysitting and Nige got me into the car. I remember a dry mouth, no tears, numbness. We drove through Box and I can still see a family in their back garden, drinking wine, laughing and lighting candles. I really loathed them. To this day I glance at that house and feel a little remorse for my black thoughts that night. We went round the back of mum and dad's house. Dad was standing at the sink washing the pots. "Hello Lizzie." That was it. Simple as that. For a split second I thought Nige had got it wrong. One look at my dad told me he hadn't. So many tears. I can't remember my mum that night. It wasn't good, of course, which I think is why I have such a dim recollection. We drank, gin and tonics I believe. We tried to find Nick who was languishing at some festival in Leicester I think. And, more importantly, mum recounted my brother's death.
A beautiful, sunny day. Ben's mate, Richard, went to a charity auction where he bought a lawn mower. He took it to Ben's. Seb, Ben's son, was at the skate park with his mates so he started to prepare dinner, chatting and probably having a beer with Rich. At some point he offered to check Rich's new mower for him. Not bothering to put shoes on, he went up to the top of the garden. I'm not sure how the next bit went. I think he pulled the cable out from the mower, it was an older style one. Anyway, he was electrocuted and died before he hit the ground. Poor Rich. I can't imagine how he felt. Ambulances arrived but nothing could be done. Just like that. Gone. He was 36.
Nine years on and it's still difficult to comprehend. Every May Day I spare a thought. Every May Day I ring my mum. Every May Day I feel a bit nuts. There are little mile stones, some sad. The saddest one for me was when, on my 36th birthday, in 2005, I realised that I was no longer the youngest. Ben was. Always.
Life moves on. Time doesn't heal anything. Time just changes it a bit. You never heal, I think you just learn to live with it. You incorporate it into your life and in many ways it improves you. My relationship with Nick is different now, more open. We have taken on Ben's powers and although we are no longer The Power of Three, we are The Power of Two. And that is still quite a force to be reckoned with.
©Lisa Lee 2010
©Lisa Lee 2010
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