Fran Macilvey's Blog, page 62

Telling Stories

Are memoirists selfish? Occasionally, after reading “Trapped: My Life With Cerebral Palsy” a reader may comment with a wistful sigh, that they don’t get to discover much about the other members of my family. Do they gaze quizzically into the middle distance and suppose they are dealing with a narcissist? Self-obsessed at least….the reflection may leave them wondering…

Memoirists don’t even have to claim to be accurate, for goodness’ sake! They can just bring a whole pile of memories to the table, and, so long as they are “what I experienced” they are allowed their own creative licence. No poring over volumes in the dusty halls of academe, no flights to far-flung Istanbul to track down long-lost relatives whom you recognise vaguely, but can scarcely speak to, as they stand before you patting your hand and remembering the way it used to be, before your grandmother left home….

There are indeed many other stories wrapped in with a memoir, waiting to be told. But the subject of a memoir has to wade into the past gently, finding a way through which leaves the bulk of other people’s recollections untouched, while benefiting from them enough to provide context, depth and explanations. I have no right to tell the story of anyone else’s life, and so I must leave other people’s life strands almost entire and alone, respecting the privacy of their memories, trials and tribulations and not using or abusing them to gain extra attention.

Deciding what to write about, and what to omit, has become, for me at least, an exercise in honest self-control; and if I aim for that, I will probably not go too far wrong. That is what I have always tried to do, at any rate, so that if anyone has an objection, I can at least be clear that I was doing my best to recount my story in my own way, with no other objective than to finally tell my truth. Not a bad aspiration, actually, for a day’s work.

Lopsided

Okay…so now to put on shoes.  Gingerly, she dried her toes, being careful not to let the towel flop into the sopping puddle beneath the bench.  Though she instinctively tilted to the other direction, it was important to remember to put her right sock and shoe on first, so that the broader, flatter foot could then support the weight of her left leg lifted over her right knee to put on her left sock and shoe. Done the other way, her left foot bent uncomfortably outwards, trying to support the weight of her right leg as she lifted it over her opposing knee. That caused warping and damage of all the wrong sorts, so it was important to remember the right order of things.

Collecting her towel, costume, shampoo bottle and comb, she was grateful that she travelled light. Given her body’s lurch, could she pass through that gap? Would the floor be slippery? Was she risking a drop into the pool? Only one way to find out – “Excuse me!”  All right this time.

Passing through the swing doors, she balanced carefully so that the door weight would help rather than hinder, and carefully negotiated the stairs down. It looked easy enough, because she had been coming to this pool for almost forty years, but, put her at another poolside, and the vista became more frightening, less certain. She had patterns, places she went and could visit, because they were familiar. Remove that relaxing element of knowing what came next, and she floundered. It all became a bit predictable after a while though. She did long to go somewhere different.

People are not symmetrical, naturally, and there is no harm in that. Mostly, our hips and backs are able to compensate for minor differences, such as one leg slightly longer than its neighbour, or a slightly off-kilter spine. But put the whole mishmash together, and some days, she just wanted to dissolve into the water, so fed up was she with her short-sighted, just about can’t quite get it life. This morning at the pool, for instance, putting on her top and jacket, she leaned against the wall of the cubicle and tears just sprang up and kept coming. She was grateful for poolside noises echoing, which disguised her gulping sniffs. The yearning for release was so intense that she could hardly see her way to leave, to walk down the steps and out the door. But no-one commented as she reached the car, sank into her seat and wept shamefacedly, until she forced herself to stop. Got to go. Lopsided or no, must get on.

The Way We Work Now

Alice was in a bad mood. Perched angrily on her ergonomic stool at her work station in the basement, she seemed to stay with these moods more often, increasingly impatient. Defiantly, she remembered a time when people worked together in teams, throwing questions to each other, making progress with thorny dilemmas in cheerful company.

In the days of plenty, there had also been colleagues to help make the tea, to tidy the desks and do the filing. There had been older gents and genial ladies only too willing to share their hard-won knowledge of the way the world worked; to point out pitfalls and advise on a solution that they were delighted to have discovered by accident: “Why, just phone him up and ask, dear. He is a nice bloke, really. I daresay a lot of people feel intimidated by him, but there is nothing he likes more than someone seeking his advice on something abstruse.”

She had preferred it, when people had had the time to use words like abstruse. Now it was all pixels, hard-drive, software, configurations and apps. Now it was all supposed to be so easy, you could simply do everything yourself, see? You don’t need a secretary these days, or a typist, you can just do that typing on your own dedicated PC. You don’t even need to print letters, or spend time on the phone, you can just email round, with attachments, or use your drop-box or intranet, and set it all up remotely. So quick, so easy. So much fun.

Not. The group emails from all the staff, advising on badly parked cars, on new timetables or rosters for the staff cover, or reprimanding the junior staff for rowdy conduct in the staffroom…the endless directives from management about productivity, filing and time management….the isolation of being responsible for drafting and sending correspondence with only a computerised task manager for company….

Alice, being the wrong side of fifty, was a telephone person, but rarely got the opportunity to speak now. Surprisingly few people telephoned, preferring texting…. without the delicate nuances of voice exchanges, alarming misunderstandings blew up out of nowhere, scattering sand all over her nicely soothed relationships. When the management abolished the tea trolley and the tea break, relationships that had been finessed with office chat became strained and unreliable. That ended up costing a lot, in wasted time, in extra meetings, disciplinary hearings and time off with stress.

Alice watched. She noticed what good working relationships were about: intangibles like loyalty, fair play, communication, give-and-take. Since none of these could be measured, computed or assessed for efficiency, the boys on the other side of the glass ceiling ignored them. Soon, all that thrusting aggression would implode.

For the moment, she waited, aware that her retirement was fast approaching, a release which would take her out into the sunshine. Summer beckoned, and she would leave this darkness behind.

Sandy

Sandy Burgiss had finished his breakfast. Letting out a contented sigh, he cracked through the bottom of the empty egg shell using a small, bone spoon, which, he remembered fondly, he had inherited from his mother. Folding up the morning paper, he abruptly pushed back the dining seat and left the room. As he closed the door, he flicked a switch in the hall, turning off the light which hung low over the dining table. It had been a dull, early spring morning, though the passage of thirty minutes accustomed eyes to the gloom. In any case, he had finished his breakfast, so leaving the light on was wasteful.

 

His wife ate the rest of her breakfast in the flitting darkness.

 

Sandy went through to the living-room to make a start on the crossword. When that was finished, and if he felt like it, he would shave, though there was scarcely any need to do that these days; He didn’t welcome visitors and none were expected anyway – he had retired many years ago, and he liked his privacy.

 

His wife cleared the dining room, washed the dishes, and set the table for lunch. She enjoyed company, which would have made the numbing domesticity which fell to her lot, less difficult to bear. She missed the chatter of the old days, when she had been a teacher and, before that, the eldest of a family of ten children. They had lived in a small house, all twelve of them – never a dull moment!

And then she had married Sandy, who had been so clever and charming and very easy to speak to. Of course, in those days a man’s word was law, especially in the home. Slowly, a pall of respectable silence had descended. Oh! For a bit of noise! But Ella was frightened of disapproval, and being schooled in the old ways, kept her peace.

 

The only time there was any change, was when little Peter came to stay. Suddenly, their respectability was shattered, in a hail of questions and curiosity. “Why? Gramps…why do we do it like this?” and he would heave himself carelessly over the old man’s lap, while Sandy chuckled, “steady on there, boy…!” Peter would clamber over the furniture, leave sticky finger prints across the windows and drop chocolate biscuit crumbs on the floor – trailing them right through the house! Ella was delighted, but mystified. She would laugh over the painted pictures which left careless smears of red. She adored baking with Peter because he always joined in the game with glee, stirring up the flour into great clouds.

 

On one of these days, they were having an early tea, with egg and cress and salmon sandwiches. Peter and Ella had baked scones, which sat in proud splodges on a plate before them. Ella remarked in passing that she was so happy. Sandy glanced up from his plate and smiled a rare smile, like a shot of sunlight. “Yes, my dear, I can see that. Peter is such a pleasure to have around, aren’t you, my boy!” And Peter, with a great big grin answered, “Love you too, Grampa!”

Anything for a blue badge

Now the Local Council had got in on the act, sending her a forty page form to renew her blue badge.  She sighed.  Such bureaucratic heavy handedness used to be reserved for the alphabet people, the DLA, PIP, WTC, HMRC, TLA agencies.  But now, even the suits in the downtown offices seemed to approach parked cars with a cudgel.  Since when had parking become so contentious?

Yes, she qualified for a DLA exemption, and here was a copy of her current letter of award.

Yes, she had a disability, although when asked to indicate its precise nature and extent within the boundaries of the small box provided, she was unable, sorry, to provide the entire requisite details.

Yes, she had always had a disability, still had it and always would have, God save her soul from its crushing drudgery.  She would have loved to lose it, say, or leave it behind unclaimed at a lost property somewhere, but no.  Perhaps it would be fairer to indicate how, in her own words, her disability had had her.

No, her disability was not progressive, but Yes, its effects did vary though again, she was unable to indicate the full nature and extent of its variableness even within the box outlined or on the extra space provided overleaf.  How does one articulate loss, sorrow, heaviness, isolation, poverty, pain, humiliation and sheer boredom?  She did her best, indicating that there were days she didn’t feel like getting out of bed, but she had to, nonetheless; that there were times when she had to crawl, because walking was impossible.  That the wind and rain often put paid to her plans for some fresh air.  That the complexities of driving into town were only made possible because she knew a place to park nearby.

She filled in the form, doing her best to suppress mounting irritation.  She posted it off and within a few weeks her new badge came, all shiny and laminated, and with a picture of her unhappy visage on the back.  It was a valuable, vital piece of kit for travel into town, her badge of freedom.  Such a pity that she had to reveal so many personal details in order to get it.

Bella

Bella was beautiful. Too beautiful for her own good, the people said. She had clear, bright blue eyes framed in an oval face, flawless pale skin and auburn hair which wound in a thick coil at the back of her neck. She was tall, statuesque and charming. Light footed and cheerful, she sang wherever she walked – in my view, her detractors were simply envious!

 

She could have married any man in town, so it came as a surprise when she took to David McIntosh, the youngest of four boys, from a shabby family living in a shabby house outside town. Mind you, they were very hard workers, but wee Davie would have his days cut out, finding and keeping a home fit for his Bella. There was general sneering behind hands and much gentle mockery when she swore she loved him, and she would prove them all wrong. Very soon there was a babe in arms, and another one on the way. Bella began to miss the parties, and the company of her school friends. They weren’t thinking about babies – not yet!

 

The unthinkable happened. Bella left Davie and her three small girls. She left a note to say she was sorry, she still loved them all, but she needed to be alone for a while. Well! The gossips had a field day! Each story was an embellishment of the last, until you could have sworn that Bella had abducted by aliens. Meanwhile Davie put on a brave face and brought up his three daughters with the help of his family, while working. He was a slightly built man, and I swear, the strain of it nearly killed him.

About eighteen months later he got a letter from a solicitor saying that Bella wanted half of everything – the house, the bank account. There wasn’t much, but Davie did his best to split into equal shares. He and his girls moved back in with his folks for a while, and rented out the house. This did not go down well with his mother. There was hell to pay.

 

Through it all, Davie was bringing up his daughters as best he could, telling them stories and tucking them in at night. He always spoke fondly of their mother, making sure that the children remembered her. He never gave up hope that one day, she would come home. Most folk looked on grimly, whispered “I told you so” to each other, and lent a hand now and then.

 

One evening - it must have been years later because I mind that the eldest Ellen, had just left the junior school - six o’clock, who should come walking down the street? You would hardly recognise her. She was thin as a rake. Her hair had been cut very badly short and her face was a mess. She struggled to keep standing, but there was no mistaking Bella. Davie was in the kitchen making the supper as one of the daughters answered the door. When “this woman” said she was their mother, the girl shut the door and tried to lock it. “Dad! She says she’s our Mum!” She left her standing on the doorstep. I didn’t feel sorry for her then, because I know that Davie still loved Bella.

 

He told me afterwards, he pushed past the girls and took the woman into the kitchen. He set an extra plate at the table and they all ate supper together. Bella slept on the sofa until after the girls were all at school the next day. She had obviously been living rough. She said she was sorry, she never realised until it was too late, how lucky she was, how much he had loved her. She swore she loved him, wanted nothing more than to stay, but would understand if he didn’t want her back. They talked for ages, until it was agreed that Bella could stay. I don’t think Davie would have let her out of his sight, actually, but he had to be sure that Bella would not leave again. The girls were really upset by the whole thing and thought he was just asking for trouble.

 

Davie is happy, though. You can see it in the way his face gleams. He has grown about three inches and seems to jog, rather than walk these days. I think they will make it. I hope they do.

Stereotypes

I stand corrected. And mute. And grateful. At my husband’s church, I have been reminded that stereotypes are unacceptable: gently, kindly and without the slightest hint of rancour.

Getting carried away with the joy of all Easter egg hunts and too much sweet chocolate, I had just blurted out, “Let him be, he’s just getting it out of his system, just like all boys…”

In reply to the mild rebuke, not entirely seriously, I resorted to that age old defence, “What about testosterone?”

But that is no answer, and never has been. Strange, that I should need reminding, that stereotypes don’t bear in them any grain of truth – they merely allow us to continue with lazy thinking, with “them and us” mentality. As soon as we resort to generalisations, we forget to see the individual smile, or to remark on its particular meaning.

You would think that I would know that. I have spent years defending my particular capabilities and weaknesses against the ravages of careless stereotypes, the casually flung cruelties, “Oh, I thought all spastics, were, you know……” and even against the assumptions that I must feel differently, have a particular point of view, a special take on something, or a particular weakness. Well, no, I just want to be treated like the rest of common humanity.

Like everyone else, I have my failings, even, those you might not expect to see. If that small exchange has taught me anything, perhaps it is that we learn constantly. In each particular moment, it becomes a discipline to consider what we mean and what we say.

Writing excuses my more clumsy verbal mistakes. But I cannot hide forever. If I wish to be taken up, as the rest of humanity is, then I must train my words and actions to be more careful, more considered. I cannot expect to be excused, merely because my frailties are conspicuous. We all have frailties to contend with. I have much to learn, in realising that while you manage to deal gracefully with life, I am still learning to do so.

I am grateful for the reminder.

Forty Years of Finger Food

She started out with lovely hands, just like those of her sisters and friends. Then fear came knocking; and cheerful certainties were replaced with doubt. Her heart wavered, and the pulling started. The assaults crept up, vicious and swiping, creating bloody pain. Though her skin crept bravely back again and again, and relentlessly hopeful sinews showed her a better way, fearfully she attacked, each time swearing it was finished and each time returning to stare balefully at the scene of devastation. Her sister wept unseen, for such frantic sorrow and ugliness.

She learned to sit with her hands folded in, the thumbs covered, to hide ridges of crenelated repulsion, spirals witnessing to her despair. And always, hope reached and grew out again, as her father whispered rebukes or blustered about the state of her.

“What you are seeking is stillness,” said a new friend, who knew: Self-expression allowing smiles to remain open; courage to sing a few wrong notes and stay serene; not swoop to self-hatred for her frailties, but, to do as another reminded her gently,

May you love yourself completely, and with great kindness, just as you are now, no matter what happens… offering a meditation which is intended to be repeated, until it is believed. Such generous permissions as these, over time extended hope like a new hand, setting her free and renewed, to explore the reality of forgiveness and fresh release. Thus, true silence began and held, gently and then firmly.

Wisdom, so clear and obvious, finally showed her how to be still, how to wait patiently, and with hope. While waiting, her skin knitted quietly and her hands grew peaceful.

Old Photographs

Cindy had a box of photographs which she kept in a shoe box, in the bottom drawer of her bedroom chest. There was stuff in there from 1967, old grainy black and whites with sepia faces grinning; her unsure mother standing protectively at the edge of groupings, herself looking absurdly young, trying to smile while dandling infant on hip and reprimand overactive eldest child: now she noticed adult uncertainty in clinging hands. Back then, Mum was amazing, and these photos had confirmed it, every time. Good looking, chic, just so talented.

Every year, whenever Cindy got the urge, she would rifle through her collection and discard a few more. There were plenty, but the charm of spindly, out-of-focus gazelles had waned with the passage of her own years into middle age. It was all such a long time ago, and now that Cindy knew more about her parents, real people with thorny dilemmas and deep unhappiness, did she enjoy recalling her memories of the past? Not so much. The truth, she had divined over many years of reading between the lines, was that adulthood, for two young people who had no chances to live together, experiment or decide to change their minds, was fraught with misunderstandings and misdirected zeal. The truth was like sand in our shoes, like midge bites and misapplied makeup. And that truth had been hidden, carefully sanitised and allowed to drop out of sight.

Old photos made Cindy sad. In any case, the black-and-white nostalgia of the past felt so misapplied, it didn’t fit any more. There was no reason to dwell in that sepia-toned unreality, when the present was so full of joy. There was every reason to feel energised, now that her days had opened out to reveal new colours and bright energy. She understood it was healthy to let the past go, and with it, the sad memories that lay buried behind the straight smiles.

Sounding Plausible

It was in her training, the way she had been thought to consider and reason. It was in the daily round of telephone calls and interviews, people asking questions and expecting her to know the answers. It was in her genetics, and in the diplomatic pedantry that her father taught her.

“Father, why are you wearing green wellington boots?” “Well, now, lieveke, that depends on whether you would like to hear the practical reason, the medical reason, the environmental reason, the aesthetic, the pragmatic or the spiritual reason…”

“Just why?”

“Well, you see, my other shoes, the only ones I brought with me are not practical for wandering around garden centres…these boots are also more comfortable, since my toes are aching, and they are waterproof, which is useful on a day like today. I do not want to spoil the leather on my shoes. Also, since I forgot to bring my polishing set, and we are going to Tante Mieke’s funeral, I shall need to keep my shoes clean.” He smiled archly, enjoying the verbal game.

So, it was her habit, when making polite conversation, to attempt answers to most questions. When a guest at her sister’s “House cooling” party asked, “Why is the Earth round?” she answered easily, “Because round is the optimal shape. Leave a bunch of elements suspended in air, and they will naturally pull together in a round shape.”

He nodded agreeably, and then, fixing her with a stare, challenged, “Is that true?” to which the only honest reply was, “I’ve no idea, but it sounds good, doesn’t it?” so that he gave a grudging nod. She was not dishonest, since she would readily admit she was simply playing with ideas; but, ever and always in her professional career, she had made a living out of sounding plausible.