January 20, 2014

Success came so slowly

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Success came so slowly that by the time they were asking her questions, she had almost forgotten this was her, they were asking about. She had not yet grown accustomed to the wonderful – spectacular – tidings, interspersed with long, blank periods of silence and occasional emails bearing good news. “Your cheque is on the way, has been paid in, your release date is early next year…Welcome to our publicist.”

Because the silences in between were so deep, she began to doubt that her biggest dream had come true, that she had actually done the literary equivalent of winning the lottery. It took occasional reminders and statistics gleaned from dogged, faithful on-line friends and worthy “How To” articles, to reassure her that well now, writing was what she did, by all accounts, and that she had best find ways to carry on doing that. During the long gestation before her book would be born, whenever anyone needing anything did get in touch, asking for this or that, she had been used to doing everything, like, yesterday. Working for people who genuinely loved something she had made was a pleasure, and she waited eagerly for further instructions.

The hardest part was remembering her poverty. She had one good suit that she had bought for her wedding, now with one moth-hole (carefully darned) and there was a brace of shirts that she kept for special occasions and had never worn, hanging about waiting for the day she would have to be smartly turned out, carefree in cufflinks. Cufflinks for women were something new, though she had always envied those who could demonstrate so subtly their unsuitedness to domestic tasks. She had bought herself one pair, just to experiment with the ambition that said she, too, might one day leave aside the wet dishes and the soaking tubs, the water that would not now be allowed to catch her cuffs and creep annoyingly up to her elbows. It seemed that her wishes were coming true.

The excitement that others read into the print, she had expelled uneasily over many years. The writing was not the worst part, so that by the time they were enthusiastic, she had moved on to other things, and was able to smile convincingly, and give great answers. She was ahead of them in that, but when they were off zooming down the highway, she waited patiently.

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January 17, 2014

Esther – short story

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Esther – short story

“So, my dear, you want to stay, do you?” The unpleasant, oily tone said more than the words, and the sneer left no room for doubt. Esther Alambe was unwelcome.

“I have fled from my home because…” the woman’s words came slowly, one at a time. Not only was she unused to speaking the English she had learnt at school, but having a conversation, understanding what the man was saying, considering a reply, all took time. And there was the question of why. Why had she run away, concealing only her identity papers in her cleavage and disappearing into the night wearing her thin, evening clothes and light sandals?

“I was soon to be married and, well, in my culture, it is often that a woman is -” Unsure how to reveal what was so very private, she whispered to the woman sitting next to her “Do I have to tell him, now?” The quiet nod was enough, and Esther’s hopes sank, just when she needed her courage most. “In my village it is the custom to cut her before she is married!” She spoke more loudly than she intended, her cheeks flaring with embarrassment.

“All right, all right, no need to shout. Keep yer hair on. In your country…” there was a pause while the gentleman shuffled through a thin dossier that was at his right elbow. “In your country, it is illegal to cut a woman, according to your penal code. Is that not so?”

“I suppose it may be, but…”

“Well then, there was no reason to leave, was there?” The man shut the file and sat back, lacing his hands over his stomach.

“Yes, but you see, where I live, in my village, all the girls are cut before they marry. It is the custom and I cannot go against it. I am just a daughter. I saw what happened to my sisters. My two older sisters died soon after, from so much bleeding, there was so much blood on their clothes, on the bed. My uncle was negotiating for my marriage and the man who was to marry me was insisting that I should be cut, you see.”

“You could just have refused, or run away to the city?”

It seemed obvious when he spoke like that, so that Esther was silenced. She could feel the woman beside her urging her to speak, because silence now might be taken for agreement, and that might signal capitulation. But Esther looked at the man before her and understood. He was pale, too broad around the stomach. His legs looked thin and his hair was thin too, from lack of exercise, from sitting at the desk all day, shuffling papers to one side and then the other. Bizarrely, she felt sorry for him and for his glib cruelty, his deliberate unkindness. He did not want to understand, and everything she managed to tell him would be twisted around the wrong way.

But why, she wondered, why the hostility? What had she done to deserve such stupidity? Was it because she was a woman, a black woman? A black woman from Africa who did not have any rights? I do not fit here, she was thinking.

“They would have found me and taken me home again. If I had run away to Accra they would have found me, reported me missing or – something like that. Afterwards they would always be looking for me. In our families everyone can find out. It is the way.”

“Well, our way is a bit different, I think you will find.”

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, her questioner wanted Esther to leave. “Is there anything you would like to add to your statement before the end of our interview?”

“I miss my country and my family. I would not have fled at night unless I was very frightened. Cutting and bleeding and such pain would have brought only sorrow to me. But, in our culture, because I am a woman, whatever I could do would bring pain. It is the way.”

He eyed her speculatively, wondering what to say next. “Well, you see my dear, your country’s penal code makes it clear that cutting is illegal and anyone involved in it can expect to go to prison.” He spoke the last words with deliberate slowness. “We accept that your government has a policy against. So officially, there is little we can do, see? If the law was different, it would be easier…”

“But women live in the villages, with their fathers, husbands…even going to school is difficult. Unless our fathers protect us, we will be given in marriage….like cattle, she was thinking. “My father died.”

Esther sat back, exhausted with emotion and memories. “Have you seen a woman being cut?” she asked, unexpectedly impatient. “They tie a little girl to a table, or they hold her down, two up top and two below, so that she does not move. They take an old knife, and they cut away all her private parts. Just like that. No stopping for the screams, or mercy. She is stitched up with a needle and thread and wrapped and left to heal all alone. That is what they call “cutting”. Make it polite so that no-one knows what happens.” Esther’s eyes sparkled defiance as she waited for him to close the file. But he looked up, straight into her eyes, and she saw new respect. So, he was a bully, he liked women to talk back, eh? Esther was glad she had spoken out. “I hope you wrote that down, what I said?” she asked more politely. The woman clutching a shorthand notebook beside her nodded sharply, her mouth set in a grim line.

“I’ll defer a decision on your case. Meantime, see if you can rustle up some representation.”

Esther nodded. She saved the small, grim smile until her back was turned. She had not been cut. She had escaped. Now, for now, there was a small window of light, a breath of air she might breathe. Someday, she might be safe. It was a hope she held close to her heart.

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January 15, 2014

Feet First

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Feet First

I’ve just had a lovely visit from a friend, who was explaining that she recently visited a podiatrist. Ok, chiropodist. We were animatedly discussing how our feet, and the way we walk, affects our whole body, our calves, our back, our necks…which set me thinking about my routinely dreadful posture, my shambling and all the compromises I  muddle through. These days, I walk so seldom that I can feel my whole body stiffening up, in places I didn’t know could be stiff. So, just to keep me a bit flexible, I think I shall be going swimming more often. So far, this year, my resolution to swim every day – or, at least five times a week, timetables permitting – seems to be holding. Monday, Tuesday and today, three in a row.

Apparently, I have one leg which is an inch or so shorter than the other. That might make anyone lope a bit, I suppose. I use an elbow crutch outside to help with balance. I also wear a certain brand of shoes which make me wobble. But these shoes, which are expensive, top-of-the-range types, are so comfortable for my back, my hips and my knees (except when I wobble too far and fall, in which case, everything hurts) that I persist with them. My legs, feet and knees have endured years of unusual wear and tear, so these soft, sturdy shoes are valuable shock absorbers.

I was wondering what would happen if I telephoned the chiropodist and asked to make an appointment. Would she say there was nothing she could do to help me, that my problems were too complex? I suspect so, though I have rarely had the luxury of an independent or sympathetic assessment of my compromises. There is the chance that another, careful professional look-see would yield a handful of helpful answers, even if the outcome was a fresh list of problems that I might need to watch out for. I don’t mind being made aware, so long as I can keep my body active. On the other hand, I have sort of worked out what works and what causes real problems. I am also reluctant to tell the whole story, again, to yet another professional. Should I just phone up and see how far I get, or would a dignified silence be best? Only time will tell.

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January 13, 2014

Emotions all over the place

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Emotions all over the place

Suzie could see herself, snapping and snarling as she wiped the tiles behind the cooker, which streamed with steaming rivulets of water. The entire back wall had to be wiped down fast, her arms carefully navigating behind hot handles, sticky bottles of oil and damp teabag boxes containing unused chamomile infusion. She could hear herself getting angry, and wanting to stop, but why could Ali not see what needed done? Why was he leaving her to do all this now, while he tucked into steak pie? Why had he burnt the curly kale, left the potatoes to boil to mush? She had been gone only ten minutes.

Squeezing out the heavy, hot cloths, she abandoned her scrubbing, wiping and sniping, then sat reluctantly with a heavy thump and salvaged what she could of her own meal – charred kale, cooling potatoes and hummus – while her husband and daughter carefully finished their steak pie. Maxine slipped out of the door and Ali quietly waited for the storm to pass. Suzie had to decide what to do.

“I want you to -” she tried to explain, “And I get cross, because you never …”

Ali nodded, “Yes. That is true. I don’t”

“And you will always be just yourself, after all.”

“And I do love you.”

“I’m sorry I left the kitchen, but I thought you knew.”

“Knew what? You never said.”

“Not to burn the kale, to add water.” At this, she was hard pressed not to cry aloud, thinking that without her to tend to this kind of thing, her husband and daughter would live on pies and bacon and eggs. Her heart heaved with sorrow at the loss of veg. Without her there, he would manage meals in his own way, but would that include any green stuff? It was a worry, of sorts.

Then she recalled her sister, burning onions, and a small, wry, smile lifted her face.  Even the best cooks forget to tell each other, “The soup needs a stir in five minutes, I’m just out to the garden for a moment.” Even the best of intentions get caught up in conversations, as we stand with our backs to a pot bubbling up over the stove. Accidents happen when we have other things to do.

“I’ll tell you, next time I go out.”

“And I’ll try to watch more closely.”

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January 6, 2014

The Tortoise and the Hare

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The Tortoise and the Hare

Mme Hare has a lolloping stride that zigzags across the ground and back. She moves fast but cannot keep to a straight line. This is for distraction, naturally, to confuse predators who would like a tasty stew for lunch. Her speed is impressive, though it makes her short-sighted. She peers at what is close to, noticing burdock and dandelions, which she likes to snack on while snatching a rest. Round the next corner is a bend beyond her usual; and far above her head, the hills are a bluish blur.

Mr Tortoise would never be eaten, so he can afford to plod affably forward. One foot at a time, he moves placidly in a straight line. Indeed so peaceful is he, you might fall asleep if you were waiting for him to catch up with you.

Early bets were on Mme Hare to win the annual hedge chase. Always politely letting the ladies go first, the organisers were charmed by her sparkling energy and confident poise. Her eyes shone as she looked down on her challenger, Mr Tortoise, with his thickset body and legs close to the ground.

To a cheer from the assembled crowd, off they ran. Spectators thinned out further down the line, until it was just Hare, running thud, thud, thud, alone along the path. Despite catching a hind leg in a snare of bindweed, despite slipping into several holes, she built up a considerable lead. “Too easy” she thought. “I’ll just snatch a rest here, for a moment” and closed her eyes.

Mr Tortoise was far behind, but he kept a straighter line. Because his pace was constant and undemanding, he had lots of time to look around. Watching carefully farther down the track, he was able to avoid the snags and slips that had caught out Mme Hare, so that ever so calmly, he caught up with the lady, and was soon level pegging, then overtaking Mme as she slept. He was quiet too, and said not a word to anyone: not greeting the badger watching from his set, nor the blackbird carefully guarding his patch of green. Taking his time to look ahead and consider the easiest path, Mr Tortoise could see exactly where he might best cross the finishing line.

It was a raindrop that finally woke Mme Hare from her dreams of victory. The wind was up, ruffling through her fur and making her shiver. “Where am I?” she thought sleepily. “Ah, yes, the race. I had better get on, then…The race! Where is Mr Tortoise? Where is he?” She jumped clear in the air, and saw his careful shape just about to cross the line. Though she darted and ran as fast as she could, sleepiness held her back. She lost the race, and as Mr Tortoise was hoisted onto the shoulders of Mr Dog for a lap of victory, there was nothing Mme Hare could do except sit and watch.

Moral: Going slowly and taking the long view may seem uninteresting, but it is more likely to achieve the desired outcome.

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December 16, 2013

Precious

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Precious

Forty-six years old, I sat on the bus, on the seat over from a Japanese student, and watched. How did I know she was a student? She had that eager, industrious look, clean, new clothes, the uplifted face earnestly checking. She had her dark backpack, neatly pulled and knotted tight, buckled down and held under her arm. And she looked about nineteen, though her smooth skin and elegant lines would stay with her for decades. Her dark, shiny hair was loose, streaming smoothly over her shoulders and down her back. I remembered portraits of maidens, their heads uncovered.

The student had a palm pad that she glanced at, that she poked, looking for ideas, directions. Finding something, she turned it off and threw it carelessly into a net pocket at the front of her rucksack. It had no cover, and I feared the screen might get scratched or smashed, but she had no such apprehensions. I could see it was covered in smudges and finger marks, a much-used appliance.

Then she gently opened the top of her satchel and from its depths retrieved a cloth bag, also corded tight at the neck, from within which she retrieved a parcel in fabric folds. Slowly, she unwrapped a book, moving the page divider to read the words of her new purchase carefully. She was just at the start of a tome, something like “Sophie’s World” or “The English Patient”, I supposed. I didn’t catch the title, but from the reverent turning of the pages, I could tell that the girl loved her discoveries, inching her finger down each page as she read. She cherished her books, and treated this one with a thoughtfulness that would not have been amiss in a fifteenth century household.

I watched this sign of the generation gap, pleased that the girl loved books, puzzled that she should treat her electronic appliance so carelessly. I wondered what she could teach me, as she was learning to read English and navigate her way around a cold, foreign city.

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December 12, 2013

Knock her back

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Knock her back

It is a still, bright morning so I decide to get a quick breath of air before breakfast. As I carry more recycling outside to my box awaiting the kerbside collection, the air around me smells sweet and fresh. While negotiating our high front step and smiling into the low sun, I twist my knee rather painfully, which takes me by surprise. This seems to be a new problem. Waiting to admire the cool morning quietness, I tumble backwards and land with a squawk in the patch of tidied-for-winter dwarf primroses that our downstairs neighbour carefully plants each year to catch some warmth against the brick wall. I hope she does not see me and conclude I am being careless.

Later in the day, while I am getting out of my car in town, I trip over an ancient paving stone and fall again, this time grazing my forearm. If you care to look, you will notice that our forearms are not particularly well padded. But that pain is nothing compared to the sheer agony of the painful knock to my left hip which follows, an impact that goes right in to the bone but leaves no external marks, only, after a few days, spectacular bruising. That agony is so intense that, mute and praying, I am frozen into disbelief, waiting to regain my breath and some small enthusiasm for movement. I walk rather gingerly for a while afterwards.

Falling is fairly routine, especially outside on unfamiliar ground. I wonder if the damage inflicted by two sudden and unpredictable falls – sore feet, sore neck, aching joints and painful wrists – is a fair price for the freedom of getting out and about.

The new assessments for Personal Independence Payments (which replace DLA) measure our lives against a series of set questions, but, as with most tests based on a lengthy form and a cursory examination on the day, little account is taken of impacts which spread like spores through the body after the main event. If our able-bodied colleagues who examine us fell the way we do, they would be in hospital and would probably feel entitled to sue someone for compensation. We manage, just as we always have, and for our efforts and stoicism it seems that we are to be punished with questions asking whether we can sit, stand, walk twenty metres and so on – how little we can manage before we surrender the unequal struggle and sign ourselves up for twenty-four /seven incapacity.

The most frustrating things about disability are that it comes with extra pain, with extra humiliation and with extra costs, which we are less able to recoup by joining your average labour market. Of course, it is no longer politically correct to suggest that work place discrimination is a problem, but that doesn’t mean that a level playing field has magically appeared from the lumps and tussocks that constitute the average barriers to workplace employment. For now, though, it is these extra costs of disability that assessments should focus on, rather than the precise or exact nature of what we can and cannot do, which is difficult enough to articulate at the best of times.

It is a double loss that we, and many other marginalised groups, try so hard to be like other people and then find our efforts rewarded with misunderstandings, when what we would most value is a fair assessment of the costs of living near the margins. I don’t care if my neighbour has insomnia and three legs. I am not interested in whether one may be shorter than the other two. That sort of interest is mere prurience. But I would be interested if her three legs disadvantaged her in finding work and meant that walking took her twice as long as her two-legged contemporaries. The effect of disability on “normal” life is what matters, not the precise nature of our incapacities. These should remain a private matter for us to manage as best we can. The costs of these incapacities are the only legitimate concern of social welfare assessments.

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December 10, 2013

Telling the truth

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Telling the truth

People think I am very funny, because I tell the truth. “Oh, how drole, how very amusing!” they chortle, trying not to choke on their tea, their coffee or their biscuit crumbs. “However do you manage?” Well, it’s easy, really. I say what everyone is thinking. I blurt out the “one stupid question” that no-one else wants to ask, for fear of looking idiotic. All things considered, I have little to lose, so I think of truth telling as my party piece instead: my secret weapon.

It was dad who started me thinking about this. During a visit to him abroad, as he was happily relating tales of his adventures, he confessed that it could be very tricky using humour to brighten the mood at a dinner party. Humour, it turns out, is a remarkably local affair – I may understand irony, a family joke, but the neighbours will probably consider the same joke too forward and rather rude. What might be amusing to the French ambassador sitting on dad’s right, may deeply embarrass the Lithuanian consul seated on his left…difficulties with language and the communication of small subtleties can proliferate alarmingly.

“So, what do you do about that?” I asked, wonderingly.

“Well, you see, Frannie, it’s easy….” He turned to me with a twinkle in his eye… “I just tell a story against myself. It could be anything…I might have told the cook I wanted salad for supper, not salami; or I might have dropped my glass of wine at an evening function. Whatever it is, I just make it sound funny and everyone laughs. We are all very entertained if the joke is on me, and my problem is solved. No more international misunderstandings. Very important, you see….”

While I marvelled at my father’s dedication to his job, even to the extent of putting himself forward so that everyone might laugh at his antics, I have learned that gentle humour is indeed a wonderful way to disarm unkindness, to steal a small advantage or to entertain our friends. If we make ourselves look a bit daft, they feel more comfortable telling us about their mistakes too. “Do you know, that yesterday, in my haste to get ready, I put my spectacles in the towel cupboard? I had gone in there to get a bath towel and took off my glasses ….I couldn’t see to find them again of course, and it took twenty minutes of padding about before I remembered….”

In my experience this sort of story always makes us feel better than merely gossiping, or telling the truth the way we usually do, with an earnest expression which we hope will soften the blow. There are times when “painful” truths are best left alone. Who wants to cause of unhappiness? Not me.

It was my father I thought of, when I had the wonderful idea to take twenty years of hard knocks and turn them into funny stories. At last, I realised, I could gleam something worthwhile from what I used to think of as my wasted years, by telling the truth and laughing about it. Hooray!

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December 5, 2013

A mobile phone and an angel

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A mobile phone and an angel

I had a mobile phone for about three weeks and lost it. My latest theory is that it has been eaten. The bottom drawer of the chest of drawers in our bedroom is the prime suspect, but I have been unable to persuade it to disgorge its treasure, and I don’t really care enough to fork out for a replacement: having to remember where it was all the time became irksome, and I felt my world shrink rather than expand as my whole attention became channelled through the annoyingly small buttons, the ? texts and voicemails. Goodness knows what would happen if I had one of those palmtop, blackberry Ipad things. My obsessions would rule me. I take great pleasure in advising the kindly newsagent that “No, I don’t need a top-up, thank you. I don’t have a mobile phone.” He smiles and agrees, “That must be a relief”. It is.

A couple of days ago, I realised that my daughter’s mobile phone was lost. We looked for it everywhere, in the process clearing out our entire home and having a painless tidy up. Seline was even to be seen on the back lawn, searching over the grass and round the block for it. No joy. The small hand-held device on which she plays games and texts her friends was no-where to be found. I was unsure whether to be sad, or grateful that we didn’t discover it soaked and short circuited, or shattered beyond recognition under the wheels of a car. In any case I suggested that she ask her angels to help her find it. She rolled her eyes and carried on searching, pulling out her bed to look beneath it.

Unaccountably cheerful, I thought about it, and asked God to send me Seline’s phone. Recovering it would not only save about fifty pounds but also a journey into the centre of town and a confusing choice of several shops (“outlets” they call them these days) peopled by youthful assistants who talk very fast and don’t understand that I don’t understand what they are saying.

Having been woken early by a particularly enthusiastic blackbird, I drank the cup of barley coffee that my husband brought me. While I was sipping it gratefully, my daughter popped her head round the door, and asked, “Why do I have to have a bun (which I had lovingly filled with ham) for lunch?” So I offered to eat that for her while she made herself a “proper sandwich”. Wolfing down the delicious bun was no sacrifice for me, and completed breakfast in bed very nicely, thank you. I then waited for the family to depart before sinking gratefully under the sheets and going back to sleep. I am not sure why the prospect of holidays is so exhausting, but that is my excuse.

I was woken by the phone ringing loudly next to the bed. I prefer my old-fashioned, heavy appliance, which is reliably solid and stays where it is put. It is easy to dial telephone numbers on, too, which is helpful: they seem to get longer all the time. At the end of the line was the efficient voice of a woman PC advising me that a mobile phone had been handed in, if I would like to go and collect it? Yes, certainly, I croaked. I upped and dressed and had my second breakfast quickly, before setting off.

After taking a wrong turn, I arrived at police HQ and showed my ID. The desk staff checked some details – whose name was on the phone? Yes, my sister with the unusual name, Seline’s aunty was there. Within half an hour I was home again. It never occurred to me to ask how they knew to contact us, or to enquire who had handed it in, so that I might thank them. Their thoughtfulness was the answer to my prayers and will make my daughter smile this afternoon.

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December 4, 2013

Welcome to my blog

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Welcome to my blog

A new day, a new post, but what qualifies me to write it? What particular something do I invite you to share with me today? Good question. I am a wife, and the delighted mother of a daughter with an insatiable fondness for her new i-pad. We all live in a light and airy apartment. Sometimes I wish we had an extra room which my husband and I could use as an office, instead of doing all our work in the living room which doubles as a play room, competing with the television or Jessie J singing her heart out. I love JJ, but sometimes, a bit of peace and quiet is as welcome. I have not yet mastered the art of working with earphones. I like to feel connected to the world.

But I digress. If I told you that Spirit invites me to write and patiently waits for me to pluck up the courage, you would probably not believe me, so I shall offer some background to explain a little about why I write. My earlier life as an employee was a highbrow version of hell, so I left that to burn without my help and moved gratefully back into the cool shadows of full-time domesticity. Wifedom is rather interesting: it provokes continual challenges, which I like to think of as “opportunities for growth and maturing”. So does motherhood, though the kind of challenges we are all thinking about – nurture, social diarist and all round fixer – seem to be getting easier as I get older. Has anyone suggested to you that growing old is a pleasure? Well, I think it is the best kept secret in the entire universe, but that is another story. I have digressed again.

I wrote a book and posted a very immature draft of it on a writers’ social network. It did rather well, so I thought, “maybe I can write after all”. Now, I have a wonderful literary agent who clearly agrees, and my book is due to be published in March next year. I still feel as if I am dreaming. I have to pinch myself every day. I’m a bit cautious, too, wondering if she might phone me up and say, “Actually, I was just having a laugh. It has been great knowing you….”

I am not used to wonderful things happening to me, you see. Apart from the love of an ideal man, my darling daughter and a handful of generous friends whose thoughtfulness regularly makes me cry, my life has been a hard walk, up until now. I made it that way, although it was not all my fault. For example, after ten years off the road, I have recently leased a brand new car through “Motability” and my life has been transformed because I don’t have to drag myself everywhere on the bus or shell out for expensive taxis. Because of the recent changes in the welfare system, I face the possibility of my freedom being taken away….what will that do to my life? And how will the government redeploy tens of thousands of second-hand cars, most of them adapted for disabled driving? Having a car opens up the world to me in ways that I never dreamed were possible. I qualify to receive a car because I have cerebral palsy.

But I digress. Or maybe that is the point. The way I see life is often not the way you will see it. There are issues here that could be explored. And, if the government wants to take my car away and send it to a car auction, I had better make a living and think about getting a replacement. Nowadays, a life without wheels feels about as lonely and impossible as a life without legs. I have legs, but they don’t do what I would like them to. And though getting older does not inevitably mean a slide into arthritic decrepitude, there are times when the sheer number of potential hazards and compromises, the quantity and variety of pains and accidents I might one day endure, feels overwhelming.

At the age of forty-eight, I am just beginning to understand fully, how wonderful life can be, when we let it be. That is what I want to share with you, so that together, we can confound the expectation that growing older means social isolation, invisibility and pain. I want us to feel optimistic, to feel joyful about growing older. I hope you agree with me about that.

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