Letters were my world for a while in my mid-teens. I was
horrified to learn that we had to move and to Cheshire of all places. It didn’t
make sense. There we were, all happy living in Dad’s dream come true, a pub on
Blackpool prom, when out of the blue his services were required elsewhere and
we all had to go. My reaction was outbursts
of tears, tantrums, slamming doors, and refusing to leave my friends and my school.
I begged and pleaded with him to speak
to the brewery, the man at the top, whatever his name was, and get the stupid
idea stopped. His expertise was needed in Cheshire, but we might come back,
eventually. I tried another tack. The move would disrupt my schooling. We were
halfway through the fourth year, preparing for my ‘O’ levels, I needed to stay
put, so I would move in with my best friend. This was the best idea I’d ever
had in my life, at this point. It was perfect. We could carry on going ice-skating
together on beat nights and youth club on Fridays and I would continue to study
hard, her mother would make sure of it. No. It wasn’t happening. My world came
crashing down and I, with loud protests declaring complete hate for Cheshire
and all who had brought his about, had no choice but to pack my belongings
ready for the move. It was March. I was streaming with a heavy cold, as if the
ordeal wasn’t miserable enough. We stopped for a meal on the M6 at Knutsford
services and I tearfully called my friend from a payphone.
It had been decided that we would write to
each other, often, and we did. Letters went backwards and forwards between
Blackpool and the place in Cheshire from myself and four others on a regular
basis. Turquoise ink on bright orange, pink or lime green paper, such was the
fashion. We used fountain pens and recorded our daily lives, news from school,
family news, gossip about who’s in trouble for what. We wrote about our
favourite music, pop stars, television, fashion and everything that filled our
lives. The letters were my lifeline into the world I’d been forced to leave
behind. They were so much more than just friends keeping in touch. I didn’t
settle in our new place. I didn’t fit in at school, where everyone was ‘mod’
and into soul music, Ben Sherman shirts and two-tone fabric skirts. I was all
prog rock, jeans, lacy blouses and beads. My family moved back to Blackpool
after a few months. Nothing to do with me being rebellious, I promise. Dad had done
whatever needed doing and the family could settle back into normality. I kept
the letters for years after that and how I wish I still had them now. What an
illustration of the lives of our mix of teenage girls in 1971, our opinions,
worries, our hopes. We all went separate ways as we grew up and two of those
friends have now passed away. I remember them all with fondness. Our letters
kept us together when I was absent and to be included at that time meant a
great deal to me.
As for Cheshire, I have returned to the town and the pub as
an adult. It’s very nice, no teenage angst.
In later years, I was staying with my family in Virginia and
loved to receive letters from my father. His beautiful handwriting on thin, air
mail paper brought me news from home. And later still, when he was in the USA
and I was here, our pale blue letters to each other flew the Atlantic on a
weekly basis. I’ve kept all those.
I found this poem by Hugh McMillan
Here
is a letter
come
across the ocean
over
the back of a world
curved
like a whale.
I
unwrap it, like tissue,
and
sentences spill out,
as
though the seal on a jar has broken,
coils
of cornflower blue
on
paper thin as shell.
I
saw a sailor’s valentine once
in
a museum in Nantucket Sound,
a
mosaic of broken scallop
glued
in a compass rose.
‘Writ
from the heart’ it said.
Words
come best like that:
in
ink or blood,
when
the source is from a major vein.
I
read, and understand this much:
if
ink sees off time and miles, then so must love.
Hugh McMillan
Thanks for reading, Pam x
1 comments:
Damned good poem
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