Dolls - Meet Janice

My lovely big doll, Janice lives in the attic. Propped up between an old filing cabinet and boxes of Christmas stuff, she manages to stay upright and fix her blue-eyed gaze through the Velux to the tops of the houses opposite, or the night sky. She is nearly sixty years old, in reasonably good shape and dressed smartly in a pale blue summer dress that used to be my daughter’s. Janice’s original dress of shiny white and royal blue has not survived the test of time.

She was given to me on my fifth birthday and we’ve always been together except for the time a few years ago when I lent her out to take part in a themed window display somewhere in Knott End.

We almost had a tragedy on Sunday. I carefully brought her down to the landing for a photo-shoot during which, our eldest grandson, being inquisitive, came looking for me. Of course, I had to introduce them to each other, grandson not quite sure if Janice, nearly the same height, was real or not, kept a safe distance. Seconds later, we took her downstairs to meet the others. I kept hold of her while our granddaughter and younger grandson looked at her. A few remarks from the so called adults of the family, like,

‘Oh that creepy doll, what’s she doing down here?’ As if she’d escaped the attic on her own.

 ‘That Janice, she’s so bleeping scary!’ There’s absolutely nothing scary about my Janice.

‘You always kept her at the end of my bed. She gave me bleeping nightmares.’ Huh? My daughter didn’t complain at the time and I’d say she comes across as a well-adjusted young mother.

I was trying not to laugh too much as I defended my beautiful doll. I explained that the poor thing has to live right upstairs in the attic room because someone who shall remain anonymous is easily spooked by her. Everyone knows who it is, so there’s much family laughter and witty banter going on when suddenly, as I altered the way I was holding Janice, both her arms dropped off and fell to the floor. What was happy laughter became an uproar, squeals, tears, aching sides and literally rolling on the floor. It was the funniest thing ever, just hilarious. The stuff that linked the arms together looked like perished rubber and it probably was. Luckily, she was soon mended with some elastic from my sewing cupboard and the expertise from ‘he who will not be spooked by a doll while he’s mending it’ who did a first class job and I am very grateful.

If our new neighbours think they’ve moved next door to a madhouse, I hope they know it’s a happy one and they are welcome to join in. Janice is back in the attic, until next time.

I found this poem by William Butler Yeats

The Dolls

A doll in the doll-maker's house
Looks at the cradle and bawls:
'That is an insult to us.’
But the oldest of all the dolls,
Who had seen, being kept for show,
Generations of his sort,
Out-screams the whole shelf: 'Although
There's not a man can report
Evil of this place,
The man and the woman bring
Hither, to our disgrace,
A noisy and filthy thing.’
Hearing him groan and stretch
The doll-maker's wife is aware
Her husband has heard the wretch,
And crouched by the arm of his chair,
She murmurs into his ear,
Head upon shoulder leant:
'My dear, my dear, O dear,
It was an accident.

W.B.Yeats  1865 - 1939

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Masonry - Let's go to Lancaster

There’s something special about Lancaster. When I think back to my early childhood, that’s where I am, in Williamson Park running down the hill by Ashton Memorial for my dad to catch me and swing me round. Sunday afternoons meant picnics in the surrounding areas, Glasson Dock, Crook o’ Lune, Littledale, Hornby and Ingleton, or a run out to Morecambe sands. Pubs had Sunday opening times in those days and were closed from lunchtime until evening, so it was family time with those who lived nearby. My auntie and uncle had a pub a short walk from ours, Nanna and Grandad had to drive as their pub was further away. We would all meet somewhere, usually with friends as well. It was the late 1950s and cars frequently broke down, though it might have just been us. Sometimes my afternoon would be spent playing in the sun with the ladies, enjoying the food and getting spoilt by my nan while the men twiddled under car bonnets or changed wheels. It always ended in a rush to get back for opening time. I started infant school there. My sister was born there. Then we moved again.

As an adult I became more familiar with the city. I had work connections and looked forward to my visits. It was sad that by this time, our pub had been demolished. That once fabulous building, half pub and half water board offices (It was either the water board or Ministry for Health) had been bulldozed out of the skyline and landscape, leaving just empty space. I liked to visit Lancaster’s historical places of interest, the castle, the priory, the Judge’s Lodgings and I was fascinated by tiny stone-built cottages hidden down old narrow lanes. I was interested in all the buildings, the architecture and the masonry.  I like the terraces of Georgian, Victorian and Edwardian houses. Down at the dockside of the River Lune, the empty, neglected warehouses of a bygone era still stand proud at the edge of the city. I hope they can be saved and used for something else. The Portland stone structure of The Ashton Memorial was and is my particular favourite, probably because it was such a focal point of my childhood. I look out for it every time I travel north on the M6 and feel comforted to see its light grey form and the verdigris of the copper dome standing majestically above the city.

We once took our children to visit Lancaster Castle. I pointed out the basic stone structure, the thickness of the walls, the steep spiral staircases and the slit-like windows for shooting arrows through. My enthusiasm for decorated masonry was greater than theirs, which was to be expected, but a good day was had by all.

Our son was about seven years old, and as we talked about buildings and construction, I asked him if he’d like to grow up to be the man who could build a wall or the man who passed the bricks to the man who could build a wall. Straight away he replied he would be the man who designed the wall. Stunned, I shut up.

Lancaster is a gem of a city. I’m overdue another visit.

 

My family photo from 20 years ago, at the Ashton Memorial.

 

 

I've chosen 'Lancaster Castle', a poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon.

Dark with age these towers look down
Over their once vassal town;
Warlike—yet long years have past
Since they look'd on slaughter last.

Never more will that dark wall
Echo with the trumpet's call,
When the Red Rose and the White
Call'd their warriors to the fight.

Never more the sounding yew,
Which the English archer drew,
Will decide a battle-day
Fast like its own shafts away.

Never more those halls will ring
With the ancient harper's string,
When the red wine pass'd along
With a shout and with a song.

Trumpet, harp, and good yew bow
Are so many memories now,
While the loom, the press, the gun,
Have another age begun.

Yet that old chivalric hour
Hath upon the present power
Changed—and soften'd and refined
It has left its best behind.

What may its bequeathings be?
Honour, song, and courtesy.
Like the spirit of its clay,
Yesterday redeems to-day.

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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