What the Butler Saw - A 'Y' Shaped Coffin

When I was a child I remember my father having a novelty pen. From behind clear plastic, a picture of a young, attractive lady smiled. She was fully clothed, but a twist of the pen and she was just in a bathing suit. The pen would have been quite a popular thing at the time. Blackpool promenade gift shops would have been full of them – perhaps they still are, I wouldn’t know, but I hope not. At the time, early to mid ‘60s, they were harmless fun and not intended to degrade women any more than ‘What the Butler Saw’ machines in the amusement arcades or live striptease shows. Dad always told me that she, the model in the pen, wasn’t a patch on my beautiful mother. And of course, she wasn’t. Nobody was.

I laughed at something being hilariously funny before I was old enough to understand what it was really about and got seriously told off by my mother who was horrified at my amusement. I ended up in tears. I hated being trouble and I didn’t know why she was so cross with me. It was to do with a woman being born with her legs apart and would need a ‘Y’ shaped coffin when she died. I know now that what I probably overheard was likely to be something to do with Joe Orton’s play ‘What the Butler Saw’ which was new and considered risqué, though I didn’t know anything about that at the time. I was thirteen and a naïve thirteen by modern day standards. My mirth was completely innocent. Had I known then what I know now, I certainly wouldn’t have shared it with my mother. This was the lady who wouldn’t let me watch ‘A Taste of Honey’ on television, around the same time, I think. I’d just got into it when she shooed me off to bed. She went downstairs to help in our pub and I crept back to our lounge, watching the film from the doorway but listening for her coming back. At the time, things in ‘A Taste of Honey’ went way over my head, probably the things my mother wanted to shield me from. During the last fifty-odd years, I’ve seen the film many times, I have the DVD and I’ve read the play. Shelagh Delaney, pure perfection.

The ‘Y’ shaped coffin comes from a famous quote from Joe Orton’s ‘What the Butler Saw’. When I was old enough to understand why my mother must have been so mad at me, she was no longer there, I couldn’t explain. She passed away later that year and I had to grow up without her and learn to steer myself through the abyss of life. I hope she wouldn’t be too dismayed at what I’ve read, studied, written and achieved.

At the age of thirteen, the names Shelagh Delaney and Joe Orton wouldn’t have meant anything to me but their written work was there, waiting for an older me and I have devoured every word, over again.

Joe Orton was before his time, lived his own life, took chances and packed a great deal into his thirty-four years before his partner murdered him and committed suicide.

Read at Joe Orton’s funeral:

Hilarium Memoriam J. O.

Some met together when he died
Not in the name of any God
But in his name
Whom they lost to the coffin,
The box which caused him endless mirth.
His lesson – which he would not read again.
Hilarity in death.
And now his censored spirit
In oblivion – free.
Perhaps it’s hard to see that
He’d have thought it funny – mad.
They will not weep for him.
They know that if they did
He’d think they’d missed the joke.
The joke that some would say
Was ‘in bad taste’,
And others who are calmer
‘Just a waste.’

                                         Josephine Crombie

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Truth - Be Honest

I overheard something at my mother’s funeral. Fifty years have passed and the words still hurt.

“Poor Sheila, so young. Still, she lasted longer than we thought.”

My auntie, dabbing her eyes, was holding court with other relatives outside Carleton Crematorium Chapel. I can’t remember if it was before or after the service, not that it matters. Nothing mattered, except the deep deception that cut through my very soul. All these people, family and friends of the family had known that my mother was terminally ill, yet they had spent the last however many months speaking to me along the lines of, “When Mummy’s better…”, “When your mum is better…”, “When Sheila gets over this…”.   At nearly fourteen years of age I was old enough to ‘be grown up about all this’, but not considered to be old enough to be included in what was happening or given a chance to say goodbye. I was shattered. I had believed I was secure in a close-knit family. Everybody was hiding the truth.

Well, not quite everybody. My nanna was honest without actually coming out with the words. She was looking after us, my sister and me. Our family ran pubs and we were staying out of town at their pub, rather than ours. I adored my nanna, she was my rock. I wouldn’t usually have stepped out of line with her for the world. There was much love, respect but also a tiny bit of fear because I expected she could be even angrier than my mum if she was cross with me. I don’t know where it came from, but for the one and only time in my life, I gave her a glimpse of my 'stroppy madam' mood and I answered her back. I don’t remember what was said between us or why but I regretted it immediately and braced myself for a slap. It didn’t come. Instead, she hugged me tight and I cried. Tears for being rude to my lovely nanna and tears for worrying about my mum.

“Where there’s life, there’s hope.” Nanna’s words spoke volumes. Sheila, my mum was her daughter. Nanna had already suffered the loss of a daughter, a child, before my mum was born. I wish I had half of her northern grit.

What I overheard at my mum’s funeral taught me about truth and about compassion. My relatives wanted to protect me, though deceiving me into false security was the outcome. It was with the best of intention, I can understand that. My importance of honesty in life-threatening situations is borne of that experience.

 My husband was very ill when our son was about twelve, maybe thirteen. The illness seemed never ending. He was in hospital for months, no diagnosis, no improvement. I’m sure our son thought long and hard before asking me if Dad was going to die. The situation was on his mind more than I realised.  I told him with total honesty, that until it was discovered what was wrong, we didn’t know what would happen, but we hoped Dad would pull through and I promised, I would always tell him the truth. My husband recovered, eventually, thank goodness. My children appreciated the truth.

 

A poem from Muhammad Ali,

 

The face of truth is open.

The eyes of truth are bright,

The lips of truth are ever closed,

The head of truth is upright.

 

The breast of truth stands forward,

The gaze of truth is straight,

Truth has neither fear nor doubt

Truth has patience to wait.

 

The words of truth are touching,

The voice of truth is deep,

The law of truth is simple:

All that you sow you reap.

 

The soul of truth is flaming,

The heart of truth is warm,

The mind of truth is clear,

And firm through rain or storm.

 

Facts are but its shadows,

Truth stands above all sin,

Great be the battle in life,

Truth in the end shall win.

 

The image of truth is Christ,

Wisdom's message its rod;

Sign of truth is the cross,

Soul of truth is God/

 

Life of truth is eternal,

Immortal is its past.

Power of truth will endure,

Truth shall hold to the last.

 

Muhammad Ali  (1942 - 2016)

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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If I'd Only Known - Silly Rules

If only I’d known…my list is endless and at the top is ‘If only I’d known I wouldn’t get a state pension until I’m 66’. I’ll set that rant aside for another day. Things have been happening lately to turn me into a female Victor Meldrew.

I’ve been feeling cross nearly every day this year so far. It started when I attempted to upgrade my mobile phone. If only I’d known what a frustrating journey I was about to start.

I knew which phone I wanted and which tariff suited my needs. I’d had a contract with the same network for the best part of ten years and renewing was always straight forward. Until now. In the shop there were post-it notes on the computers reminding the staff that photo I.D. must be obtained from every customer upgrading their phone. That’s me out. I explained that I don’t have any form of photo I.D. They couldn’t help me apart from suggesting that I try upgrading online or by phone. The new rule had come about because of an attempted, unsuccessful in-house fraud regarding customers due to upgrade. So, through no fault of my own, I have to go to the expense of obtaining a form of photo I.D. if I want to get a new phone in the shop. With regard to doing it online or by phone, I really thought they could have been more helpful or pro-active in doing it that way in the shop. I left to think about it and fizzed with annoyance all the way to the car park.

I talked myself into deciding a photo I.D. might be useful in general and a couple of days later, set about applying for a new driving license. Anyway, my family, mainly my husband had scorned my paper one for long enough, even suggesting that it might not be legal. I had to wait for the form to arrive through the post.

The more I thought about the mobile phone company, the more disappointed I became about how I’d been treated. I returned to the Hounds Hill one day, popped into the shop of a different network and minutes later emerged with a Sony something, all-you-can-eat text messages, more minutes than I’ll ever use and twice as much data allowance on a cheaper contract than I expected. Then there was a verbal battle between me and my previous provider. I wanted to cancel my contract and keep my number. I spoke to different people as I was repeatedly put on hold. They all asked the same questions, trying to persuade me to stay, telling me I can cancel my new contract with my new network. I can hear myself now, parrot fashion – “Cancel my contract and send me a PAC code, please. Cancel my contract and send me a PAC code, please.”

Sometimes I think I’m not cut out for life in the modern world. I shouldn’t have to waste time insisting and persisting for something so trivial as swapping phone networks. Eventually, that battle was won, but I still had a war going on.

My driving license form arrived. I completed it neatly and asked one of my work professionals to verify my identity and sign my photo. Well, I think the photo was of me. I looked like an old dear with wind-swept hair and no lipstick on, but it would do. I enclosed my old driving license, thinking that was all I needed to send as I was only renewing something I’d had for forty-odd years. Wrong.

Two weeks later it was returned to me, marked in red ink – that tells me I’ve failed, so I’m unhappy before I’ve read it – pointing out the list of documents I must send before it can be processed. A passport. I don’t have a valid one, otherwise I would already have photo I.D. A birth certificate must be supported by other documents to support any change of name. Fine, except I don’t have all the links in that chain. Evidence of my National Insurance number, a P60. Perfect.

I gathered all that was suitable and posted it back. Being cross makes me more efficient, I think. And I was feeling very cross with the DVLA when I wrote a strong cover note suggesting that matching my Driver Number with my address which hasn’t changed for many years should be sufficient.

I am currently awaiting the arrival of my new license and the safe return of all my documents.

A haiku for today. 

 

If only I’d known

     Of all these complications,
     For something simple.

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

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