Twilight - North and South

 

"Twilight - The soft glowing light from the sky when the sun is below the horizon, caused by the reflection of the sun's rays from the atmosphere."

We enjoyed a break away last week. A mix of visiting family and sight-seeing, with three things ticked off my wish list. Heading to the South Downs, we arranged an overnight stop near Banbury to break the long journey. It was great to catch up with family members we don’t get to see often enough and a good time was had by all. We all went to the coast, spending the day between Arundel, Brighton and Worthing.  The weather was better than expected, blue skies and sunshine, and very mild for late October. This was my first time on this stretch of the coast, apart from Butlin’s, Bognor Regis, when we’d only ventured out of the holiday camp once, briefly, to see the sea. My wish list included Brighton, to see the pier and the pavilion, so I enjoyed the drive along the coast which took in both of these and more. We strolled along the front at Worthing, pebbled beach and calm sea with the occasional wave breaking onto the stones. We had a leisurely dinner at a water’s edge restaurant, looking out on to the twilight seascape as the late afternoon became early evening. A beautiful end to a perfect day.

Looking out on to the sea and sands used to fascinate me when I lived in the pub on South Promenade. I loved walking on the beach or the prom with my mother when I was a child. It became for me, our special time together. Mum would take me across to South Pier for a game of bingo and a play in the amusement arcade, then we’d have a walk, sometimes up to Central Pier and back. It is an area I associate strongly with her, and always will. After she passed away, I took myself there to be alone with my thoughts, my sorrow. It had become a special place.  It was a place to think of happy memories, a place to release tears and a place to shout out in anger. Fresh air and freedom, in all seasons and all times of day, but mostly in the calm of early evening, a quiet sunset with the tide out,  then the twilight dimming my vision.

Homeward from the South, we spent a couple of days in Shropshire, visiting more family members, but sight-seeing on our own. This ticked off two things on my wish list, The Iron Bridge, which I’d wanted to go and see for ages, and the Blists Hill Victorian Town – a living museum – which I’d wanted to visit since seeing it on an episode of The Apprentice earlier this year.

Autumn Twilight,

On a south coast beach
Built of white pebbles
The crash of waves reach
Over the edge.

The daylight fading,
The Channel dark’ning,
Twilight sky shading
The horizon.

On a north west beach,
Miles of smooth, fine sand,
Evening seagulls screech.
Late colony.

The sky, pinkish grey.
Sea claims the sunset
At the end of the day.
Autumn Twilight.

PMW 2023.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Class - Upstairs or Downstairs?

I’ve spent the last month or so re-reading my collection of ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’ books. These slim paper-backs tell the story of the popular TV series about the ‘upstairs’ Bellamy family of 165, Eaton Place, Belgravia, and their ‘downstairs’ servants. The drama series began in 1971 and taught me more about social class and modern history than any amount of school lessons. The books followed the TV programmes series by series and each chapter is an episode, written by the same screen-writer.  They work quite well as novels. Fading, falling apart and with tiny print that made me wonder how I was managing without my hands-free magnifying glass, these are part of my ‘most treasured possessions’. For back up, I have the complete set of DVDs.

History was, and still is, a big interest to me. Unfortunately, the history master at school failed to ignite any passion in the subject, standing at the front of the class non-stop talking about one of the wars like he was presenting All Our Yesterdays. The boys drew Spitfires, us girls yawned. Instead, I learned social, economic and political history from the events going on in Upstairs, Downstairs. At the time, 1971 onwards, class distinction was mostly lost on me. I loved the servants, Mr Hudson the butler, all his staff and everything they got up to and I equally loved the members of the well-to-do Bellamy family. There was just one thing that grated on me and opened my eyes to class differences of the time. In an episode where Lord Bellamy’s brother is briefly staying at Eaton Place, Hudson’s brother and family are also visiting from abroad, staying in London, and unintentionally, they are all lunching in the same restaurant. This is a regular place for Richard Bellamy to be eating out, but Hudson has had to borrow money from cook, Mrs Bridges, to fund the outing. Bellamy and Hudson seeing each other in the restaurant causes embarrassment for Hudson, who, in an attempt to big himself up a bit for the benefit of his brother  now feels that he is aping his betters. Later, he offers his immediate resignation. Bellamy won’t hear of it and tells Hudson he was pleased to meet his family and that sadly, he, Bellamy, will not be seeing his own brother again. I was glad of the happy outcome, but it made me wonder why being in the same place should be a problem. Surely the butler could go wherever he likes on his time off, and how he funds it is his own business?

I have followed Downton Abbey, Belgravia and others, but nothing captured the essence of the time period quite like Upstairs, Downstairs. I couldn’t decide where I belong, up or down, or somewhere else entirely.

Re-reading it reminded me of a time at work, not where I am now. We had coffee mugs for ourselves, but there were cups and saucers for visiting senior staff and directors. When I brewed up, I gave everyone mugs and no one said anything. Sometimes, we used cups and saucers in our office. No reason not to.

Growing up in pubs, we had domestic staff. I called them ‘Auntie’ or ‘Mr’ and they were very much part of the family from my point of view, particularly our housekeeper ‘Auntie Kathy’ who I adored and was close to, and ‘Mr Joe’ who came with the pub and was like another grandad. I was brought up to treat everyone with respect and kindness. We are all the same.

Is that the time? I’d better ring for tea – or go and make it.

Here's John Betjeman:

How to Get On in Society

Phone for the fish-knives, Norman

As cook is a little unnerved;

You kiddies have crumpled the serviettes

And I must have things daintily served.

Are the requistites all in the toilet?

The frills round the cutlets can wait

'Till the girl has replenished the cruets

And switched on the logs in the grate.

It's ever so close in the lounge, dear,

But the vestibule's comfy for tea

And Howard is out riding on horseback

So do come and take some with me.

Now here is a fork for your pastries

And do use the couch for your feet;

I know what I wanted to ask you -

Is trifle sufficient for sweet?

Milk and then just as it comes dear?

I'm afraid the preserve's full of stones;

Beg pardon, I'm soiling the doilies

With afternoon tea-cakes and scones.

John Betjeman  (1906 - 1984)
 

             
Frost Report Social Class sketch: click here to play

Thanks for reading, keep well, Pam x

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Short Story Week - Once Upon A Time...

A theme of 'Short Story Week' and an opportunity to re-read my back catalogue, so to speak. I hope I'm not being self indulgent in sharing my short story from 2005, Dinner With Hemingway, a 'memoir' from his last mistress.

 Dinner with Hemingway

     Hello, my love. I’m thinking about you and I can’t get to sleep…again. It’s been nearly every night this week.  I’m running out of pages in this little book which has become a part of me.

     I’m back to the time when we stayed the weekend at the Waldorf Astoria. Not the time in the summer that you always talked about, but early the following year, 1959. Freezing February in New York!  Whatever possessed us? We could just as easily have gone to Europe.  Where was Mary?  I can’t remember, but I’m sure you would have told me at the time. We spent an entire afternoon in that enormous bed sliding on the satin sheets. I can still feel the gentle touch of your beard on my skin and your warm lips on my neck. We didn’t surface until dinner time.

     The restaurant was all shell-pink linen with single carnations the exact same pale colour, discreet staff and clientele who were too busy with themselves to notice us. It was really good to relax into a romantic meal without fear of discovery. We weren’t very interesting, anyway. You’d been married four times and there was nothing new to say and I was, well, who was I anyway?  The gossip columns were all about  JFK and Marilyn, or the ‘is it on, is it off?’ between Larry and Viv.

     That was the night Larry and Vivien came in for dinner, just the two of them, which you said was unusual because they rarely dined without guests when they were working. Larry was playing Archie Rice in ‘The Entertainer’ on Broadway. I’ve forgotten which theatre. You were twiddling with the carnation, turning it round and round in the thin, single stem vase and talking about wanting to end your marriage to Mary so that we could be together.  Suddenly, there was this gush of  ‘Hemingway, dear boy, it is you!’ and there was Laurence Olivier, patting you on the back then shaking hands as you stood up. You introduced us. He was ‘charmed’ and kissed my hand. I was too star-struck to speak. I was looking into the eyes of Heathcliff and I wanted to feel bold and free like Cathy. Instead, I was nervous and flustered, like the second Mrs de Winter.  I was glad when he declined your offer to join us; something about Vivien being unwell and not wanting company.  She looked well enough, engaged in conversation with others.  Mood swings, that was her malady.  He said he was still playing Archie Rice. You told him we would go to see it, but we never did.

     We didn’t fully resume our conversation about the future, either.  I can see you, in front of me, pained expression in those grey-blue eyes, hand on your chin with thumb on one side and fingers closed together on the other as you stroked your white beard. That, above all, is my lasting image of you, better than any photograph. In my head, I can hear your voice, Chicago accent still apparent with some drawling southern tones you picked up on the way. I loved you with all of me, from the heart, nothing held back. I cherish many times spent in your company but the Waldorf Astoria offered us the freedom to be ourselves. Precious times.

      Sometimes, like now, I am absorbed by the memory; joyfully reliving each moment and feeling reborn and renewed. I believe you truly loved me. I could see it in your eyes and I could sense it, yes, I really do mean sense it and I can see you now, smiling at my funny ways!  Sometimes, though, memories can lead me to despair and sorrow for what was lost. What we lost. What you took from me when you returned to Idaho to sort things out.

 

And my poem,

 

Story Time

Come and gather round the wireless,

     It’s time for Listen With Mother.
    “Are You Sitting Comfortably?”
    A story time, like no other.
 
    A few minutes of quiet time
    With my mum every afternoon
    Enjoying our togetherness,
     I was starting school very soon.

School was great and I learnt to read

     The stories of Janet and John,
     And more besides, Oh what a world
     Full of entertaining fiction.

 Reading, writing, the love of words,

      In my childhood the seeds were sown
     To strengthen my ability
     To write short stories of my own.

PMW 2019

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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