Palm - A Shiny Shilling

 “Cross my palm with silver and I’ll tell your fortune. Cross my palm with gold and it will certainly come to be. Cross my palm with iron and you won’t live to see daybreak.”

Mara Amberly – Her Gypsy Promise

Blackpool is well-known for fortune tellers. For as many years as the Golden Mile has stretched between the piers, clairvoyants have worked from inside curtained cabins advertising their gift of seeing into the future. A visit to the promenade or piers would include a palm reading or a studied gaze into a crystal ball for anyone eager to find out if something important is about to happen to them. It’s part of traditional Blackpool fun.

Crossing the palm of a new baby with silver was seen as a way of wishing them wealth, good health and the best possible start it life. I watched as my baby sister had a shiny shilling put into her tiny hand by a well-meaning person, a stranger to me. I was seven and a half. Anne could keep the shilling, but I really coveted the lovely plush bunny she was given by the same person. Nothing for me. I expect she received gifts from lots of people who didn’t acknowledge me, but that’s the one I remember. I could probably go to the exact spot where it happened, in the lounge bar of the Boar’s Head on Preston Old Road, Blackpool. I was a proud big sister. I still am. This was one of those moments that stays in the memory forever, so I’ve always given something to an older sibling, not just the baby.

The Psychic’s Dilemma

I’m a psychic, true, with visions grand,
But rent’s due, and I need a hand.
Cross my palm with silver, yes, it’s true,
I’ll conjure love for you, and a new shoe!

No gold for romance, no, that’s not the deal,
Just enough for groceries, a more practical appeal.
So if your heart yearns for a love connection,
Bring silver, and I’ll give you a pre-packaged affection!

Anon.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Missing - Is it The Borrowers?

One of the highlights of my week is the afternoon I spend as a volunteer in the Key Stage 1 library at my local primary school. I take groups of children from their classrooms to change their books, help them to find what they are looking for and help them to choose something that they could read for themselves. The afternoon usually includes me reading a story to a class, where I love to interact with the children and involve them as much as I can. Aged between five and seven, their smiles have gaps from missing baby teeth, some with new adult teeth erupting to fill the space. A wobbly tooth signifies that rite of passage towards growing up. It’s an event to be proud of, and when that perfect, well-looked after tooth comes out, it is treasure for Peggy, the Tooth Fairy, who sometimes leaves a reward. I never miss an opportunity to remind children to care for their teeth. My grandchildren are all at this stage, but it’s not just teeth that are missing in my house.

All kinds of things manage to become lost. Perhaps The Borrowers have taken up residence under our floorboards – it might be worth checking. There are jigsaws with pieces missing, I am reliably informed by the eldest. No one has bothered to try to find them. They have a 3D wooden dinosaur made of ten brightly coloured interlocking pieces which are numbered. Number seven, which I believe to be a piece of tummy and coloured red, has been missing for ages. They used it for a ‘Hunt the Thimble’ kind of treasure hunt. No one can remember where number seven was hidden and I have exhausted myself searching. Duplo and Lego get mixed together and I don’t bother checking them. The missing things don’t start and end with the children.

We’re still in January, just about, and already something is missing from a Christmas present belonging to my husband. A small charger cable, unique to the electric item it came with. This is odd because he looks after his belongings and keeps things together properly. We have searched everywhere, endlessly. A replacement is not obtainable. He bought something almost the same that would do. It required slight adjustment to which a Stanley knife was the appropriate tool. A Stanley knife can give a nasty cut to a thumb and it can bleed like billy-o for those on Warfarin. We don’t think it needed a stitch.

I have a younger sister, occasionally mentioned in blogs. She was a toddler in 1964 when we lived in a pub in the village of Padfield, near Glossop. I had my ninth birthday there. The village was considered safe and I was allowed to play out with friends, either on the street or further along to the swings and slide on a cinders-covered playground. My mum let me take my sister out in her pushchair. I took her to the playground. I don’t know what happened, I guess I became distracted and forgot about her. Later, back home, Mum’s asking where Anne is – I still have that sinking feeling – I’d left her in the playground. We ran all the length of Temple Street and thank goodness, she was still there, sat in her buggy in the twilight. My mum muttered something between clenched teeth about what I’d get if Anne had been missing. I’ve been dealt a few good hidings from my mother who was definitely a smack first, ask later sort of parent, but the smacked bottom I got for this was by far the worst. I mentioned that Padfield was a safe village and all the children had the freedom to play out. Another year and news of the Moors Murders broke. We had been on their doorstep.

My Haiku,

Do The Borrowers
Live underneath our floorboards
Claiming belongings?

Wooden dinosaur,
Its tummy is still missing
After sev’ral years.

We’ve waited for this,
Tooth fairy on full alert!
Wobbly one is out!

Front teeth are missing
And he’s got a gentle lisp,
Lovely impish grin.

It’s just a charger,
Ordinary, not special.
Why can’t we find it?

Where is your sister?
I felt my insides drop down.
Another smacked bum.

PMW 2024

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Waking Up - Looking Out

It was the mid-1960s and we, that is, my parents, toddler sister and I had arrived. From pubs in Manchester, Lancaster, brief stay in Marton then Padfield, at last we were in Blackpool with a pub on the prom.

Waking up early in the summer mornings with the noisy seagulls and a pleasant breeze blowing on my face through the small opening at the top of the sash window is a lovely memory I will have forever. Net curtains wafted inwards, close to my sister’s cot. We shared that big, front bedroom until she was old enough for a bed and a room of her own. The view fascinated me and even more so when Nanna came and planted herself in her favourite place, the bay window of our front sitting room. We watched the world go by, Nanna, with her knitting, Park Drive cigarettes and cups of tea and me, looking out to sea, happy to be with Nanna and share her enjoyment. I was staying with Nanna when my sister was born. We were living in Lancaster then. Dad had already moved into our next pub, but Mum was close to giving birth so we were sharing a spare room in their pub, waiting for nature to take its course. And it did, in the middle of the night. Waking up alone, I remember fleeing the bedroom in tears, Nanna cuddling me and explaining that the baby was coming so my mummy had gone to hospital. My tears soon turned to joy later that day when I was told I had a baby sister. Not quite what I wanted, to be honest. I really wanted a big sister and I’d been misled into thinking I was getting a playmate and she wasn’t that, either. I got over it.

Another of my favourite relatives was Auntie Alice, my grandfather’s sister, so my great-aunt, but Auntie Al would do. When she came to stay, she shared my sea-view room. She wasn’t one for silly nonsense, but we had some fun times together. I learnt her boundaries the hard way and had great respect for this plain-speaking, strong-minded woman. One night, there was a terrific thunderstorm. It woke me up and I was very scared. The building felt like it was shaking – it probably was. She reassured me, in her no nonsense, practical way. Together, we watched the lightning coming over the sea, counting seconds to the thunderclap.

I treasure all those memories, living in that pub, my front bedroom and my sister, my auntie and others who stayed in it with me. Life changed. It changed forever. My room was taken from me.

On a happier note, nearly seven years ago I was waking up to my phone ringing at some unearthly hour, just about morning time. I remember day was breaking. It was our son, to tell us that our beautiful granddaughter, Lola-Skye was born, a little early and having special care, but all would be well and her mummy was fine. Our second grandchild, as our daughter gave birth to our grandson the year before. Two more grandchildren since then.

My Haiku poem,

Window nets wafting
Round the open sash, flapping
In the morning breeze.

Screaming seagulls, loud
And urgent, meet on the sands
Following the tide,

I breathe the mixed smells
Of the seaside and the prom,
This is our new home.

Candyfloss, donkeys
Mingled with ice-cream, burgers,
Sweet, fried onions.

Blackpool promenade,
South Pier stretches out to sea,
Central just in sight.

From the front window
The ‘Beachcomber’ amusements
Will soon come to life.

The whole world passed by
And I was fascinated,
Scenes from my window.

PMW 2023
Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Recipe Poetry - If I Knew You Were Coming I'd Have Baked A Cake

For the past week, I’ve had Blue Mink’s ‘Melting Pot’ going round in my head. It was a good song back in the day, carrying a message in a poetic recipe form. Unfortunately, the lyrics, seemingly harmless in 1969, are inappropriate for our enlightened PC modern times. I decided not to include them here, but they are easy enough to find on Google.

Instead, I share with you my wonderful birthday cake recipe, made the same way for years and years of family members birthdays, even my own. My sister has made me a cake a couple of times. She’s got a birthday this week, one of those with a ‘0’ on the end and she looks so much younger.

Hands washed, pinny on, oven on 180c, and off we go.

Ingredients:  3 eggs, or 2 eggs and a splash of milk; whipping cream, strawberries and chocolate flake to decorate; 6ozs of self-raising flour, 6ozs of caster sugar, 6ozs of margarine.

Give yourself at least an hour,
Gently sift the finest flour.
Caster sugar is the best
Weighed properly, not just guessed..
Use three fresh eggs, nice free-range
Or two with milk for a change.
Margarine, the best is Stork,
Mashed and softened with a fork.
Beat all in the Kenwood, fast,
‘Til a smooth and shiny cast.
Transfer the mix to cake tins
And bake for twenty-five mins.
Whilst they cool, whip up some cream
And prepare the décor theme.
Strawberry halves, chocolate flake,
For this special birthday cake.

Trust me, it is delicious!

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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False Memory - The Way It Should Have Been

One of my nephews had a birthday last weekend. He is my sister’s eldest and was the first baby to be welcomed into the immediate family since she herself was born and the anticipated event had filled us with excitement for months. I found myself remembering his birth, which was thirty-six years ago and with pangs of sadness, discovered my false memory.

A Wednesday afternoon and I was at work. All was quiet, just three of us on the premises. The shop was shut, retail staff still observing half day closing. It didn’t affect office staff so we were busily working – actually, the work would have been completed already and we were probably taking it easy and having a laugh until we could lock up and leave. When my sister phoned to say things were happening, baby on the move, help wanted, my colleagues sent me on my way.

I drove to her house, a short distance from where I was on Dickson Road to where she was near Stanley Park. My false memory tells me that I packed her into my dark blue Austin Maxi, but I didn’t have that car anymore. I had a light blue metallic and rust Datsun Violet. I was sent on a quick errand on foot to a nearby shop for camera film – those were the days – and returning to my car, thought my sister was about to give birth there and then as for some reason, the passenger seat was flat. Luckily, I delivered her to the hospital before any other delivery happened and waited with her until her husband arrived from his place of work out of town. I went home.

This is where my recollection of events all goes funny, such a strong memory yet so false. By now it is early evening. I’m sat on the settee in the lounge, knitting a chunky-knit cardigan with thick needles. I’m doing a sleeve which is growing quickly and I’m thinking if I finish this piece before the baby comes, it’s a girl, if not, it’s a boy. I don’t think we had gender reveals at that time. My dad is sitting in his usual armchair, reading every word in the Gazette, sharing a few adverts in the classified section, items for sale, usually cars, and drawing a ring round them with his Parker biro. He’s wearing a denim-blue sweater that I made for him. He checks his yellow tea-cup, disappointed to find it empty. The phone rings in the hall and he goes to answer it. Of course, it was the happy news of the safe arrival of a perfect baby boy.

This is how I remember it. Or is it how I wish to remember it?

 My father had been ecstatic to learn he was going to be a grandfather and shared his news with anyone who would listen. A boy would be lovely after raising daughters, but of course a granddaughter would be loved and cherished just the same. Arthritis plagued my father. He blamed it on rolling barrels and lifting cases of bottles in the pubs. He relied on pain relief and some days he was better than others. Out of the blue, he suffered a heart attack. It was serious, but he rallied and after a couple of weeks in hospital, he was well enough to be discharged. The experience had scared him and he would need time to recover. He felt mentally shot and physically weak and told me how he hoped he would be strong enough to hold the baby when it arrived.

He didn’t get the chance. Another heart attack took his life nearly two months before my nephew was born. He was 62.

False Memory

Blue knitted jumper, nice
Subtly fragrant Old Spice.
Another pot of tea?
Empty cup.
I was sure he was there
In his usual chair
With an open Gazette
Close to hand.
On the table, his pen,
Should he need it again,
Circling classified ads,
Things for sale.
I thought he got the phone
But he’d already gone.
My mind playing cruel tricks.
Death’s torment.

PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Loneliness

I couldn’t figure out what my late aunt really meant when, in her later years, she warned me that loneliness was a terrible thing. She had been a lively young woman. She had run pubs with her husband and continued to do so for another decade after his sudden death, thriving on the social scene of her work. In retirement, life was quieter. Too quiet.  She bought a house for herself and my widowed grandfather. Her social life was reduced to occasional bingo nights with a couple of ladies she had kept in touch with, and our rare family gatherings.  I visited her often, increasingly so after my grandfather passed away. She lived an hour’s drive away and sometimes I would go straight from work, have tea with her then go to her local social club for a while.  I thought she was happy but as time went on, she seemed to have less company and she couldn’t be bothered to make an effort.  Towards the end of her life she had fallen out with most of her friends and she’d been unkind to me and my sister. We were both busy with our young children, but continued to do what we could for her.  Our much loved aunt had turned into a cantankerous old soul, pushing our patience to the limit.  I like to remember the many happy times I shared with her.  Auntie used to be a ‘people’ person, generous with time, money, belongings, whatever she had to spare for whoever might need it. I don’t remember her ever having a hobby or even reading a book.  It is clear to me now that in the last couple of years of her life, not only was her health failing, she was also suffering from loneliness and possibly depression and with regret, I didn’t realise until it was too late.

 

I know how lucky I am to have family, friends and lots of interests to occupy myself with. I feel great sympathy for those who long for companionship yet remain alone to the point of loneliness.

I understand that evenings and nights are worse than the daytime for those with loneliness. I've chosen this poem by Charlotte Bronte, 

Evening Solace

The human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed;­
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame’s or Wealth’s illusion,
The memory of the Past may die.

But, there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart’s best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish,
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.

And feelings, once as strong as passions,
Float softly back - ­a faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others’ sufferings seem.
Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for that time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie !

And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress­
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hour and darkened room,
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven,
Seeking a life and world to come.

Charlotte Bronte  1816 - 1855

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

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