The Granduate: On a Very Special Relationship

Friends Now 

The girl on the couch, unwell

Are you expecting? I say.

Clearly

The anticipated storm of temper
failed to 

materialise 

A slight smile from him. 

At least,  he says, I'll see him grow  

in my lifetime 

Through the years he drove the boy

to and fro from school, putting him

through his paces. 

He watched the boy catch the egg,

kick  a  rugby ball through high posts,

wield a mean cricket bat on the field. 

He saw the boy off in his father's car

laden with high hopes, books,

and essential technology. 

He imagines the boy -white-coated - 

working with 

phenomenally powerful magnets. 

And now, today, he sees him

in cap and gown, 

beard trimmed, hair clipped. 

The boy throws his cap into the sky

and has  very special smile

for his grandfather. 

July 2015

WIP : A Daughter's Tale

 My father Billy died when I was nine years old and, it seems to me now, has permeated my life ever since, as my memoir The Romancer (see right) probably demonstrated. I miss him even now.

This is a poem about him which I have worked on for some time now

                            

                           Billy: A Daughter’s Tale

We walked along, your  giant’s hand in mine,  

long fingers up inside my woollen sleeve -

I remember nights she left the house

when you read the paper and I scaled your knee

settling, birdlike
into that rustling space.

I remember how we cut out pictures

for the Panjandrum book. And you read us stories -

your voice going up and down

What would you think of our young one?

Tall in Tai Kwan Do gear

white clad and obliquely oriental -

Or ready for cricket

complete with pads and faceguard,

grave and somewhat pedantic – a family trait

When I passed the age of thirty seven

- a lifetime since -

it dawned on me how young you were -  

yet at that dying time

you seemed to me so very old -

it did not feel too terrible.

wr

Fenwick Frolics

One upon a time in my well spent-youth Newcastle was a happy hunting ground for unusual clothes and frothy coffee in good company. On occasion we would hitch-hike down from our small Northumberland college - I lived in Harry Potter’s castle, but that’s another story – and spend the afternoon in Newcastle trying on clothes we couldn’t afford, drinking frothy coffee in juke box cafes, and once – I think it was someone’s birthday – having high tea in Tilley’s restaurant where the waitresses still wore black dresses and white aprons.

Years later, with our children, my friend Pat and I would meet in Fenwick’s cafe for coffee and cakes. In those innocent days we used to let the children take the escalator to the next floor on their own (!) to play in the toy department. Meanwhile Pat and I would talk up a storm about the meaning of life – perhaps particularly our lives – and drink more coffee. After a while we’d go up to fetch the children from the toy department and bring them down for ice cream - and get on with being mothers.

I remember now that I bought my un-weddingy wedding outfit for daughter Debora’s wedding in Fenwick’s French salon – a long narrow skirt and jacket in navy blue velvet. I’ve worn it happily many times since.

And now this Thursday (tomorrow!) I’ll leave my desk to be on the other side of the counter at Fenwick’s – signing copies of the paperback edition of SANDIE SHAW AND THE MILLIONTH MARVELL COOKER.

People often ask me what a book about. Well, I wrote about this one in an earlier post, saying.
‘Sandie Shaw and the Millionth Marvell Cooker’ is about:
Friendship and salvation between women & authentic factory life when industry was booming & the birth of celebrity culture & changes in access to higher education & college life & about changing cultural attitudes brought about by the Women’s Movement & the nature and hesitancies of young love & the experience of immigrants moving into British life & the ironies, assumptions and secrets of institutions

But most of all, I say, I think – and hope - it’s a very good, funny, touching, rites of passage novel about this student from a small Northumberland college who works in a factory one summer in the 1960s ….

I’ve been wondering what I should wear for this particular Fenwick Frolic. Perhaps I should have found time to fit in a visit to Fenwick’s French Salon.

I’m certainly looking forward to it. I wonder if my good friend Pat will turn up. I hope you’ll come too. wx

12.30 pm Fenwick’s Book Department. Thursday 9th July 2009