From A Life in Short Pieces: Piece Four:
Mothers and Daughters.
By mother
died more than 20 years ago just about the time when my first children’s novel Theft was published. She read this
novel in proof, staying up overnight to finish it. As the novel was substantially
based on a fictionalised tale from her own youth - as I have said in Piece One (scoll down),
she was always the heroine of her own stories - I was quite anxious about her
reaction.
Always sparing
in praise, she had to admit that she really liked the novel and couldn’t put it
down. She didn’t refute any of the contextual facts and information which I had
researched without any reference to her. I was only sorry that she didn’t see Theft between hard covers know that the
world respected my fiction.
My mother
has always been there alongside me, not
quite haunting me but standing at my shoulder when I moved up the professional
ladder and when all the books emerged, when my children had their own challenges
and achievements.
Part of that process has been that I often
dream of her, still seeking her approval as I did when I was a little girl. The
piece below, however, did not come from a dream. I think I had a kind of vision
of her there with their arms raised at the top of my stairs. A ghost? I felt it
was a kind of visitation and was compelled to write about it in these terms.
Translucent Butter Muslin
I wake up
trembling –
time –
ringing,
nerves vibrating
invoking
the Angelus.
I see you
standing on my landing
Dressed in
yellow, arms raised
back-lit
in translucent butter muslin:
this
vision of you pulses
like the Evening
Star
before my
eyes.
I see you
in another place all rusty hair and
red
fluffy coat. I see you in a blue crêpe dress,
toggled
at the neck in amber.
Then I
see you standing smiling.
My father
stoops and slings his arm
around your shoulder.
Best of
all I see you standing
straight
and crisp, blue uniformed
and silver
buckle belted. But now again
you come
to me, standing there,
arms
raised, wearing yellow -
radiant
in translucent butter muslin.
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