Memories, murders and riots (a longish one, sorry)

Posted on August 2, 2024 by memoirsofahusk

Listening to Delius’ A Walk to the Paradise Garden on the wonderful BBC Radio 3. This evocative piece of music transports me, on a wave of that curious emotion which combines joy, wonder, rapture with a sad awareness that things must and will change. I heard it the first time – or so my memory tells me, but we know how fickle memory can be – while sitting alone in my parents’ car.

I’d driven out of Bradford to escape the city heat, but also my worries about imminent exam results. I was parked somewhere close to Ilkley Moor. It was high summer. Hot summer. Tall grasses golden under a relentless sun. No breath of breeze. The only movement insects, butterflies, my thoughts. And the music.

I sat feeling exalted, yet fearful. There I was, surrounded by beauty, listening to beauty, being part of a scene that I would never forget, but which was already fleeting. Already I was worrying about the next week, the next month, the next years. My future crowding in on the gorgeousness of that day, that music, that elevation through music to the heights of emotion. And a warm breeze rose, just a light sigh of a breeze, stirring the golden grasses. Or perhaps that’s my imagination creating a scene I want to have lived.

Decades later I sit here, in my home surrounded on two sides by trees – pines, weeping birches, rowans – thanks to the golf course. Our living rooms are upstairs and as I sit listening to Delius I look out and see birches. Blue sky. A fair, warm, day. Summery, but past that point where we know it is waning. Where the night is beginning to regain its strength. When it feels just like that day near Ilkley Moor.

I’ve had a troubled week. Troubles that were as nothing to those of so many people in this community here in Southport, on the north west coast of England.

Southport.

Sadly, the name may be newly familiar to you, as of this week. It’s not a huge town, 90,000 or so residents, but this week it was visited by tragedy. On Monday three little girls were happy at a dance event, their futures lying ahead of them – as did my 17 year old future on that high summer day. But these little girls were all under the age of ten. And they were all murdered. Stabbed to death.

Several others were subjected to this terrifying knife attack. The other young girls and two adults who were seriously injured seem, we hope, to have made it through. One little girl has been able to return home. We await news of the others.

In the meantime we have learnt that the killer was a 17 year old boy from Cardiff, Wales, who moved here when he was six with his parents and older brother. And that his parents were originally from Rwanda. Yes, that ‘safe’ place the previous British government wanted to deport asylum seekers to, people who might well be fleeing persecution, death threats, war.

The Rwandan origin of the parents of the boy – soon to be young man, 18 next week – should be immaterial. If they had been Irish or Scottish or perhaps even French or Spanish it would be unlikely it would be a matter of such import. But of course, there are people seeking every opportunity to indulge their hatred of the ‘other’ whom they assume, or want, to be a Muslim. An immigrant. A boat person.

The boy was born of Christian parents, that we now know. But this week, on the very day when this small town was holding a peaceful vigil, attended by thousands, hoodlums and thugs chose to ‘protest’ – to riot – and attack, among other things, the local mosque (I didn’t even know there was one, we don’t have a big Muslim population). And they attacked the police who had, with the other emergency services, been dealing with the traumatic scenes and aftermath of the killings. Dozens of them were injured.

Our community rallied around. By mid-morning next day walls were being rebuilt, streets had been cleared of debris, bricks, broken bottles, the detritus of thuggery and violence. Many local businesses rendered services for free and fundraisers were flooded with donations, including one for a convenience store that had been smashed up and looted for cigarettes and alcohol. A peaceful protest. Yes. Obviously.

You can find all the discussion of why and how the riot happened online, I’m not going through it all here. But even I could see it developing that day on social media. The sheer outright lying and misinformation abroad in the ether was outrageous. Proprietors of social media  – and certain politicians  – should hang their heads in shame.

I’m leaving it there – though here’s a link to a report by Hope Not Hate if you’d like to see how things developed https://hopenothate.org.uk/2024/07/31/the-far-right-and-the-southport-riot-what-we-know-so-far/  – because I want to move on to my week – to the personal impact on someone who was not closely involved.

I go to a weekly co-working hub 10 miles away for a morning of work, companionship, chatter and lunch. Yesterday I found myself almost in tears as I talked to the two adults then present – one of whom had her nine year old daughter with her.

I was so upset I failed to think of the little girl’s feelings. Her mum has been very kind – I apologised immediately on WhatsApp so her daughter didn’t hear even more to trouble her. They’d already talked about it and, that same day, after her daughter asked her how she could keep safe, her mum talked it through with her. And made some practical changes I won’t go into. Lots of mums and dads will be doing the same thing.

Today I am still sad.

Am I also angry?

I thought I would be, but no, I am, I think, quite deeply distressed. And bear in mind I’m way out on the fringes of this event.

The context is important. The prof was away for most of the week, deeply immersed in research with Belgian colleagues, and I was not comfortable talking to anyone else. Yet.

On the night of the riots I was awoken, well after midnight, by an ambulance siren. The sound itself isn’t unusual as we’re not far from a turn-off to the local hospital. But this was loud. Going to the window I saw the ambulance outside my house, where it turned round before speeding back up our cul de sac. I guessed that satnav instructions had directed it to turn the wrong way –  emergency services had been called in from out of town so it may have been a crew unfamiliar with the route.

I slept very badly, as I have all week. Next morning I heard that the emergency services had been working until gone 1.30 am. All this in a town that was traumatised. A town where loved ones and friends were dealing with hideous anxiety as they awaited news about the fate of those badly injured.

Yesterday afternoon, three days after the killings, I went to a new supermarket towards one edge of town.  A huge – really huge –police van stood at a far end of the car park. As I shopped, out on the road emergency sirens blared out several times and each time I noticed I was not alone in stopping and looking out through the windows. The supermarket is not far from the hospital, so this is to be expected. But we have become hyper-sensitive to sirens.

I was told by a ‘friend’ who has gone over to what I regard as the ‘dark side’ that this and other ‘protests’ that are being organised and incited elsewhere are justified, a response to being ignored. The justification is that ‘they’ (guess who) have been getting away with crimes and the mainstream media and establishment have been covering it up, partly through lefty woke racial sensitivity. Or whatever. This is what they’re protesting. Oh – and immigrants in general. Of course.

Sirens have just gone blaring by the end of our road, many of them. We are tense, wondering, what now? It will take even those barely affected, like me, some time to recover from this awful crime and the unforgivable riots that followed, but, meanwhile, I am going to try my best not to hate, but to hope.

Posted in Britain now & then | Tagged , , , , , , , | 15 Comments

As the nights draw in…

Posted on October 13, 2020 by memoirsofahusk

Here in the northern hemisphere, autumn is wiping its muddy feet on the mat, stippling trees in the beautiful hues of their decay. Night is claiming the hours of dawn and dusk abandoned by our hot, bright star. And winter is waiting out there, lurking on the horizon.

Which means …

… it’s almost time for curling up with a hot drink (or a glass of wine) and a good book. Escaping into fictional world. Forgetting about the leaky roof and broken boiler (sigh) and other tediously practical daily concerns.

It’s a time of year when I’m drawn to stories that speak to my inner child. ‘The Box of Delights’ by John Masefield, the Moomins hibernating – and, of course, ‘The Snow Queen.’

I’m also drawn to write my own little stories – of mystery, magic and hope in the world.

If you’ve been with me for some time, you may remember ‘Three Winters’ Tales of Darkness and Light.’ Well, the lovely picture which adorns this post is taken from – tantara – a hand-crafted, 36-page booklet containing not just those three tales but six beautiful little illustrations in black and white.

I don’t really like the ‘tantara’ bit of selling my wares, so I’m delighted that, thanks to Siân Bailey – a children’s illustrator partial to fairy tales and mythology – I can proclaim this booklet beautiful!

Siân has worked for many of the major publishing companies, such as Random House and Puffin, and I was delighted when she agreed to interpret my words. Even more so when she chose to do it with little scraper-board illustrations. My father was something of a scraper board artist, once upon a time.

I also had the pleasure of working on it with Ken Burnley at the Museum of Printing in Birkenhead, across the Mersey from Liverpool.  Ken hand-trimmed all the pages, hand-typeset and printed the cover, hand-applied the detail of one of Sian’s illustrations to the front – and then surpassed himself by sewing the thing together.

Ken turned a mere pamphlet into something for which there isn’t a good enough word (or if there is I can’t find it).  Watch the little video and you’ll see a craftsman but hear a writer (which he is) at work.

 

The text was perfectly printed on just the right paper by Rufford Printing Company in Lancashire.

Me? Well, I wrote the tales, which have gone down well with test readers, but if you just want something good to look at – perhaps to give as a present – you won’t be disappointed.

It’s a limited edition of 250, I am numbering them individually –  no cheating! 

The tales are for sale through my revamped online shop, click here to find out more:

 Cosi & Veyn (go to ‘Short Reads’)

If you are outside the UK please ask me for a postage price if you want more than one copy and I can send you a link for tailor-made payment. Otherwise, you may pay online by credit or debit card.

And, on another note:

I hope you have all stayed safe and well through this trying year. I suspect many of you, like me, have been reassessing what’s important in your life.  For me, that means writing. Poetry, mostly. Though the Covid crisis has wreaked havoc with my muse.

Like many people, it’s also been a time for reconnecting with old friends, virtually. And how important they were when my husband was in hospital for five days last month, (not Covid-19). Then I experienced first-hand how awful it is to have to leave a very sick person at the door and not be able to see them again until they are safe to leave.

We must all do our best to keep this trickster C-19 at bay. It doesn’t only affect those who suffer it, the tentacles reach everywhere, into the fabric of our society.

As we ride our second wave, here in Britain, I wish you, wherever you are, peace, comfort and health.

Posted in Fiction, probably | Tagged , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Strange voices, strange times

Posted on July 25, 2020 by memoirsofahusk

I’ve always been shy, happier backstage than performing. But recently I’ve been lured into reading poetry. Invisibly!

I recently had a new (short) poem published in the first of a two-volume anthology on the theme of Deep Time from Black Bough Poetry. (Three more of mine are forthcoming in volume two).

The Deep Time theme was inspired by Underland, a book by Robert Macfarlane, writer, Cambridge Professor of English Literature and climate activist. This is what he had to say about the anthology:

It is a common trope in underworld stories from across cultures and centuries that a small entrance-point opens into complex hidden space. ‘Underland’ acted merely as that entrance-point for this ‘Black Bough’ volume; the writers and artists gathered here have carried out their own fathomings and explorations, and the result is a collection of work that feels both contemporary and mythic, urgent and ancient. Strange voices for strange times sing out here.

Faith, my poem in volume 1, is itself inspired by the first book in The Stone Book Quartet by Alan Garner. This short book felt as if it had been written for me. It’s a story of trust and confidence. Of desire and fulfilment, not always working out as expected. It is also a tale of rock and fossils. But most of all, it’s a tale of deep time.

Without further ado, here it is. All 40 sesconds of it.  I’ve put links below so you can support poetry by buying a copy, if you are able  – and feel so inclined:

Black Bough Poetry is the brainchild of a very supportive and inspiring editor,  Matthew MC Smith, as are these books.  Arresting images from Rebecca Wainwright illustrate the volume. All the poems that have been recorded for SoundCloud are listed here, as is the enigmatic theme music composed specially for the anthology by Stuart Rawlinson.

 

Here’s the link to Black Bough Poetry  via which you can buy Deep Time Volume 1

And here’s Underland by Robert Macfarlane

Thank you for reading – and for listening, if you have.  I really do appreciate it.

Wishing you all safety, well-being and the inner strength to cope with the uncertainty of these passing-strange times.

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Reaching for the light

Posted on April 6, 2020 by memoirsofahusk

How are you? Contagion is not confined to the physical, is it? I hope you are coping with the anxiety, the frustration, the uncertainty.

We are living through difficult times. The way we are used to doing things has been dismantled and the pieces tossed in a jumbled heap, like a game of pick up sticks. Where will they land? What will we extract?

Who knows? Not I, certainly.

But there are also wonderful old pleasures to rediscover – sitting up till the small hours reading a children’s book in my case!

To come to the point –  I’m popping back here for two reasons.

First

I have a poem published in a journal called ‘Broken Spine’ the first issue of a new print poetry/photography/art journal and was asked to do a video reading. Before you sigh, anticipating a sombre reading in a moody setting, I opted to do a video composed of still pictures of our local beach, with a voice-over. I hope you will find it cheering, especially if you cannot get out to walk in the world outside.

Secondly

I wrote a post about an unusual tree I came across on my ramblings, which is almost a parable for the time of Coronavirus. I posted it on my other site maidinbritain which shows off images to better advantage. It’s short – by my standards, if you have some leisure time to read it, the link’s here: Reaching for the Light.

Keep well, keep safe, keep your distance – and keep hoping.

Posted in Art, jaunts & going out, Britain now & then, Lancashire & the golf coast, Nature notes, Thinking, or ranting, or both | Tagged , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Madonna of the Penultimate Train

Posted on December 7, 2018 by memoirsofahusk

Not the last train, the one before. Packed, but not rowdy. Not teetering, precariously, on the border between alcoholic hilarity and boozed belligerence, like the last train of the night.

The seats are arranged in fours. Rows of two-seats-facing-two-seats running either side of narrow aisles.

A group of four young men with perma-grins, knees twitching, phones clasped in hands, tolerates an enforced interval. An interval in what? Smoking, drinking, war-gaming? I’ll leave the possibilities there, though there are others, places I don’t want to go.

And they sound quite normal. Heads-back, mouth-open laughter mingling with cries of ‘boss’ and ‘sound’ – and not too many expletives deleted. Nice lads, perhaps.

An older couple sits, side by side, programmes held aloft. Whether they’re really re-reading the (classical) concert notes or warding off the world it’s hard to say. He wears a hat. She wears a proper coat. And leather gloves.

The carriage is full. But the noise is muted, for the time of night and the time of week, Thursday going on weekend.

Across the aisle, in the parallel foursome, three male individuals sit. One lolls, head against the window, adding another greasy smear to the picture formed by other heads and fingers.

One chews on a thumb.  Twitches now and then in his seat. Stares around the carriage, as if looking for a lost friend – or enemy.

The other reads a book. Yes, a book.

The picture fades to black and white. The volume is turned right down on laughter, shuffling, coughing, sneezing – and conversation.

The fourth seat, next to the aisle, diagonally opposite me, is all there is.

A picture in full colour.

A three dimensional image, standing out against the flat backdrop of monotone shades.

A young woman. But young only in physical form.

A Mona Lisa without the supercilious smile. A Black Madonna who’s not black, not an icon, not a painting, but three dimensional  flesh and blood.

A statue brought to life, warm, living, breathing. Though you can’t see the movement.

She sits, hands on lap, looking straight ahead. But seeing – what?

There’s something about this person, her eyes, her un-self-conscious poise, her stillness – her depth – that makes me wonder.

‘Don’t stare,’ he says, the man I married. But he stares too.

‘She doesn’t see,’ I say. And it’s true.

Her eyes are so compelling. Full of mystery. As if she has known the woes of the world. Pain – and lost joy.

It’s the second week of Advent. Christmas not too far away.

I think of that young woman, two thousand years ago, or so. Giving birth to a boy-baby. In a stable. Her joy at holding a healthy child. Secure in the love of a husband – tolerant, given the circumstances.

Safe, despite the occupation of their homelands.

Or were they safe?

The strange men who came from the East, with gifts meaning – what? Did they really follow a star?

What did they think of this babe in arms, who did they think he might be?

And that King the wise men spoke with, Herod. Their warnings about his intentions.

A fearful king. So afraid of an infant pretender he had all male babies murdered.

The young mother’s joy at that birth – how long did it last?

How soon did that first Madonna know that her son, who found an independent voice so young, who said he must be about his father’s business, who learned the carpenter’s trade but gave it up and left to wander and preach – would die a brutal death?

A carpenter’s son. Nailed to the very wood that had been his family’s living. In agony.

When I think about my Madonna of the Penultimate Train, when I remember her face, I see a tear escaping, rolling down one smooth, perfect, healthily plump cheek from one of her dark, limpid eyes.

I see her blink. And her hands fold back on her lap, like a dove settling on warm grass, after brushing one tear away.

But there were no tears. She did not cry.

And as the train pulled into her station she rose, walked to the doors and was gone.

More than five years have passed – and still I can see her. Still imagine her.

And still, I wonder.

A beautiful Black Madonna from Wroclaw, Poland

I brought this post forward a few days as I have decided not to finish this little series of pen portraits and have another, non-seasonal one, waiting in the wings.

The flight of Mary and Joseph put me in mind of those fleeing persecution with little or nothing to their names. So here are contact details for some more charitable organisations, this time helping refugees – there will only be more as our climate changes and conflicts continue  – and children in need worldwide.

This came up on my Facebook feed this week and for once their intrusion was welcome. A great idea, a shop where you can buy things for refugees, in real life or online:

https://choose.love/

I know some people don’t feel the UN gives value for money but good people in the UNHCR and UNICEF do a lot of valuable work both with refugees and for children:

https://www.unicef.org/

https://www.unhcr.org/

The flight into Egypt of Mary, Joseph & baby Jesus to escape the slaughter of innocents by King Herod. Paining on the wall of Helga Trefaldighets Kyrka (Holy Trinity Church) Uppsala, Sweden

And the slaughter.

 

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A winter’s Eve, on the train

Posted on December 6, 2018 by memoirsofahusk

Her hair is glossy-pale. Slicked across her head into a neat ponytail with a hint of a curl at the end. Part blonde, part blue, pale blue. Colours of a clear winter’s sky on the eastern horizon, seconds after the sun has set.

Her head is turned to look at the window. She can’t see out.

The night is dark, raindrops cling to the dirt-streaked glass, glisten in the swift-passing lights of the suburbs.

But perhaps she sees something, not nothing.

Her legs are pipe-cleaner thin. Threaded into pale jeans, improbably tight. Slashed, but clean.

One leg, the left, is crossed over the other, her left foot tucked behind her right calf. Contorted. Yet ballerina-graceful.

She hunches forward, one arm wrapped around her middle, her hand grasping her side as if to hold herself together. The other hand cups her mouth, hiding her expression.

But her eyes can’t be hidden.

Sad? Fearful? Both?

She is scrunched. As if she would like to screw herself up, like an old till receipt, a final demand, a rejection, and throw herself in the bin.

 This is the first of four pen portraits I plan to publish, one for each week of Advent, with some ideas for charities to which you might donate. The choices are personal and subjective.

This is a terrible time of the year to be lonely, to be suicidal. There is so much talk of joy and happiness, merriment and family that a person living a grey life can feel like the only one excluded from a brightly coloured world.

The British charity, Samaritans, is especially relevant to this observation on my local train service, Merseyrail. Here’s an extract from the Samaritans’ website:

“Since 2010, as part of their partnership with Network Rail and the wider rail industry Samaritans has trained almost 18,000 rail staff and British Transport Police officers with the skills to help someone at risk of suicide on the railway. Over 2500 have also been trained with skills to recognise the symptoms of trauma in colleagues and to help them seek support.”

The Samaritans organisation does much more than that and you can learn more (and donate) here:

https://www.samaritans.org

It is more difficult to track down an organisation that works on mental health internationally, but these professionals seem to be doing a worthwhile job, spreading more enlightened methods of treating mental illness around the world – and they can accept donations:

About

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A change of seasonal plan

Posted on December 5, 2018 by memoirsofahusk

Well.

What a difference a day makes.

The last twenty four little hours have seen me race to the top of Creative Peak. Happy and dancing, like Maria in the Sound of Music. Without the voice.

Then a gust from a passing gale blew me right down the chasm of Thoughtless Comment. So it’s been a restless night.

But today I’m climbing the gentle slope of Well, What If?

I had planned to start publishing the first of my seasonal tales this week, having written parts one and two so far to huge critical acclaim (translated: the prof liked them).

But several disruptors joined forces to make me rethink.

So….

Instead of a quartet of magical imaginings, I’m going to feature some pen portraits. Observations of people seen in these wintry, northern hemisphere days, on our local commuter train.

Obviously not our local commuter train. But I love this picture of innocence and happiness – what could be more cheering than childish joy in this fog of world wide gloom?

And I will add some links to charities that could benefit from our generosity at this over-commercialised, over-expectant, over-hyped time of year. Though – but no, dammit, I’ll be optimistic.

After all, I’ve just reached that point in my climb up Well What If? that’s called, You Never Know.

Irrelevant photo. But I like it

 

Posted in Thinking, or ranting, or both | Tagged , , , , , , | 16 Comments