Page updated 22-10-2023-RL
The Shawl
None of the grown-ups ever asked us where we had been, the skewed logic being, I suppose, if we were not with them indoors, we must be outdoors. We did love being outside. The garden of this grand, Victorian villa was huge, as I remember it, with sweeping borders, manicured lawns, and trees. The trees were mostly willows and apple trees. I remember these because they were so old and by far the easiest to climb.
Inside the house, our favourite area was the loft. It was a twilight zone betwixt indoors and outdoors. Truly, it was a hideous, creepy place. So, we loved it, offering as it did that hybrid frisson of secrecy, darkness, webs and inaccessible corners. It wasn’t easy to get into; it lacked any ladder so we would pile onto each other’s shoulders and haul up the last one (the smallest) by dangling over the lip and clutching at her flailing arms. These belonged to Agnes, the youngest of the four of us. She was a pain but, had we not included her, our secret would be out. She never could keep her mouth shut. And she was recovering from measles, so we had to “be kind to her”. (Why? She had only had a few spots!)
Somehow, Agnes was always the one who would emerge covered in cobwebs, looking as if she were about to audition as Miss Havisham. I suppose she could squeeze herself into the tiniest recesses where a whole undisturbed biome lurked.
18th July 1961 was brother Geoffrey’s 10th birthday. He had asked for – and had been given by Nanna – an absurdly chunky ‘Ever Ready’ torch, with ‘Feature Flashing Facility’. We celebrated the day by smuggling a feast into the loft. Jam sandwiches and four custard creams followed by a pack of Rowntree’s strawberry jelly, which we tore apart into vaguely equal portions of sticky, bright red cubes. Then we explored the capability of the torch, both in ‘steady’ and ‘flashing’ modes. We held it beneath our chins and made wavering ‘woo-hoo’ noises. Side-splitting. Of course, Agnes started to whimper, so we had to stop that amusing jape.
With this new gadget, exploring became more productive. The first thing we unearthed (using Agnes as a mole to retrieve it) was a large box of old photos. There were sepia photos, black and white (some with frilled edges) and even some with faded colours. We were baffled by the majority of them, our young minds having only just grasped the twin concepts of ‘time’ and ‘generations’ meaning we couldn’t work out who was who, far less the idea that someone else would know these people, would have loved them, maybe still mourned them. There were baby photos – so many baby photos. Was this Grandad as a baby? It was certainly bald enough to be Grandad. Hilarious. We guffawed over the clothing, especially that worn by the children of our age, as they stood wide-eyed and with fixed expressions, not so much clothed as upholstered.
The second treasure trove was a small case. I later learned this was called a ‘vanity case’ for reasons I cannot fathom. Inside, there was an army cap and some medals, festooned with bright ribbons. There was a logbook and a diary. Tony, the eldest, grabbed these to read in bed. There were more photos, including several of a very grand-looking couple, dressed in shiny black, as far as we could tell. They were obviously in a studio, with a large and somewhat inappropriate potted plant precariously positioned to one side. We agreed the woman bore a passing resemblance to our Mum. She had, across her lap, a young child of about two, we thought, loosely wrapped and tightly – but not closely - held. The child appeared to be disinterested and floppy with large, staring eyes, focused on a point beyond the viewer. I recall how we were all struck by the strangeness of this trio. Geoffrey declared it ‘creepy’, Agnes found it ‘sweet’ and I, well, I felt there was such a deep sadness here. The parents of the child looked exhausted, haunted and hollow. “That kid looks proper poorly”, I remember saying. And Tony, distracted momentarily from his reading, wiped his nose on his cuff and declared, with the delicacy of a mallet, “Dead, more like”.
It was at this point it fell from the case. It had been white, now it was aged and cream. The shawl appeared to have been knitted from gossamer threads into a fantastical floral pattern. It was so fine, we hardly dared to unfold it. When we did, we could see the corners included a willow tree design, embroidered onto a background gently dotted with what looked like… yes, pink apple blossom, these colours still bright and oddly familiar. We had just seen it; it was enveloping the child in the photo.
In the bottom of the case, tucked away, we found a piece of yellowed paper. Headed “Barking and Dagenham”, this form, handwritten, was about a Miriam Agnes. It stated she had died in 1918, aged 4 years and 3 months. Cause of death: measles.
In silence, we refolded the shawl and replaced the contents of the case, including Tony’s reading material. We never went into the loft again and, more than 60 years later, we have never spoken of this day.
© Jill Hicking 15.9.24
Return to Creative Writing home page
The Shawl
None of the grown-ups ever asked us where we had been, the skewed logic being, I suppose, if we were not with them indoors, we must be outdoors. We did love being outside. The garden of this grand, Victorian villa was huge, as I remember it, with sweeping borders, manicured lawns, and trees. The trees were mostly willows and apple trees. I remember these because they were so old and by far the easiest to climb.
Inside the house, our favourite area was the loft. It was a twilight zone betwixt indoors and outdoors. Truly, it was a hideous, creepy place. So, we loved it, offering as it did that hybrid frisson of secrecy, darkness, webs and inaccessible corners. It wasn’t easy to get into; it lacked any ladder so we would pile onto each other’s shoulders and haul up the last one (the smallest) by dangling over the lip and clutching at her flailing arms. These belonged to Agnes, the youngest of the four of us. She was a pain but, had we not included her, our secret would be out. She never could keep her mouth shut. And she was recovering from measles, so we had to “be kind to her”. (Why? She had only had a few spots!)
Somehow, Agnes was always the one who would emerge covered in cobwebs, looking as if she were about to audition as Miss Havisham. I suppose she could squeeze herself into the tiniest recesses where a whole undisturbed biome lurked.
18th July 1961 was brother Geoffrey’s 10th birthday. He had asked for – and had been given by Nanna – an absurdly chunky ‘Ever Ready’ torch, with ‘Feature Flashing Facility’. We celebrated the day by smuggling a feast into the loft. Jam sandwiches and four custard creams followed by a pack of Rowntree’s strawberry jelly, which we tore apart into vaguely equal portions of sticky, bright red cubes. Then we explored the capability of the torch, both in ‘steady’ and ‘flashing’ modes. We held it beneath our chins and made wavering ‘woo-hoo’ noises. Side-splitting. Of course, Agnes started to whimper, so we had to stop that amusing jape.
With this new gadget, exploring became more productive. The first thing we unearthed (using Agnes as a mole to retrieve it) was a large box of old photos. There were sepia photos, black and white (some with frilled edges) and even some with faded colours. We were baffled by the majority of them, our young minds having only just grasped the twin concepts of ‘time’ and ‘generations’ meaning we couldn’t work out who was who, far less the idea that someone else would know these people, would have loved them, maybe still mourned them. There were baby photos – so many baby photos. Was this Grandad as a baby? It was certainly bald enough to be Grandad. Hilarious. We guffawed over the clothing, especially that worn by the children of our age, as they stood wide-eyed and with fixed expressions, not so much clothed as upholstered.
The second treasure trove was a small case. I later learned this was called a ‘vanity case’ for reasons I cannot fathom. Inside, there was an army cap and some medals, festooned with bright ribbons. There was a logbook and a diary. Tony, the eldest, grabbed these to read in bed. There were more photos, including several of a very grand-looking couple, dressed in shiny black, as far as we could tell. They were obviously in a studio, with a large and somewhat inappropriate potted plant precariously positioned to one side. We agreed the woman bore a passing resemblance to our Mum. She had, across her lap, a young child of about two, we thought, loosely wrapped and tightly – but not closely - held. The child appeared to be disinterested and floppy with large, staring eyes, focused on a point beyond the viewer. I recall how we were all struck by the strangeness of this trio. Geoffrey declared it ‘creepy’, Agnes found it ‘sweet’ and I, well, I felt there was such a deep sadness here. The parents of the child looked exhausted, haunted and hollow. “That kid looks proper poorly”, I remember saying. And Tony, distracted momentarily from his reading, wiped his nose on his cuff and declared, with the delicacy of a mallet, “Dead, more like”.
It was at this point it fell from the case. It had been white, now it was aged and cream. The shawl appeared to have been knitted from gossamer threads into a fantastical floral pattern. It was so fine, we hardly dared to unfold it. When we did, we could see the corners included a willow tree design, embroidered onto a background gently dotted with what looked like… yes, pink apple blossom, these colours still bright and oddly familiar. We had just seen it; it was enveloping the child in the photo.
In the bottom of the case, tucked away, we found a piece of yellowed paper. Headed “Barking and Dagenham”, this form, handwritten, was about a Miriam Agnes. It stated she had died in 1918, aged 4 years and 3 months. Cause of death: measles.
In silence, we refolded the shawl and replaced the contents of the case, including Tony’s reading material. We never went into the loft again and, more than 60 years later, we have never spoken of this day.
© Jill Hicking 15.9.24
Return to Creative Writing home page
Think you might be interested in joining this group?
1. If you are not already a member of Southwell U3A but are interested in finding out more about this group and/or would like to attend one of their group meetings please click on the Contact Us link and let us know. We will arrange for the Group Leader to get in touch with you as soon as possible.
2. If you are already a member of Southwell U3A and are interested in joining this group you can contact the Group Leader directly. Their details are in the Group Leaders page in our Membership Area of the website. As a Southwell U3A member you will have received the password for the Members Area pages in Newsline. If you have forgotten the password please use the Contact Us facility on this website to request the password
|
© Southwell u3a Reg'd Charity No. 1132337
|