Had a fun day out in the West End yesterday with the Madre. It was a year to the day since she had a brain haemorrhage and nearly died, spending a month in hospital. We wanted to make it a special day out, and celebrated life in general with lunch and shopping and animated chat with a hint of friendly bickering.
Now that I’m dedicating my days to writing The Family Saga (it would be a crime for it not to be told), I am finding procrastination a real foe. It lurks in my morning cup of tea and tricks me into doing the dishes as a matter of priority, rather than focus on the writing at hand. Then just when I am settling down at my desk, it springs a phone call on me; a wrong number or a telesales person to lure me off track. Who was it that said “thinking about writing is not writing; only writing is writing”? So simple. So true.
Yesterday was a ‘free pass’ day to get inspired, play about and come back refreshed. Being a Tuesday, it was also ‘our day’ of the week, my Mother and me, for going somewhere, meeting up, gossip. We lunched in Zizzi’s off Byres Road, both choosing a delicious risotto – pumpkin and butternut squash for me, chicken and the dreaded funghi for her. “Does this come with rice?” she asked the waiter, despite my reassurances that of course it did, being a risotto and all.
As we tucked in, mine accompanied by ‘Goddess’ olives – apparently fresher than normal olives – I lamented my lack of progress towards my writing goals, expressing my worry that the Writing Police would come after me. For all I knew they had my details on their radar as we ate; were sniffing me out to publicly embarrass me and strip me of my self-appointed title of ‘writer’. What could I possible do to defend myself against such an offensive? She reassured me that the Writing Police don’t actually exist, and we discussed what a big change and a big step it is that I am taking, so it’s perfectly normal not to be in a routine as yet. I agreed and promised myself I would Get Back on Track. Tomorrow.
As we left Zizzi’s a few splotches of rain were gearing up for an onslaught, so we headed for the Nancy Smillie Shop for which I had an as yet unspent birthday voucher. I knew within a few minutes what I wanted to spend it on – a beautiful rugged throw in malted browns and dreamy heathers, all upcycled eco greatness with an enduring rough-hewn texture that I know will last and last and be loved forever more.
Immediately I had a flash-forward in my head of picnics in the summer, the blankety throw snugly waiting in the boot of the car for just such an outing. Perhaps Easter weekend in the garden (atop a waterproof layer of course), sprawled round a family BBQ? Or in the spare room (that mythological creature) as an extra guest blanket, layered nicely over the vintage suitcase I had yet to discover. The muted but elegant hues with a splash of smart navy pizzazz would perfectly meld with that of our room; the weight of it providing reassurance on stormy winter nights or in the throes of a nasty flu. In the living room by the fire it could drape casually over a chair or stack artfully all folded and neat and nice. If I had a caravan or Winnebago, it would be the first thing I’d pack for any journey. It wouldn’t be out of place on the beach. I’m wrapped up in it now…
Oh how many uses, how many wonderful memories to come. And perhaps in another 30 years I will pick up the blanket, pilling slightly with frayed tassels, smelling of wear and care and love, and remember the day I bought it when I was 30 years old with my Mother on a blustery April day down Byres Road, on the anniversary of her brain haemorrhage. I won’t be sad, but it will be significant. Just like the blanket. Just like life.
Snapping back from my reverie, buoyed by my decisive instincts on the blanket purchase, we continued on to the Ruthven Mews Arcade of antiques and vintage objets d’art.
Was it a coincidence that browsing through a box of old postcards (I LOVE old postcards!) I found a bundle of Marine Art Poster postcards and I knew before I saw it there was going to be one depicting the very ship that begins The Family Saga? The Cunard line ship that brought home my Mother and my Nana from South Africa in 1946 – the Samaria. The one I researched for hours online and described in my prose with a searing accuracy, now that I could see it for real? I was stunned and would have handed over any amount to secure that postcard, though luckily the cost was really only 50p. So I bought the Mauretania too.
This discovery sparked a recounting of remembered events and experiences, all entirely pertinent to the plot at hand. Had I known that the Samaria had in fact been chopped up for match wood at the end of its useful life? No. How many matches then – 500,000? 500,000,000? A billion? How many stories did that ship have the pleasure (or the pain) of igniting in its lifetime? How many lives did it unwittingly touch?
Another revelation, a darker revelation, went something along the lines of my Mother, on the ship, 18 months old at the time and happily playing in the crèche. A strange male figure who lingered and fidgeted around the crèche for a good part of his time on-board took a shine to her. My Nana, a no-nonsense woman…actually no, what does that even mean? She was rather full of nonsense at times so that wouldn’t be true. A responsible woman is better. She had a bad feeling about this man anyway. Bad feeling = bad man and she swiftly removed my Mother from the clasps of this louche loiterer who wanted to rock her on his knee and hold her tiny hand.
Years and years later she sent a cutting from the newspaper to my Mother, announcing the man’s death. He had been a child molester and a child murderer. A Mother knows. Thank god for Mother’s instinct.
So then we sallied forth and gazed and gushed over a selection of other precious findings, some overpriced tat, but mainly out-of-our-league magnificence, amazing curios and delightful little knick knacks. Until we reached the over-powering authenticity of second hand and vintage clothing – amazing though it is, sometimes, after a long afternoon of wandering it gets too much and you just need Fresh Air.
So we left, me whining because I didn’t have the cash on me for an amazing suitcase find and you can’t use cards (am I too posh to carry cash, or is it just that I don’t have any cash to carry?), and as we got out into the sun-smattered cobbles of the lane they instantly blotted with rain. Neither of us had coats and there is only so far a pashmina can take you during an unseasonable storm. We ran for it and then the hails came down so we sheltered under the canopy of Thorntons. Then my phone rang. Husband. “Are you having a good day?” My little mesh summer bag was wet and I was fearful for the postcards – “Yes. No. It’s hailing. Got to go.” He has that sixth sense for phoning in an emergency. Run to the car and we’re soaked and need a cup of tea. Get back to Mum’s and make tea and have Easter nest cornflake cakes and talk family history until dusk settles in.
It’s an auspicious day and we’ve had a lovely time together and it was worth every second. I only wish it had gone that way a year ago. Then she sneaks into her treasure chest of goodies and gives me a Galaxy Easter egg and brings out a canvas wrapped in a bin bag. “Is now a good time for your final birthday gift?” she asks me. I nod, and can’t imagine what is under there, though a conversation we had the week before about art brings it back. I know really. I know what it is.
When I was studying Higher Art I was obsessed with chiaroscuro and the artists that used it. She pulled the canvas from the bin bag and a neatly wrapped mass of bubble wrap was presented. I could see it. I could see what was underneath. Tamara De Lempicka. It was an ‘original copy’ of a beautiful work, the lady in a green dress or ‘Girl with Gloves’.
She bought it for me specifically with the money she got from selling some old gold jewellery of my Great Grandparents, who I unfortunately never met. They raised her and meant everything to her and she wanted me to have a gift from them to mark my 30th birthday. She said it was a gift of a beautiful woman, from a beautiful woman, to a beautiful woman. It was significant. I just stared at the canvas.
Her Art Deco elegance, her careful poise, the coy but somehow sad tipping of the wide-brimmed hat. The enduring sage of her dress that sometimes appears emerald, other times dampened down chartreuse. She is herself a Pandora of possible interpretations and from now on she will be my muse. My Writing Police. My lady luck with the joyous curls and sharp talon-esque gloves.
What a wonderful, wild-weathered whisper of a day. It was significant. I miss living in the West End.
1 Comment | In: Lifestyle, Shopping | tags: byres road, cunard, nancy smillie shop, ruthven mews arcade, samaria, Shopping, tamara de lempicka, west end, zizzi's. | #
