Under the Clock – Amy

Amy stared without seeing as the conductor inspected her return ticket – she’d not expected  to use it quite so soon. It had been a heart wrenching moment when she’d caught sight of that chap with Jenny under the clock. From the back he’d looked just like Des, stopping her in her tracks as the past suddenly seemed to materialise before her eyes. It had taken a moment or two to realise that this was someone entirely different. In fact she recognised him as the guy who’d been around when Jenny had been producing that play two or three months ago. What was his name? Ethan, that was it. She wasn’t in any way surprised that they seemed to have finally got it together and realised that it probably answered her recent feeling that Jenny had been somehow distracted. She’d slipped away, no doubt she’d hear all about it soon enough.

But that moment under the clock had really shaken her. She’d not thought about Des for years, had managed to put the whole sordid affair out of her mind. Now she couldn’t shake off the image or the memories that came flooding back of how they used to meet at that very spot. She a rather naive 20 year old, he not so old really, maybe 30-ish, the age she was now. Nothing wrong in what they were doing he’d said, it was just… Well people get the wrong idea when a professor and a student fell in love so best to wait until you graduate Amy, you see that don’t you?

And of course, like a fool she’d agreed. She was in love, she’d have agreed to anything. She didn’t see the clandestine afternoons at the Central Hotel as something furtive or sleazy, but instead lived for the moment when they they would be free to be together properly. They’d get married, have lots of children, live happily ever after… Her eyes smarted as she remembered. She took her book from her bag and tried to read but the words swam before her eyes. Her usual ploy of staying frantically busy just wasn’t working today.

Today she couldn’t dismiss the memory of that moment 10 years ago when a tall woman in a striking red coat had walked right up to her as she approached their usual rendezvous point under the clock. A tall woman who had come up close and hissed in her face, “How dare you! There’s no point looking for him, you little bitch, he’ll not be coming today, or ever!” She’d thought she was going to faint as she struggled to make sense of the barrage of words that followed, hearing them as if they were coming from far away. “Bastard. Bitch. Whore. Wife and 3 children. How COULD he?” Making any kind of reply was impossible in the face of the torrent of fury and hatred. What could she say anyway? “I didn’t know”, “I’m sorry”…?

Any shuddered as she remembered those eyes boring into her as she backed away and managed to stumble to a seat where she sat entirely still for what seemed like an eternity until the pain in the pit of her stomach abated and she felt she could stand up without falling over.

She’d lost the baby that night. Maybe it was just as well.

Thank God, the train had finally arrived at her station. She gathered her things and prepared to step back into her life of perpetual motion.

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Mothers Day & Two Years of Blogging

I started this blog coming up to Mother’s Day 2017; I write this one on Mothering Sunday 2019. Didn’t really know back then what the blog was for, other than a desire to share what was in my head. I am somewhat surprised to find, looking back, that I have actually carried out what I intended to do – write about family ramblings, history and observations. I don’t even need to edit my “About” page – except to note that I’m now 65 – as it’s pretty much what I would say today.

I don’t know why I should find this so surprising. I suppose its reassuring to find that I can look back on my 60-odd posts with a degree of pride, and realise that it was probably in me all the time to write consistently and regularly, instead of my rather sporadic attempts in the past. I suppose there was a fear at the back of my mind that I’d make a start only for it to peter out after a while. But it hasn’t. I have what you might call a body of work behind me now and I no longer worry that I’ll run out of things to say. I have screeds of topics lined up that will keep me writing for weeks, months, years to come.

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Some posts almost write themselves, pop in to your head practically fully formed. Others (like this one!) are more of a process of discovery, of delving into one’s skull to try and find out what it is I want to say about a topic. Even when there’s a lot of research, there’s always the question of how to present it, what to leave in, what to leave out. Because I’ve realised that the way you tell a story reveals much, above all, about yourself. You don’t necessarily write it all down, but the process forces you to examine and perhaps re-evaluate what you thought you knew. If you are delving into the past it’s almost inevitable that you will find pain and hurt, whether its your own or someone else’s.

I’ve mentioned before that my intention here is not to uncover dark secrets, but rather to appreciate better the circumstances that made people – and yes, myself – who they were. And more than that, to understand and forgive. The stories, the facts, are always fascinating, the truths universal, and, I venture to suggest, worth sharing!

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I have to confess I felt a bit bereft when I recently came to the end of what turned out to be the 10-part saga of the history of my childhood home. I’d imagined it would be worth two or three posts when I started, but once I got into it…! And the latter part of course was largely about my mother, whose story, for more than half of her long life, was inextricably entwined with that of our house.

And yet she left it without a backward glance. I always felt, in that time when she became confused and lost the ability to safely be left on her own, that it was a kindness that her brain had drawn a veil over that period. She didn’t know it, but we sisters took over the care of the house from her, cleared it out, gave it a fresh coat of paint and, not without some considerable soul searching, let it pass on to someone else.

The one thing my Mum never forgot was her love for all of us. Names would come and go, but those feeling were at her core. I could (and probably will!) grumble on about the shortcomings of my upbringing, but at the end of the day none of that matters any more. I read once that one’s parents’ shortcomings are what make us who we are. I really hope that’s true because, though we do our best, we’re only human and we all fall short in one way or another. I never cease to be grateful and proud of the amazing, delightful people that my own children have turned out to be.

In the end, what matters to me on this Mothering Sunday is the love of my children and grandchildren and the infinite tenderness of my memories of that singular woman who was my mother.

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