I Grieve Simply

In spite of the lockdown restrictions, mourning my friend Joyce Brand, who died on 18th February, is a simple grief. Joyce was a good and wise friend, and I want to acknowledge, in this small space, something of the huge impact she had on my life, and my gratitude to her. 

I loved Joyce. I loved her company. I miss it. I will go on missing her. Like this grief, our friendship was also straightforward, and it was enacted in good conversation based in shared values. 

We enjoyed many such conversations in the company of her many friends in various situations over the years - weddings, dinner parties, book readings, social work classrooms. These occasions were always fun, but it's the memories of the one-to-one times with her I treasure most. Having Joyce's full attention was a privilege. If you were lucky enough to experience it, you will know what I mean. 

When I think of Joyce, I think of her smiling to welcome me into her home. She moved several times in the twenty or so years of our friendship, always thinking ahead, planning, downsizing to her final home in Ludlow a few years ago. If only we all had such an instinct for the obvious need to become increasingly grounded. It helped that she liked moving.  

When I think of Joyce, I think of sitting in an armchair as she went to make tea. She'd bring in a tray loaded with cups, saucers, teapot, milk jug, and cucumber sandwiches on a pretty china plate. Latterly, she'd wheel in a tea trolley. We talked of what was in the news, what we were reading or watching, of the benefits of an early afternoon nap. Theses talks were sprinkled with whole-hearted laughter, happiness, and a generous dash of hilarious derision for those at the centre of the latest political scandal.

Joyce treated me as an equal, but we weren't. It was right that I looked up to her: older, wiser, smart as a button. I was usually hungry for guidance about a stage of life, or a work situation, that she had already negotiated. When we reached that personal territory, she would help me to see more clearly how to navigate it kindly, and as myself. 

Joyce, who enjoyed the company of men enormously,  set no store by the cultural and enduring narrative that we women need a man to complete our lives. She lived independently, independent, surrounded by friends who came and went from her home, bringing conversation, freshly dug potatoes, crossword tips, and the ability to move furniture, or put up shelves. There was a realism in Joyce's advice. "Do you have a pension?" she'd ask, out of concern for my future self. She knew that independence is a reality born out of practicalities, not simply a frame of mind. 

When I published a book at the end of last year, I knew I wanted Joyce's name on the back cover. Her endorsement, when it came, felt like an old-fashioned blessing: her hand laid on my bowed head. It was a moment of approval I will hold close in the coming weeks. 

At the end of those one-to-ones, after we'd chatted for a couple of hours, I'd leave her company, thinking, "When I grow up, I want to be like Joyce." 

I still do. 

Read more about Joyce here:

https://www.shropshirestar.com/news/local-hubs/south-shropshire/ludlow/2021/02/23/she-made-a-real-difference-ludlow-health-campaigner-joyce-brand-dies-at-86/

I Set A Breakfast Tray

My grandmother used to correct me: "It's set. You set a table. Hens lay eggs." 

I think this insistence on the verb set being the correct way to describe the arrangement of cutlery, glasses, etc. might be named a shibboleth: a characteristic principle, often outdated, of a group that distinguishes it from another group, or class. 

It felt, when she emphasised set, as if Granny were hanging on to something for dear life.

This grandparental voice is clear in my head whenever I prepare to serve a meal. I still set tables, cannot do anything else, and, this morning, it being Valentine's Day, I set a tray with teapot, jug, plate, glass, and mug, ready for breakfast in bed.

I selected the teapot first, 50th birthday gift from my Longest-Serving Friend. I spooned in equal measures of English Breakfast and Earl Grey loose leaf tea. 

Next, the tiny milk jug, just enough for one, a present from Charlotte. It comes from the Emma Bridgewater factory in Stoke-on-Trent where she and I used to, and will again, meet regularly for tea served in their patterned mugs, large slices of cake, and meanderings round the factory shop. I miss her, our long and easy catch-ups, spiced with giggles. 

The plate is also Emma Bridgewater: one I bought myself in an on-line payday spree last autumn. Toast tastes better when eaten from a plate whose colours complement strawberry jam. 

The glass, filled with freshly-squeezed blood orange juice, is one I bought from IKEA in Antwerp. They can be bought from IKEA anywhere, but this one is a souvenir from the seven trips I made there to see my son over the three years he lived there: trips which came to an abrupt end with the pandemic.

Finally the mug, lovely gift from Mike. Last night, I wondered darkly how long I have to go without writing a poem before I stop being a poet. This morning, preparing a Valentine's breakfast for one, this was the obvious mug to choose. 

I sat in bed this morning in the company of crockery, eating toast, drinking orange juice. Three times, I poured milk from the tiny jug into the mug-of-affirmation, before pouring on the English Breakfast / Earl Grey mix. With each mugful, I felt the warmth of love, in all its richness and many forms, grow stronger.  

I Phone A Friend

I phoned Bob this week, after years of thinking about him, sending and receiving Christmas cards. Happily, joyfully, he's well, in his 90s now. North London's still audible in his vowels, although he moved away, as I did, years ago.

When we met, I was 5 or 6 years old, and he was around 40. He had been widowed: devastated by the death of his first wife, and turned up at my father's church, looking for consolation. I was bored, hanging around, at a loose end while something was going on: prayer, singing, meeting, adults chatting - something a 5-year-old couldn't, or wouldn't, share. 

There I was, small, awkward for my age, idling, waiting (it turns out) for a hand to hold -  metaphorically, emotionally, psychologically, and literally. 

"I noticed you," Bob recalled towards the end of our conversation, "and prayed that you would come and hold my hand. And you did." 

I thought, momentarily, of naming this blog I Answer A Prayer, but my views on prayer are complicated. I realise this is one of the reasons I haven't phoned Bob for so long. I didn't want him to be disappointed that I've turned out poet, not angel. 

In c.1969, Bob and I, separated by a generation, were attuned to each other in the way that human beings can sometimes be, despite the gaps between us. His prayer a call, my response a sense that here was someone safe. What did we notice in each other? Gesture, tone of voice, openness? 

After our phone call, I know that Bob understands, looking back, that I needed his care as much as he needed mine, and, we spoke of this for the first time. "Your father was very disciplined," he understated.

 He prayed. I walked over, took him by the hand, hung on. 

I loved Bob, and for a year at least, we used to sit together in a pew at the back left-hand side of the church each Sunday. I can picture my young self, all unbrushed hair and hand-me-down clothes, walking through the west door and up the aisle. I'd see the back of Bob's head and run the last steps to join him. He was always in a suit, shirt pressed, hair neat, tie tied, shoes polished. He was never late, never missed a Sunday, never passed judgement on my disheveled appearance. I sat next to him during the interminable services, small and fidgety, comforted by his presence.  

When I was older, 7 I think, I joined the choir, and suggested to Bob that he married Vera, though I'm now sure he'd already had the idea himself. They married, and Bob moved into the flat at the bottom of the vicarage where Vera lived. They often looked after me and my brothers when my parents were busy, and didn't complain about us jumping down the stairs onto their ceiling, riding our bicycles through their washing. 

Bob and Vera were lovely together: for more than twenty years till her death, they found happiness in each other, and a shared way of being. They illuminated the years of my childhood with kindness, cheerfulness, creativity, and play.  

When Bob and I finished our conversation I cried a little, feeling both loss and a sense of exhilaration. The connection between a sad young man and a little girl, albeit five decades ago in another dimension, is still real and it is still comfortable. 

What will survive of us is love.

Photo - Mike Powell

What will survive of us is love is the final line of Larkin's poem 'An Arundel Tomb'