My problems look small, from here

This week we have an excerpt from Maggie Redding's The Education of Mattie Dobson. 

It is 1950, and Mattie has won a place at the local Grammar school.  This has raised anxieties in the family and caused conflict for Mattie, the second child of a working class family. In 1953, when in the Fourth Year at school, she has saved enough money to go on a (subsidised) school exchange visit to the south of France.  Her best friend cannot afford to go. On the coach to Dover, she befriends Conor Flynn who is in her form.  After a few days, the French hosts are arranging for bicycles to be loaned to the visitors. Mattie and Conor set off on their own, avoiding both English and French pupils ('les autres').

MATTIE IN FRANCE

Bicycles appeared on Friday morning. Aline provided one for Mattie. Conor, she saw, had acquired one from Gilbert. Mattie abandoned a group who wanted to visit a convent out in the wilds, and went to meet Conor.

“I've seen enough convents in my lifetime," she told him.  "We went to school at one, didn’t we?”

"What d’you say to a cycle ride this morning?" he said as she approached him. "Looks like being a nice day, warm even."

"Who else is coming?" she said.

"I’ve only asked you so far. A lot of them are too scared to venture further away."

"I'll come. I don't see the point of coming all this way if I’m going to sit drinking coffee every morning.  Once you've done that, you do something else, don't you?"

Conor stood grinning at her over his bicycle. "You seen Barbara Ellington this morning?"

"No, why?” It was a comfort to perceive that he didn’t like Barbara any more than she did.  She moved with Conor a short distance from the main group, wheeling her bicycle.

"She's got the letter-box mouth since she got here.  She's grizzling every time I see her.”

“She doesn't like it here, does she?  She’s staying out in the wilds."

"Reckons she's homesick this morning."

"I knew she was unhappy because they don’t have a toilet, not at all, where she's staying.  Just out in the field."

"No?" Conor chortled.  "Is that right, now?"

"She told us. Her Mummy can't sort her out now, can she?"  Mattie knew this was being catty, but she was talking to a boy and it didn’t feel that wrong.

"Big baby.” Conor dismissed Barbara for a more interesting topic. “Have you learned any swear words? It's the first thing most of us asked about."

"The ones I know sound rude, without even knowing what they mean. Aline taught me some in patois.  I think it's the Languedoc language, you know?"

Aline joined them, wheeling a bicycle and Gilbert came over when he saw where Conor was.

“Aline,” Mattie addressed her pen friend.  “Je voudrais aller avec Conor, au velo, ce matin. Que voulez vous faire? Non, pardon-moi, ce n’est pas correct.  Tutoyer!  She’s asked me to call her ‘tu’, the familiar.  Aline, ou vas-tu ce matin?”  

“Crikey,” Conor said, under his breath, “you are taking it seriously, aren’t you?”

Aline responded to Mattie with a tidal wave of French this time.  Mattie turned to Conor.  "I'm not sure, but I think she wants to come with us.  She’s asking Gilbert.  They most likely want to keep an eye on the bikes."

"Tell her we’re off.”

"Aline," Mattie said turning to the other girl, "nous allerons."

"Crikey.   Future tense as well," Conor said admiringly.   Mattie smiled to herself and they set off.

Every morning, the host families provided lunch, a French stick of bread and garlicky sausage, for each of their guests and to their own offspring, often with a bottle of water or diluted red wine. Mattie balanced her own lunch bag on the handlebars of her borrowed bicycle.  

The sides of the valley rose above the road and river; trees, some leafy, crowded over them.  The ride was exhilarating. If Rosemary had come, they would have both have been too nervous to do anything like this. Conor was supporting Mattie's adventurous streak.  In his company she could allow herself to feel bold.

"Remember to ride on the right," she yelled to him. He was ahead of her. The valley road was quiet, traffic slight.  Most of the time there was a silence that Mattie might have experienced as disturbing had it not been for Conor’s robust approach.

After some distance, he dismounted and waited for her to catch up.

"Manourgue, eight kilometres," he said, indicating a road sign.  "I don't know what that is in miles."

"I'm no good at maths," she said reaching him with a squeal of brakes. "About five miles?"

“No good at maths," he grinned.  "Let's have a break. We’ve got all day."   She looked around them. There was a bank of grass and shingle beside the river. Conor laid his bicycle down on this. "I want a really good look around, instead of whizzing past everything."

"We can sit down here, we can paddle."  Mattie rested her bicycle on the ground beside his.

"It’ll be icy cold," he said.  "It's only April even though it feels like July.  The water has had to come down from the mountains."

"They're not mountains with sharp peaks, are they?  It’s more like one great mass of high land. I think it's a huge plateau."

They sat on the grass and listened to the burbling river, strange bird calls and a whispering breeze.  The sound of young voices reached them from the road as Aline, Gilbert and some others flew past.

"Les autres," Mattie said.

"The French kids,” Conor said.  “They didn't see us."

"I'm hungry," Mattie said.  "I’m going to eat some of my picnic."  

They sat on the bank of the river, on some small boulders, to eat their petit dejeuner.

"An awful lot of bread, isn't it?" he said.

"But it's lovely. I'm enjoying the whole thing, aren’t you, the whole experience?  I'm so glad I came.   It's much more interesting and exciting than I thought it would be."

"I should think we both smell of garlic by now."

"Have you had frogs’ legs yet? I have. Crispy and meaty but not very substantial. I’ve eaten moorhen, too. That’s what it translated as in my French dictionary. All sorts of duck and fish, as well.  Things unnamed. Madame keeps a stock-pot on the old-fashioned range in the kitchen. For soup. The range keeps the kitchen warm. It's very small. I expect it’s cold here in winter."

"The wine’s good," he said and Mattie had to laugh. Had her conversation been too domestic?  

"Good? Miss Dixon said that what we’re drinking at meals is rough wine. It tastes it, too, rough on your tongue. I have two glasses every night. It sends me to sleep. Monsieur traipses down to the cellar every evening to fill a bottle from a barrel.  It's all so – you know, so primitive."

"Life in the raw," and again Mattie was slightly amused at this schoolboy trying to be manly.

"Where I am, there’s one tap, on the landing. I was surprised. When we were in the old house, back at home, we had one tap in the scullery and I thought that was shameful. But at least we had a proper toilet."

"Where d’you live now?" Conor’s teeth tugged on the bread.

"Hill Common.  It's a new house." How faraway it all was, unreal almost.

Conor put away the uneaten portion of his bread. He stripped off his jumper, spread it on the ground and lay back on it, stretching out, with his hands behind his head. Mattie did the same with Delia’s ghastly flower-covered cardigan, not caring about mud or debris on it.

"This is the life," Conor sighed.  "Forget mod cons and that.”

Mattie gazed up at the bluest sky she had ever seen, against which stood out white rocks and green foliage.  The steep sides of the valley rose behind them and across the river.

"It's bliss," she said.  "Mountains. I love mountains."

"Funny, isn't it?" Conor said after a long silence, "how coming abroad makes a difference."

Mattie gave this comment serious attention. She had had similar sentiments but needed him to elaborate, in order to check that he was talking about the same kind of reaction as she had been experiencing.

"What d’you mean, funny? The difference to what?"

"Strange. Unexpected. A difference to how I see my life back home from here. Things get you down, don't they?"

"Why, do things get you down?"

“Yeah. Coming all this way, you get things in perspective."

"The world’s a big place, isn't it?"

"My problems looks small, from here."

Mattie wanted to know more. "Do you have problems at home then?"

"Do I have problems at home! I'm glad to get away."

"Is it a big problem?"

Yeah." He hesitated lifted his head to give her a quick glance and then laid back and shut his eyes again.  "Me Da’s an alcoholic."

Mattie took a deep breath. "Poor you."

"Don't tell anyone."

"I won't. Does it cause trouble?"

"Rows. No money. And it's scary. When it's real bad, it's scary, I don't mind telling you. Don't tell anyone, will you?" His voice was flat.

"I won't. How do you manage, with school and that?"

"It's my way out, my escape, my reason for living, except there's a lot of snobs there. I love me science. I focus on me work. I think about the future, a good future, my own future. I keep out of me Da’s way."  He glanced over to her again. "I've never told anyone this."

She raised herself up on one elbow and turned to look at him. He had his eyes closed, against the sun, against the facts, and against her to whom he had told his dire secret. The cheeky schoolboy was no more.  She saw him differently, in a new light. The humour, the cheekiness, they were covers for a serious young person who knew trouble, who fought it, who had developed strategies for dealing with it and who had aims for getting away from it.

She scrambled to a sitting position on Delia's cardigan. "I'm going to tell you a secret of mine.  I have kept it to myself for nearly four years, well, three years, really, because I didn't understand what was happening for the first year or so."

Conor remained perfectly still, eyes closed. "Go on," he said.

"My older sister had a baby.  And she’s not married."

"Crikey.  I bet your parents made a to-do about that."

"My Mum did. Libby had to go away. Four years ago.  Four years next month.  She wasn’t allowed to be in touch with me. I think Mum thought, and still thinks, she – you know – got rid of it. Or had it adopted. I don't know what she thinks. But Mum and Dad haven’t seen Libby since, they don't know where she is.  I do though. I go to see her, in London, every couple of months. And the baby."

"She kept it?"

"She did.  And that's not all. The baby's father was black."

Conor’s eyes opened. He sat up. "Crikey. Black. That's worse than being Irish, isn't it? ‘No Irish, no coloureds, no dogs’."

"Mum wouldn't like it if she knew."

"I bet. Crikey, Mattie, you’re strong, aren’t you, keeping all that to yourself for so long and coming top in French all the time."

"Not all the time.  My results last summer were bad."

"For you. You know, my work slips at bad times. But I’m damned if I’m going to let that toffee-nosed lot at the Grammar School know what goes on at home. They love a bit of scandal."

"I feel a bit like that, too. My Mum’s ill. I won't use that as a reason for not doing well at school."

Conor turned a softer face to her, a face that had abandoned its usual bravado.  "Any time you wanna talk, I'm yer man."

She giggled.  "I’ll do the same for you."

"You’re a real friend."  He said that to the sky.

Mattie went pink. "So are you."

"Good grief!" He jumped to his feet. "See that the bird up there?" He pointed to a large raptor circling overhead.  "Bloody hell, it's a vulture. Quick. Let's go."

Rooted to the spot, Mattie watched the bird. Then she squealed, jumped to her feet, stumbling towards her bicycle. A lack of frenzy on Conor’s part, made her turn to look at him.  The familiar, cheeky Conor had returned. He was standing, shaking with silent laughter. She leapt towards him and pounded him with her fists

"Beast. You know it's not," she said, subsiding into laughter herself.

"No. There aren't any vultures in these parts. I think it's an eagle of some kind. Wonderful isn't it?  Kind of majestic."

"I'm keen on birds as well," she said shyly.

"Are we going on to Manourgue?"

"Why not? We’ve come this far."

“Five miles, you reckoned.”

"About that. I haven't ridden a bike for about five years.  I'll hurt all over tomorrow."

"And no bath to soak in. Come on. Let's catch up with the French kids and teach them some more swear words, even invent ones that aren't real, just for fun."

"They're probably all in Manourgue now, eating ice cream and drinking lemonade."

“Or drinking coffee and smoking. I can't stand that horrid little Gaston. Let’s pull his leg."

A peal of laughter escaped Mattie. Having unburdened herself, there was room in her for fun and Conor had a wealth of that on offer.  

Maggie Redding

Shade, sustenance, beauty

Today is Palm Sunday. Many thanks to Sylvia Daly for this poem, which compares a Catholic child's experience with the reality of date palms. Love it.  

 Palm Sunday

How can I trust them again?

They gave me a dry,

dead spike of a leaf,

tortured into the shape

of a cross.

My childish fingers

unfolded the sharp, tough frond.

I struggled to see

the triumph of the day,

waving my acrid spear

in jubilation.

Older and wiser, I saw a real palm tree.

Graceful fronds arched with sensuous curve,

fruit hung in pregnant bunches,

all giving shade, sustenance, beauty.

My religion had killed this vision.

Twisted the beauty to fit the wish of

foolish, clever men, who choked

the spirit with their efforts.

How can I trust them again?

Sylvia Daly

Tut, Watson, I'm surprised at you

 In this extract from the first part of Rohase Piercy's 'My Dearest Holmes', we eavesdrop on Holmes and Watson discussing the case brought to them by a Miss Anne D'Arcy, whose companion, Maria Kirkpatrick, has gone missing.  A search of Miss Kirkpatrck's desk has unearthed the photograph of an effete-looking young man, believed to be her illegitimate son … and a rather embarrassed Watson has had to admit that Mr Maurice Kirkpatrick is actually an acquaintance of his.

‘Well, Watson,’ said Holmes, leaping to his feet the minute she had left and beginning to pace the room whilst rubbing his hands together gleefully, ‘this is all very exciting, is it not? This case certainly exhibits some singular features. I am glad, by the way, that Miss D’Arcy found you so supportive. I can always trust you to take care of that department. And now for the next stage …’

‘Now look, Holmes,’ I interrupted sharply, feeling that such innuendos were in very poor taste, especially under the circumstances, ‘I really must set you straight on all this. The way in which Miss D’Arcy found me supportive was not at all what you imply. Heaven knows why you insist on propounding this fantasy about my susceptibility to women; but if you cannot see that Miss D’Arcy is - well, a confirmed spinster, I suppose is an apt description - then your powers of perception are considerably less than I’ve given you credit for.’ 

Holmes stood in front of me with his hands in his pockets, a maddening expression of pure delight upon his face. ‘My poor dear boy,’ said he, ‘you do underestimate me, don’t you? I do assure you that I have a full and accurate grasp of the situation. There is really no need to expound upon it. As for your affinity with the fair sex - well, Watson, you surely cannot deny that women in general, confirmed spinsters or no, do seem to find you extremely sympathetic. It’s your doctorly manner, I expect. Now, where is the inaccuracy in my stating the obvious? H’mm?’

I clenched my teeth in frustration. It was at times like this that I most regretted the exaggerated boasts with which I had for some reason felt it necessary to regale my friends at around the time of my first meeting with Holmes. What could I say? That I suspected his full and accurate grasp of the situation to be the result of his morning’s research, since I had seen no evidence of it earlier? I knew he would have no hesitation in calling my bluff, and in turning the situation to his own advantage.

'Anyway, Watson,’ he continued, strolling jauntily around the room with an annoying spring in his step, ‘since you’re so anxious to set me straight on matters of which I am ignorant, perhaps you’d care to give me a little resumé of your acquaintance with Mr Maurice Kirkpatrick. I must say, it really is a lucky chance your knowing him. Now, what do you think? Would he be pleased to receive a visit from your good self accompanied by an aficionado of the turf, eager to discuss form and courses? Or would he perhaps prefer to make the acquaintance of an older gentleman of private means and aesthetic temperament? Which shall I be, Watson? In either case, I think a certain air of decadence would fit the bill, don’t you?’ 

This kind of teasing made me even more uncomfortable, being nearer the mark of accuracy. I crossed hurriedly to the window to hide my discomposure. 

‘Tell me first,’ I said as coolly as I could, ‘just why you think he is being blackmailed?’ 

‘Oh, I don’t think he is being blackmailed at all,’ said Holmes impatiently. ‘But his father undoubtedly is, and has, rather foolishly in my opinion, called on him for help.’ 

‘His father?’ I spun round, astonished, all discomposure forgotten. ‘But he has no father!’ 

‘Tut, Watson, I’m surprised at you. And you a medical man! Everybody has a father somewhere; we may take that as a working hypothesis in at least ninety-nine percent of cases.’ 

‘Well good heavens, Holmes, I mean of course he has a father, but surely - do you mean you are assuming he knows who his father is?’ 

‘Well, I am assuming he does now! Whether he did before this present trouble, I am not yet in a position to say. But now, do you see -?’ he continued, deliberately adopting the patient manner of one explaining the obvious to a child or an idiot, ‘now, let’s assume for the sake of argument that he receives a message from a gentleman claiming to be his father, and he wishes to check the gentleman’s credentials, so to speak. To whom does he apply for corroboration on the subject? Come on now, my boy, your mental powers should be able to tackle this one …’ 

‘Oh stop it, Holmes,’ I said feebly, for I could see he was embarking upon a fit of hilarity and I had no desire to join him. ‘So he contacts his mother. But I still fail to see why it has to be blackmail.’ 

‘Why, it could be nothing else!’ said Holmes, controlling himself with difficulty. ‘If the man has contacted neither his son, nor the mother of his son, for some twenty-odd years, nothing less than the threat of discovery would lead him to do so now. You see why I did not wish to go into the matter in front of Miss D’Arcy,’ he continued in a serious voice, taking me by the elbow and leading me towards the door. ‘The subject would naturally be distressing for her. We had better wait until we have cleared the whole thing up before involving her further. Now, Watson, up you go and change into a waistcoat that boasts its full regimen of buttons! I would fit a new shoelace too, if I were you; we may have a little walk ahead of us. And what a careless fellow you were this morning, to nick your cheek like that … I, meanwhile, will go and don my accoutrements, and then we will make our way over to Kensington, with a little detour for lunch en route.’ 

‘Might I suggest, Holmes, that the older gentleman would be a more suitable disguise?’ I said sweetly. ‘I flatter myself that Kirkpatrick has always looked upon me as something of a paternal figure, and since I am your senior by a mere couple of years we can hardly expect him to do less for you.’ 

From the mischievous glint that stole into his eye, I realised that somewhere in my little speech I had laid myself open to his repartee. Having no wish to hear it, I closed the door hurriedly and made my way up to my room.

The turn-about room

It's Mothers' Day or Mothering Sunday, as we sometimes call it here in the UK. We wish we could thank our own mothers, all long gone now; if you can thank yours today, please, on our behalf, make a massive fuss of her! 

We have an extract from Charlie Raven's The Compact to intrigue us this week. Harriet lost her only child years before, and has kept the boy's bedroom unchanged since he died. Unfortunately, she's begun to be inconvenienced by inexplicable noises and activity in the long-empty room. As a rational woman, she blames the cat. She doesn't believe in ghosts. George Arden does, though.

The next day, Harriet found herself with a sore throat and a headache but otherwise more than equal to undertaking her teaching duties. She was glad though that she had only two pupils that day. Young Isabelle Daniels came and went, followed in the early afternoon by the other; and Harriet completely forgot about Mr Arden’s curious foreknowledge. She had in any event dismissed his talk of people waving at the window almost as soon as she heard it; and now it seemed dream-like, just a still image of herself looking up at the moon reflected in the glass.

About four-thirty, as the early evening was creeping closer to the house, there was a ring at her door and Mr Arden was shown into the room holding his hat in one hand and Harriet’s umbrella in the other. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Day. I thought I recognised the way the last house has a kind of turret on the top, and I thought I might see if this was your street. And when I saw the steps and the upstairs window, I was sure.’

‘Well, you are welcome, Mr Arden,’ said Harriet. It was a strange way to explain his visit.

‘And I’ve forgotten to mention why I’m here,’ he continued with a little laugh. ‘I apologise. Your umbrella! And also I want to make sure that you are well. Are you well?’

‘Yes, thank you. Very well. And thank you for bringing the umbrella. It’s very kind of you to call and I am glad you recognised the street. It’s Cairncross Street.’

‘I remember it began with a C from when you told the cab driver last night. But there are several C.s between Mrs Roberts’s house and here.’

‘Have you been walking about in the cold, looking for my house, Mr Arden?’

Arden looked a little embarrassed.

Harriet, thinking it was endearing but also rather pathetic, said, ‘Perhaps you could have checked with Mrs Roberts about the address before you left the house. Or Mrs Jenkins, she knows.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t disturb them,’ said Arden as if that might be a little dangerous.

‘Well, now that you’ve been so kind as to return my umbrella, please do come and sit down by the fire. Though it’s not quite as cold as yesterday, I think. The frost on the windows had gone by mid-morning.’

‘Yes, it’s warmer but very damp,’ agreed Arden. 

Harriet cast about for something to say. ‘So. How is Mr Cabot’s venture coming along, Mr Arden?’  She picked up some crochet work, expecting a cosy flood of confidential information.

‘I didn’t come to talk about that, Mrs Day,’ said Arden politely. ‘It was the ghost business, that was why I came. He is malignant and I can discern a real intention.’

Harriet left the crochet in her lap. ‘Could you explain a little more, Mr Arden?’

‘It’s very straightforward. Oh, listen!’

There was a clang from the room above.

‘That’s the bootjack,’ said Harriet, frowning at George as if he were responsible.

‘He chooses that room because it already works like a door. It changes, it’s a turn-about room, sometimes good and sunny, sometimes sad and dark. You need to stabilise it. Because when he’s here, he’ll keep annoying you by throwing things about.’

Harriet waited for further explanation. When none came, she said again, ‘Could you explain a little more, Mr Arden?’

‘Oh,’ said Arden, as if surprised. ‘I’ll try if you like. You have a person, a personality really, who obviously isn’t in a body but thinks perhaps that he is, and he comes into the room above this one. He’s glaring down at me. I can tell you that he has thick whiskers.’

‘Good lord,’ said Harriet.

‘I can tell him to go, if you want,’ said Arden. ‘Or you can let him stay. But he moves things and wants your attention and enjoys scaring you. His name is … Ostrich? He’s showing me a big bird. Oh, it’s Ozzie.’

‘Good lord,’ said Harriet again.

‘If you let me go into the room, I can sort it all out for you,’ said Arden, as if he were talking about the plumbing.

‘Well, then, I suppose you’d better,’ said Harriet. She really did not know what to think. ‘Mrs Skipton has the key. I’ll ring for Daisy.’

While they waited for the key to be brought, Harriet sat mutely and George chatted merrily about the Revue Parnassus where he was due to appear this evening. He told Harriet that Valentine was very particular about punctuality so he would unfortunately have to leave shortly or he risked making him angry. 

The key arrived and Harriet showed him up to the room. The stairs and landing were dim and she carried an oil lamp, apologising about the shadows and for some reason gabbling about the electricity which was being laid on in the next street. They stopped outside the door of the empty room. Behind them at the top of the stairs, the carved Swiss clock on the landing wall ticked heavily.

‘Would you like me to light the gas in the room? Or would you prefer to take the lamp with you, Mr Arden?’ she asked, wondering if she was expected to watch or assist. Her skin prickled uncomfortably at the thought of entering the room and seeing the little soldiers inexplicably moving about on the mantelpiece. 

‘I don’t mind really,’ said Arden cheerfully. ‘It’s not a physical eye-thing, if you see what I mean. I don’t know how to describe it, quite honestly, and it’s not worth trying. People often get quite cross about it if I do. It’s just that I remembered how you helped me at the pond yesterday and I wanted to do something to help you. That’s fair, isn’t it?’

There was a creaking noise from just beyond the door, as if someone were standing there. She imagined a person with an ear pressed to the wood, listening to their conversation.

‘Can I just ask you, Mr Arden, are we talking about a ghost? Because I don’t believe in ghosts or any such nonsense,’ Harriet said, her voice coming out rather shriller than usual. ‘I can’t imagine what it is, and I know it can move things so it has a physical force at its disposal, and I also understand it isn’t the cat; but it isn’t a ghost either. Because there is no such thing.’

Arden nodded admiringly. ‘I am not in the least offended if you don’t call it a ghost. You can call it anything you like. It can be something to do with magnets or the underground railways they’ve been digging, or interference from all that electricity pouring into your neighbours in the next street. Would that do?’

Harriet looked at him doubtfully, not sure if he were mocking her. She decided that he was not. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I think it’s best if you do what you want to do, with the proviso that I don’t have to believe what you believe about what you want to do.’

‘There, perfect! Anyway, it’ll probably be quicker if I do it alone. Don’t worry. You just make yourself comfortable and I’ll come down when it’s finished.’ Before she could say another word, he opened the door and slipped through into the dark room beyond.

Harriet sat motionless by the parlour fire, wondering if Mr Arden were bonkers. There were undoubted sounds from above. A scraping across the floor. The sound of something immensely heavy shuffling forward, one creak at a time. She decided it was the wardrobe. Then there was a scatter of little heavy objects dropping – the soldiers, she supposed. George Arden was upstairs wrecking her spare bedroom and she was sitting downstairs allowing it to happen. 

A thought struck her and she went to the desk drawer. She pulled it open – it stuck a little on the right-hand side because she rarely looked within – and brought out a red cloth folder with a cord binding it shut. It was crammed with papers: handwritten letters, legal documents and in an envelope on top, a fat gold locket and chain. She poured the chain out and the locket plopped after it into her palm like a tiny egg. She opened its front. On one side it was inscribed with her Christian name and a date, 1868. On the other was a miniature portrait on ivory, in rather garish colours, of a gentleman with generous mutton-chop whiskers. She looked at it briefly and put it away in the folder, along with all the other papers, and pushed the drawer shut. At that moment, George reappeared, tapping on the door. She motioned to him to enter and he immediately came to pick up his hat from where he had left it on the piano stool. She faced him with a question on her lips.

‘Yes. All finished,’ he said in a rush, before she could speak. ‘But you need to keep the room open and moving. I suggest putting a goldfish in there or a little bird. I know it’s a sad room for you but you could put some growing things on the windowsill, not dead things. Some plants.’

‘What’s happened?’ asked Harriet. ‘Is the room a terrible mess?’

‘No, no, just the wardrobe needs pushing back a little bit and some toys need to be rearranged. I would do it for you but I have to dash. I’m sure I can remember the way back, if I just go to the end of the street and cross, take a left and then a right, or no, a left. But I’ll remember when I see it. Please excuse me, Mrs Day. Valentine will absolutely murder me if I’m late. We’re still only half-done on the The Grenadier’s Farewell and its first performance is tonight. But it was fun and I’m so glad you’re better.’

And with that, Mr Arden departed. Harriet saw him to the door and then stood wondering in the hall. She had to admit to herself that her expectations about him had been wrong. And his manner was far more relaxed, less ‘frozen’, than on their previous meeting. Perhaps the absence of Valentine was the explanation.

She decided she really ought to go up and look at the room, although she had a strong inclination to leave it till daylight. But then she pictured herself, lying in bed wondering about the dark objects standing in its emptiness and waiting to hear odd noises across the landing. No, the best thing to do was go in with a stout heart and have a thorough look and poke about in all the corners. She went warily upstairs, once again carrying the lamp. Opening the door, she walked straight across and lit the gas lights. There were the soldiers, scattered as she predicted all over the mat. She picked them up and placed them on the mantel in a little heap. As for the rest of the room, all looked as before, except for the wardrobe, which was pushed away from the wall by four or five inches. A good opportunity to dust behind it, she thought. 

She was about to re-order the soldiers in their usual ranks when a thought struck her. She went to the bookcase and took down a painted wooden box jammed above the volumes on the shelf. It contained a few dried, age-darkened conkers, dropped from a tree and gathered up one autumn day twenty years before. She put the toys away. The little soldiers fitted snugly among them, like troops hiding between boulders. Before she closed the lid, she thought, ‘These are seeds. There have been trees inside this box all these years.’ Then she replaced it on the shelf. Remembering to leave the door open as she left, she thought that the room felt warmer. But then, the weather was warmer and all the frost had thawed. 

She walked downstairs thinking that she could not account for what Mr Arden had done – it was irrational. But neither could she account for his familiarity with her husband’s appearance; and his inexplicable knowledge of the pet-name she had called him on their honeymoon, thirty years before.

‘Now, I've really come to be myself. I always wished to get to this point, where I could talk about everything.’

This week we're honoured to share Jane Traies' account of how she became involved in collecting stories from the Lesbian Immigration Support Group. Published to celebrate International Women's Day, they sharply illustrate the horrors faced by lesbian and bisexual women escaping persecution - and the difficulties of proving their cases when claiming asylum here. Please buy the book - Free To Be Me - proceeds go towards supporting the work of the LISG.

 ‘FREE TO BE ME’

In the spring of 2017, I received an email from a volunteer with the Lesbian Immigration Support Group in Greater Manchester called Sorrel. She told me they were supporting a Ugandan woman whose claim for asylum on the grounds of her sexual orientation had been rejected by the Home Office, because they did not believe her to be a lesbian. Among the reasons given for not believing her were: that she had been married, that she had been apparently heterosexual until quite late in her life, and that she and her lesbian partner had not lived together. Of course, many older lesbians have such a life story, so I was surprised at what I then took to be simply old-fashioned ignorance on the part of the Home Office (I know now that it was typical of their hostile approach to LGBTQ+ asylum-seekers). 

Clearly, this African grandmother did not fit the Government’s stereotype of what a lesbian ought to look like. Grace, the woman seeking asylum, was working with her solicitor to put together a fresh claim to the Home Office; Sorrel had heard of my life history work with British lesbians born before 1950, and wondered if there were case studies in my previous research that could be used to support Grace’s new claim? Would I be prepared to contribute an ‘expert statement’ about the trauma and difficulty of coming out as an older lesbian? From the brief details of Grace’s story that Sorrel had given me, I could already see that many aspects of her experience were mirrored in the life-stories I had collected in the UK. Of course I would write for her!

Sorrel also told me that Grace was now 71 years old. So Grace and I are the same age. I sat at my computer, thinking about the differences between Grace’s life and mine, and understanding my own privilege in new ways. Whatever difficulties I had faced in the past because of my sexual orientation, they paled into significance beside Grace’s struggles. I am an educated white woman with a good pension, living in a country which now has laws to protect LGBTQ+ people. I’m also fortunate to be able to engage in research work that gives me immense personal satisfaction. The opportunity to use some of that privilege to help someone else was an unlooked-for gift. 

And that was how I came to meet not only Grace, but also some of the other members and volunteers from LISG. We had plenty of time to get to know each other in the months that followed, because Grace’s fresh claim for asylum was also refused in its turn. It was more than another two years before she was finally granted ‘leave to remain’ in the UK. During that period, I learned a good deal about the asylum system in the UK and also about the admirable work of LGBTQ+ asylum support groups up and down the country. Of these, the Lesbian Immigration Support Group in Greater Manchester is one of only two dedicated solely to helping lesbians and bisexual women. 

It seemed to me, as I got to know them, that the work of the group and the lives of its members were exactly the kind of subject that oral history exists to preserve. I tentatively proposed the idea of an oral history of LISG. By this time, I knew several of the group members personally and had met others at Grace’s appeal hearing and at the 2019 lesbian summer festival, LFest. I hoped that these shared experiences had begun to create a context of familiarity and trust between us, that would enable us to work together. 

LISG currently has about 30 members, supported by half a dozen volunteers. Under normal circumstances, there is a LISG meeting once a month. This is a sociable occasion as well as a business meeting and always includes sharing food. Most of the members are in social housing in various outer suburbs of Manchester and many were fairly isolated even before the pandemic, so the monthly meeting is a much-valued gathering. In the first week of January 2020, I attended this meeting for the first time, to talk about the idea of making a book based on the oral histories of some of the women in LISG. I shared my hopes that such a book would do three things: raise awareness of the particular issues faced by lesbian women claiming asylum on the grounds of their sexual orientation; publicise the work of LISG; and, potentially, raise funds to support the group’s work. At the end of the meeting, the group voted in favour of going ahead with the project and ten women said they would be interested in taking part.

I then needed to find a suitable place to carry out the interviews: somewhere sufficiently private, and as cheap as possible since the project was unfunded. A few days’ queer networking on social media led to the offer of free accommodation at the LGBT Foundation in Manchester’s gay village. This very generous gesture was particularly welcome since most of the women were already familiar with the building: it is home to several asylum support and LGBTQ social groups which they had engaged with previously. It also meant that our only immediate expenses would be paying the women’s bus fares into central Manchester. (The subsistence benefit paid to people seeking asylum – the Asylum Support Rate – was slightly raised in 2020 to £39.60 a week, which means that the asylum seeker is surviving on £5.66 a day. At the time of our project, the return fare from the outer suburbs into central Manchester was £6.00.)

In the last week of January, I returned to Manchester and carried out seven interviews. They were emotionally challenging, both for the researcher and for the narrators. Many of the stories were distressing: women told of physical and sexual abuse, rape, forced marriage, mob violence and murder. Many tears were shed during the interviews; sometimes there were gaps in which we had to stop the recorder, make coffee and talk about something completely different. In spite of this, I was struck by the absolute determination of the women to speak out in this setting. Mary, for instance, whose experience had been particularly horrific, wept quietly and continuously throughout her interview. I reminded her at several points that she was free to stop, but she pressed on in spite of the tears running down her cheeks. She explained that not being able to talk about what had happened to her was part of the past she felt she had escaped: ‘Now, I've really come to be myself. I always wished to get to this point, where I could talk about everything.’

By the time of my second trip to Manchester in early March, concern about the spread of the new coronavirus Covid-19 was already widespread. I had planned a third visit two weeks later but by then the whole country was in lockdown and, reluctantly, I had to abandon it. But by then thirteen women had told me their stories and there was enough material for our book.

The pandemic lockdown was stressful for all the group members, many of whom were already struggling with poor mental health and found enforced social isolation very difficult. In June, the much-missed monthly meeting was resurrected via Zoom, and was joyously welcomed. I also realised how important the LISG WhatsApp group became during this time – not only to inform members about practical developments, but also for the flurry of greetings and loving wishes which appeared each day.

On 25 May, George Floyd, an unarmed black man, was killed by a white police officer in Minneapolis. The chilling video footage of his last minutes spread rapidly via social media; ‘Black Lives Matter’ protests erupted across the world. Almost all the current members of LISG (and a few of the volunteers) are women of colour; the majority are black. At this terrible time, the members of LISG responded with an outpouring of love and affirmation for each other, sending many messages, including video clips illustrating the beauty and power of black women. The role of our project in making marginalised black voices heard suddenly had a new context. Against this background, I started transcribing and editing the interviews.

Making the book ‘Free To Be Me’ became my ‘lockdown project’. With the help of the wonderful Helen Sandler at Tollington Press, the book was completed in just under a year. It is to be published on International Women’s Day 2021. All profits from this book will go to support the work of LISG. Please buy it, and tell your friends about it. 

(Buying direct from the publisher or the author https://www.tollingtonpress.co.uk/free.html  means that more of the money goes to LISG.)