Purple Lady Poetry

Eunice thought that she could probably qualify as old now. This was a wry thought as part of her was still in denial. This was prompted by a realisation that it seemed that an increasingly large proportion of her waking life was occupied by thoughts of her past. Much of it seemed more real than her present. She chuckled. Why on earth would she want to relive some bits of her past?

Eunice had been brought up in 1950s England. When anyone now thinks of the 50s it is in tones of ice cream green and adverts showing smart housewives in full skirts using the latest American style gadget. The drabness of post war Britain doesn’t feature that much. The bomb sites, part demolished buildings with exposed fireplaces, rationing of food, that she remembered as still being in place at the age of five or six. Most of all it was the dullness of everyday life with each day promising to be the same as the last and Sunday even more dull.

Eunice was the product of ill matched working class parents. One immigrant ( not a good thing to be in those times) and one English. Home life was not good or comfortable. Too much tension punctuated by arguments and outbreaks of violence. You had to be careful. You had to be watchful and aware of the subtle shifts in mood that prefaced such incidents. This ability, Eunice thought, had actually been quite useful in her life. She could read moods, body language and atmospheres in an instant. She chuckled again.

Such a life was not to be shared outside of the family. There was shame in the knowledge that your immediate neighbours were all too aware of “those unfortunate people next door”. Eunice went to school, her refuge, knowing that she carried the anxiety of home like a stone. A well camouflaged stone. Never to be exposed. In the 50s and 60s pastoral care in schools did not exist. However, this was quite good as then you could regard school as another world that you could inhabit as a different person.

Eunice was remembering a particular time in her past when she was about 12. Her mother had been taken into hospital suddenly. Women’s troubles. She was left looking after her much younger brother and the house work. It was assumed she would take the duties of the woman of the house. Of course she was, Eunice thought. Such were the times. She had felt scared, oppressed, defiant and alone. Eunice had a memory of doing the washing up on the Sunday after having managed to cook the required roast dinner with lumpy gravy.

She could see her younger face reflected in the greasy, grey washing up water and from the distance of time and long life experience she felt a sudden and intense pity for that child. She thought “If only I had known that life would get better and that I would be alright in the end. If only I could give her a hug”. She imagined herself doing that. Eunice looked around. She was in a nice warm home in surroundings that gave her pleasure. Nothing drab about it. She had led an interesting life, done interesting things and met interesting people. All had been well and all manner of things were well. Musing and reflecting done, Eunice went on with her day.

Meanwhile.

I stared into the washing up water. How I hated the feel of the greasy, cooling grey scum. I would have to boil another kettle if I wanted to get the baked on grease off of the old roasting pan. The water slopped against the edge of my hand knitted jumper. My best one. Why had I worn it? To cheer myself up I thought. It was bright orange and knitted for me by my favourite aunty. I tried to push my sleeves up without getting them wetter. Why didn’t Dad help? What a stupid question. Dads didn’t did they? They had their place. They went out to work, gave the meagre housekeeping to their wives and the wives did the housework. That was how it was. However, mum was in hospital. I wasn’t sure why. It was something that I was too young to know about I think. Didn’t they know I was old enough at twelve to be told things? In the absence of information I made things up. Scary things. Didn’t they understand this? It seemed I was old enough to have to look after my six year old nuisance of a brother who didn’t listen to anything I said, cook a Sunday dinner and then clear up. I had been scared about cooking a dinner for Dad. Supposing he didn’t like it and started on at me like he did with Mum? It must’ve been alright as he ate it. He didn’t say anything but that is normal. Nobody says much in this house. Not real conversation that is. When will I get this pan clean? Will it matter if it isn’t? When will Mum come back? Will she come back? Will I have to do all the housework for ever? Why is my life so awful? Why don’t I have more friends? Why do I have spots? Why does nobody help? Why? A rising tide of feelings are choking me. I am not going to cry!

The air stilled and time slowed. Shocking in its suddenness. Silence. Calm. For a long long age. “It will be alright. It is alright. All will be well. All is well. You are well. “ A silent voice inside my head and a warmth enveloping me A touch-less embrace. All thoughts fell away into a still, clear pond and all was well. I knew I would hold this moment to myself all my life and it would sustain me. Never to be forgotten.

Now here’s a thought. Can you be your own ghost? Can you haunt yourself?