Tag Archives: mother

As the  berries on  my Olympic Flame rowan tree signal that autumn is approaching, I find myself looking back on what has been a wonderfully creative summer.

As an adult education tutor - I teach creative writing for adults for Norfolk County Council - I'm lucky enough to have a full two months off to do as I like. In the past, when my son was younger, summer days were filled with trips to the park, the beach and the many tourist attractions of Norfolk, where we live. But now he's sixteen and although he is happy to be seen with me in public - yay! - naturally he doesn't want to do all those things any longer. It's a first step towards him moving on his life and I admit that does give me a pang! But it also gives me lots of time to use as I want to, and this summer I've really made the most of it. Apart from one family holiday in Anglesey, Wales - during the mercifully one really warm week of the UK summer - I have been creating.

Two thirds of the way up Mount Snowden, Wales

So, what have I been up to? Well, I've been writing about Christmas! Yes, Christmas trees, Christmas crackers, lights, snowmen, food, family rows - the lot! And much to my surprise - since I'm a bit of a bah humbug Christmas phobic - I've really enjoyed it! Maybe it was good therapy to put my characters through all that stuff? Although it wasn't all doom and gloom. I did find plenty of magic to include. Maybe it'll rub off on me and I'll find my Christmas mojo all over again?

Actually, it's been the writing process that has been magical, because this book almost wrote itself. Obviously I have some changes to make, but it came out so easily. That could be because I've used quite a lot on my own personal experience and memories, drawing on material I've stored away for years - a patchwork of different events that have somehow found a way to transform and click together. There's nothing like being in that place where everything comes easily and your characters speak to you inside your head. When you're doing something mundane and pieces of the puzzle of your novel are handed to you from nowhere.

But writing hasn't been my only creative pursuit this year. I've been painting and creating collages too - using the studio I had built after my mum died three years or so ago. I have used it before this summer, but not as much as I'd expected to. I felt kind of...stuck with my art. For those of you who don't know, I first started writing after I finished my painting degree in Brighton and was left wondering what next? I thought, I know, I'll write a best-selling romance to earn the money to carry on painting. Hmm...well, I was young, so I was allowed to be naive! What I basically did was swap one unpredictable way of making a living for another. Ha ha. But anyway, I got the writing bug, and I haven't looked back since. My art went on the back burner, but I always knew I'd want to go back to it. And this summer I have. As a result, I've felt really close to my mum too, thinking about how pleased she would be about it.

I've always been a fan of still life - I love to collect vases and jugs and have many from my grandmother. So, when I was looking around for a course to get me back into my art, it was an easy decision to choose Brave in Paint, Experimental Still Life run by Gabriella Buckingham. What a great course it was! Filled with Gabriella's enthusiasm and lively definitions and challenges. It was exactly what I wanted, and my creativity thrived. It's so easy to be held back by that nagging voice that asks you things like, Why are you doing this? What's it going to lead to? You really ought to be...(insert what here). What makes you think you'll do anything good anyway? Aaargh!

These are some of the voices my creative writing students have to contend with, and I empathize with them, I really do. It's taken a long time, but I mainly manage to be able to ignore the voices now when it comes to writing. I love writing far too much to be bullied out of doing it. Hopefully, I'll be able to be the same whenever I get the urge to paint or make a collage from now on.

Here's an example of one of the paintings - an oil sketch inspired by the above arrangement - I completed this summer. If you're interested, there are more to be found on the Margaret's Art work tab.

Still Life With Green Coffee Pot

Happy autumn, everyone!

 

A Nightingale in Winter

Letter of Love and Fear is a story that compliments my novel A Nightingale in Winter.

Dear Mamma

I thought of you in the middle of the night as I crept down the stairs, avoiding the creaking step, silently counting until I reached the hallway without the aid of a candle. The grandfather clock was like a sentry as I squeezed myself into the kitchen. The kitchen smelled of beef stew and cakes, but since Mrs Crookes had left it all as shiny as a new pin, ready for the morning, I knew this was supplied by my imagination, reminding me of the small moments of comfort I have received in that room over the years. The kitchen is the most human room of the house. I shall miss it, Mamma. I shall miss the servants. I have been as close to them as I have been to any human being so far in this life, and it is bewildering to be striking out on my own. But it must be done.

Can you picture me, hiding in the scullery until the first embers of day break? As the sun came up over the hedge I knew I must leave, or risk an encounter with a kitchen maid, or Grooms with the firewood. So I fetched my valise from its hiding place in the wood shed and crept out into the chilly darkness to start my adventure. The train would not be at the station for another hour, so I concealed myself in a laurel hedge and settled down to wait. It was very dark and damp in there, and I fancied spiders were running from the glossy leaves and right down my neck. It was not in the least bit pleasant, but it was as nothing compared to my terror of being apprehended by Father before the train arrived. 

And so I stood still and allowed the spiders - be they real or imagined - to go where they willed until it was time to depart my hiding place to purchase my train ticket. This I did at the very last moment, leaving it until something of a queue had built up and there was less opportunity for conversation. "Going to London are you, Miss Martin?" "Yes, I'm going to France, to nurse the wounded."

Sometimes, Mamma, I ask myself if I would ever have escaped if the War had not come, but you and I both know the answer to that question, I think. I would not.

Your loving daughter,

Eleanor. 

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This is my first blog post in a while. The last one - which I have just deleted - was written in the approach to Christmas when I was stressing about getting through the festive period with my mum visiting.

My mum could be a difficult person - hard to please at times, and quick to show her displeasure if things weren't right. We did experience that over Christmas, but we also had some joyful times, and created some happy memories for her. I'm extremely grateful for that, because Mum died on 8th March this year.

When I was growing up, I was always extremely close to my mum. From her, I got my love of the countryside and of trees, wild flowers, animals and nature. She taught me the colloquial names of the wild flowers we found, like eggs and bacon and snap dragons, and these captured my imagination.

Mum with her beloved dog Jasper on a hot summer day in the 1970s.

She made me and my brothers clothes, and said that in one green and white dress she made me, I blended in with the trees and the soft fairy grass that grew in our local wood.

Later, when I began to write, she was thrilled to pieces to receive a signed copy of my first book, and proudly collected copies of all the books that followed. She was my biggest fan, always encouraging me.

Ageing changed her, narrowing her focus to her own life and its slowly diminishing activities. But she loved us still, and I know her grandchildren gave her a huge amount of pleasure.

During the necessary business of sorting out her clothes and belongings I feel I have rediscovered the mother I remember from earlier times - it has been a delight to find our old Mother's Day cards and school projects safely stowed away in drawers and to revisit the love expressed within them.

I found her exam certificates and remembered all the times I helped her to revise - she trained as a primary school teacher in her early forties - and felt proud all over again at her achievements.

Before she died, I spoke to her almost every day at six-thirty in the evening. I know how much these phone calls meant to her because she frequently told me so. Sometimes they were an inconvenience to me, or a source of frustration when it seemed she just moaned and complained about everything, refusing to try to see any positives. Yet even at the time, as I listened to it all, a part of my mind told me that I would miss the calls when they had to end.

And I do.

Love you, Mum.

Mum at Dunwich Heath, Suffolk, 2015