Commemorating Bertram Oram, 27 June 1892 to 28 July 1917

Today is the anniversary of my great-uncle Bertie's birth in 1892. Born into a working class family in Worcester, he grew up in a modest Victorian terrace with his parents and six siblings. Bertie, his father and three brothers (including my grandfather) served in World War I, Bertie in the Royal Field Artillery. Tragically, he was killed in action in Flanders on 28 July 1917, aged 25.

Yesterday my son visited his grave at Gwalia Cemetery, as far as I am aware, the first member of the family to do so. The visit inspired this poem.

Photo credit: Rafii Khan

From Gwalia to White Ladies

You were tending the blood red roses when I approached,

Their crimson heads bobbing against the bone white gravestone.

Crouched down, your head was bowed in reverence to the living.

I paused a while to note the neat cut of your hair,

The glint of sunlight on brass,

Your tender gardener's hands.

"Let's go home," I whispered, and felt your earthy hand in mine.

Back at White Ladies, we sat with steaming cups of tea,

Your generous hands engulfing fine china.

I recognised the black-haired young man who sauntered in, my grandfather.

I put my hands to my cheekbones, jaw, chin.

Yes, that's him.

"Bertie," he said quietly and shook your hand.

I sat silently while the rain fell against the window,

Inhaling the sounds of home.

Your mother hummed in the kitchen, just steps away.

Your father rustled his newspaper.

It was a sign for you to glance across, smile softly.

"Best place in the world, home, Bert," he said.

The Hand of Fatima: my constant companion

Travel anywhere in the east — from Turkey through to India — and you’ll be sure to come across the Hand of Fatima.

This intriguing symbol is an ages-old insignia, an amulet, protector and reminder for peoples of different faiths and no faith at all.

Its history is fascinating and multi-layered, weaving its own tale of spirituality and commonality across a diverse geographical and cultural landscape.

It’s something I’ve fallen in love with and, like all good things, want to share with my friends and readers.

A multicultural symbol

This symbol is striking in both its beauty and multiculturalism. “Fatima” refers to the daughter of the prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), the founder of Islam, yet is also linked to Miriam, Moses’ (peace be upon him) sister and a significant figure in the Jewish faith, and Mary, mother of Jesus (peace be upon him).

Photo credit: Skylar Kang on Pexels
https://www.pexels.com/photo/hamsa-with-carved-metal-city-and-bird-illustrations-6207387/

The Hand of Fatima is also known as the Hamsa, a reference to the number five in Arabic. Here in the Islamic world, the five fingers can represent the five pillars of Islam: the declaration of faith, prayer, charity, fasting and pilgrimage.

And in Buddhism and Hinduism, I understand that the Hamsa can represent the energy that flows between the chakras and is used as a tool for meditation.

But the symbol is believed to pre-date these and other religions and philosophies, who later adopted it as a sign of their faith and values.

Transcending barriers

Scholars say the Hamsa originated in Mesopotamia (an area now found in modern-day Iraq, Kuwait, Turkey and Syria) or in Carthage (in present-day Tunisia).

Wherever it originated, it is now known as a universal symbol of protection — and yes, you do feel a shift in energy when you come across it on some market stall or when you slip your Hand of Fatima ring upon your finger.

Indeed, it is sometimes depicted with an eye in the centre of the design, which is understood to ward off that other eye, the evil one.

It can also signify good health, good fortune and good luck — so what’s not to like?

Given its multifaith and multicultural background, I like to think of the Hand of Fatima as a universal and unifying symbol — an olive branch that transcends any barriers of faith and geography.

I also love that it’s connected with strong feminine energy — something to be mindful of and celebrated every day!

My constant companion

In my travels in the Middle East, my Hand of Fatima ring has been my constant companion, a reminder that when life gets challenging, complicated, clouded by homesickness and grief, one need only return to those five pillars for a sense of belonging and grounding.

And in the high-energy, high-maintenance environs I find myself in, I’m amused by how often my ring, bought for just a few dirhams in a local market, is admired.

 

What I also love about this symbol is that it translates right across to the other half of my life in rural East Anglia. Somehow my Hand of Fatima ring looks just right nestled amongst the roses, resting on a saucer, shining in the benign Suffolk light.

I wonder sometimes too if my paternal grandparents shared my love for this beautiful emblem. Would my grandmother Sarah, born and bred in Kolkata, have worn such a ring?

And surely my grandfather Alfred would have been familiar with the Hand of Fatima, having travelled a long way for a lad from Worcester to India, Egypt and Mesopotamia in his military and civilian careers.

A friend and supporter

So the Hand of Fatima, adopted and adapted by so many people from all over the world, brings together past and present, near and far, representing good vibes only, whichever faith or culture is yours.

It’s there to embrace as your very own personal symbol, a friend and supporter to inspire, comfort and guide you in these changing and sometimes bewildering times.

We’re going on a ghost hunt…

What could be more appropriate on Hallowe’en than a tale of a haunted house, where the mysterious scent of cigar smoke and the hint of a disgruntled former resident were said to permeate its corridors?

This was Rokesle, a Georgian rectory just inside Kent, which my grandparents Ethel and Bill bought in the 1950s when it was a decaying and gloomy shadow of its former self.

Before Rokesle was restored with my mother, Pat, in the centre

An experienced builder, the ever-practical Bill set about restoring it and making it habitable. It became a vibrant family home to Ethel, Bill and my mother, Pat, and later my dad, my siblings and myself.

While Bill was the down-to-earth sort, Ethel and Pat were of a more romantic disposition and were convinced that the former rector was still an occupant in spirit form. They were certain that they had caught the strong perfume of his cigar smoke, believing that he was hanging around to supervise the restoration works.

His portrait now hangs in my current sitting room, keeping a disapproving eye on things. Nevertheless, I can’t help but feel he still lends some kind of protection and guardianship to his adoptive family.

Days at Rokesle were made for relaxing on the lawn...

The only spooky aspect of Rokesle that I recall was an incident late one night when I woke to police officers searching our garden with torches.

The next morning I overheard my mum tell my grandmother that she had called them after a young woman had appeared hammering on the door saying she had been chased down the lane by someone or something, then had run off in a state of terrorised panic. The police officers did not find her in our garden that night.

Rokesle in 1967

I only remember Rokesle as a warm and peaceful place, full of the joy and family affection that childhoods should be made of. I know it was with deep regret that my mother left there in 1979, and if anyone’s spirit is hanging around there today it will be hers – tending her roses and looking out for the badgers that would emerge after dark.

A place of joy and family affection

So convinced were Ethel and Pat that the house was haunted that they invited a reporter from the now-defunct Kentish Times to spend a night. Here is the subsequent report – inconclusive but leaving enough doubt to entertain the possibility that the supernatural is real.

Ghost Hunt

“There are more things in heaven…than are dreamt of in our philosophy.” Repeating this quotation from Shakespeare’s “Hamlet” to myself, I went off on a ghost hunt this week.

I was investigating some ghostly rumours about the former Rectory of Foots Cray. The house in Rectory-lane, renamed Rokesle after original spelling for Ruxley, is now occupied by Mr. and Mrs. W. Roberts and their daughter Patricia. They very kindly invited me to stay overnight to see if I would meet their ethereal visitor.

Although I was sceptical on the whole question of ghosts, I tried to keep an open mind on this particular spirit. Mrs. Roberts and Patricia seemed firmly convinced that there is, or was, a ghost attached to the house. Mrs. Roberts’ private theory on the phenomenon is that the ghost was a former Rector who had a deep affection for the Rectory. His spirit used to frequent the house because the building was in a run-down condition and he was unhappy about it, but now that it has been renovated he comes less often.

200-Year-Old House
Former occupants of the house are reported to have seen the ghost, but I could get no denial or confirmation from them. Mrs. Roberts and Patricia have both smelled a strong odour of cigar smoke, not attributable to any earthly source, in the garden, and one bedroom in a part of the house reputed to be 200 years old, is for no apparent reason, so cold that Mr. and Mrs. Roberts could not sleep there and had to move to another bedroom.

It was against this background that I began my lonely vigil soon after 11 on Friday night. I settled down in the bedroom, which, although it had had the sun on it all day, remained cold. I reluctantly switched the light off, but kept the switch close at hand.

Brilliant moonlight streamed through the windows, making deep shadows and bright highlights. The passage and stairs through the open doorway (if the ghost was to appear I did not want to hinder his entrance) looked black and forbidding.

Up the stairs floated the loud sounds of two antique clocks in the hall. Suddenly there was a loud knock and some quick scrapings. And with the first chime of the bewitching hour, I realised, not without relief, that the noise had been the old striking mechanism going into action.

Midnight
So 12 was here. If anything ghostly was going to happen, this was the traditional time for it. I opened the door a bit wider and fearfully yet eagerly concentrated on the darkness outside the room. Then, with my heart palpitating, I heard a measured creaking as if somebody, or something, was coming up the stairs. It was the second clock’s mechanism preparing to strike a few minutes after the other.

After I had calmed down, about half-an-hour later, I looked out at the extensive garden. Here the moonlight played monstrous tricks and the whole garden looked peopled with weird beings. The ridiculousness of this acted like a dose of cold water to my overworked imagination and I reminded myself that I did not believe in ghosts.

Therefore, when I heard the bump in the corner of the room just after one, I reasoned all supernatural implications away. It was about 1.15 when the bump came again. Not a loud, but still a decisive, sort of bump. I investigated and found – nothing. Not even something that could logically have made the noise, which made it a bit eerie.

Just before two the edge of light on the door jamb, marking the end of room moonlight and the beginning of passage darkness, started to waver and form the shape of a face. I ignored it and looked away. When I looked back it was still there. I got up and walked towards it and found it was the light from a bicycle wobbling up the lane.

And so the night wore on. Repeatedly I was disturbed by things I could not explain and sometimes by things half explained. Gradually the light faded as the moon set in a rose-coloured glow and my long vigil came to an end. I left Rokesle in the morning convinced that I had not seen a ghost, but less convinced that they did not exist.