A Love Letter

It’s been a slow but steady falling-in-love: the best kind as each tryst reveals a little more—a happy debriding revealing the smoothest of fleshy detail, an elegant striptease.

This new love started years ago. Things that were dear to you when you were young lose their appeal when new horizons open up. Then you come full circle and you seek out the familiar and it shows itself to you with a hint here and a detail there.

This love sees inside my soul and exposes me—reveals my inner mechanisms and sets forth a chain reaction with a hint and a nudge to make me fully alive.

Love is a chemical reaction, it’s true. It’s biological, physical, sensual. The dark, damp scent of the basement takes me back to my grandparents’ house and the thrill of exploring the cellar and feeling the cool stone against my bare summer arms.

 

Forget the grand central staircase, it’s ascending the back stairs, the polished wood smell and the precariousness of the steep steps that transport me to schooldays in another grand house not so far from here.

You know what it’s like when you are in love: any little gesture, remark or observation magnifies and metamorphoses of its own accord into some grand symbol. On my first day back there was talk in the lift of a book of guidance for mankind, here, in this place, a world within a world, thousands of miles and hundreds of years from its origin. There can be no greater sign than this.

Explore further and there’s a whole other world beyond the house. This one goes on forever. Its magic is revealed in the quiet of a frosty morning or just the long, grey hush of winter. Many of its inhabitants are rare and retiring but so fired up on pheromones and hormones the place makes you, you feel them looking out for you alone from the branches of the trees, protective, and calling from miles away a welcome or a warning of trouble.

It’s on the cusp now of bursting into full springtime glory. The days may still be chilly, but the light is more generous, and green shoots are showing through, there are red, black and green buds on the delicate branches, and a sense of hope as the life cycle returns to the beginning. There’s no joy greater than anticipating joy.

Yes, it is a new beginning, and this love is liniment for a bruised soul. It’s a gentle, powerful love, protective and restorative, engrained with the stories of those who have loved before me and ready for a thousand more…

The Winter's Tale

There’s not just one tale in the winter edition of Vintage Script, but many—read all about them here…

Bankside Morning
Bernie Deehan
Bernie’s a magician when it comes to telling tales: he conjures up exquisite images of Thames-side London and its intriguing occupants in days gone by. ‘The quay was bustling with men. Crates and sacks were being lifted, link chains of iron hauled towards barges. Hoarse shouts filled the air like herons: black curses about the weights being moved, zealous young watermen advertising for trade.’ Bernie transports you so skilfully to his world that you can actually feel the chill of the mist rising from the Thames, your ears tingle with the coarse shouts of the men and the ripples of the water leave you mesmerised.

Activity on the Thames

An Emperor in Exile: Haile Selassie in Bath
Clare Reddaway
Clare’s article reads like a work of fiction: an emperor from a far-off land finds refuge in quintessentially English Bath. Here he sets up home in a Victorian villa, complete with entourage and dog Lulu, and takes daily constitutionals in the grounds or the town. ‘He was small at five foot four,’ says Clare, ‘but dignified, proud and sombre, always wearing dark suits, with a knee-length cape and a bowler or homburg hat’. He becomes a local celebrity, eventually returning to his homeland Ethiopia and was later declared the Messiah by Rastafarians. The best thing about this tall tale, apart from it being expertly written by Clare, is that it really is a true story!

The Voyage
Marie Gethins
A sad tale’s best for winter, they say, and Marie captures the plight of those affected by the sinking of the RMS Lusitania beautifully. She tells her story through a child’s eyes, and you can’t help but be moved by the details that make the story so real: the boy narrator’s hatred of peas and their soft middles, his comparison of the sinking ship with his tipped-up checkers board, and his depositing of Mother’s glove in his pocket for safekeeping.

Lace
Jennifer Falkner
Jennifer’s story couldn’t be better named: delicate, intricate and beautifully detailed. In her story, Padre Piaggio takes inspiration from the frame his mother would use to dry lace in his own elaborate task of transcribing rolls of ancient papyri. Like all the best tales, this one is full of mystery: what do the letters mean, where do they come from and what will they tell us about an ancient civilization destroyed by a force of nature?

The Big Red Hotel
Edward Clark
This tale, where Edward recounts the history of the Carlton Hotel (originally the Hotel Victoria) in Newmarket, Suffolk, is a treat for nostalgia fans. Edward adds a very personal touch when he says that during his army days, ‘…particularly in the fierce heat of Libya and Cyprus, I would sometimes recall the hotel’s unique ambience, the way it felt and looked just before morning opening: a clean coolness in the marble-floored foyer freighted with the smells of fresh beer and wax polish from the bars and the Winter Garden’s airy brightness contrasting with the deep shadows and filtered light of the wood-panelled billiard room, the snooker balls set resplendent on the brushed green cloth of the two tables’.

Sweet Tooth
Esther Cleverly
In this quirky love story barley-sugars and pink sugar mice conspire with the narrator to win the heart of an old-fashioned beauty. The relationship is strictly professional, but as addictive as the sweet stuff: ‘You know that back right molar, which has been giving me so much trouble? You remember everything you told me not to do? I did it all, and it was worth the pain, the extra fillings, the noxious sweetness of the gas, to gaze at your beautiful face from six inches’ distance as your warm fingers probed my gums, stroked my tongue’. Inventive newcomer Esther is certainly a one to watch!

Reading It Right
Gordon Phillips
A letter from railway pioneer George Stephenson detailing snippets from everyday life inspired Gordon’s song lyric The Tale of Betty Stephenson. Gordon explains the journey from letter to lyric and reproduces the words—in Geordie—here, along with the Stephenson letter. It’s a wonderful tale, revealing Gordon’s artistic journey and the fascinating background of one of the north-east’s most famous and influential historical figures.

Night Before Last
Eamonn Griffin
Eamonn sets the scene for the last night of Robert Hubert, the man who confessed to—and was hung for—starting the 1666 Great Fire. It’s Thomas and John who are on duty that night, watching him, and the double-act is as amusing as the story is intriguing (Hubert’s confession was puzzlingly false). Eamonn’s skill is hard to achieve: he leaves you with a satisfying ending, but still asking a thousand questions and wanting to come back for more!

God’s Vengeance
Sandy Norris
Sandy—who was inspired by the story behind the Mary Rose—transports us to sixteenth century Hampshire and takes us on the journey of a young lad as he steps into a new life aboard the ship. Sandy’s dazzling and detailed description (‘King Henry’s ships crowd the harbour and on land hundreds of soldiers’ tents are pitched outside the town’s ramparts. Foot soldiers queue to enter the gates and the sun glints on their pikes’) transports you in time and place, and chill you to the bone as battle commences…

From The Amazon to Bourneville: The History of Chocolate
Stephen Davis
Vintage Script would never get edited without copious amounts of chocolate, so it’s hard to think of a more apposite article! Stephen talks us through—with great mastery and reverence—the history of this life-enhancing substance, revealing many intriguing facts along the way. I was shocked to learn, for instance, that during the Spanish Armada, English sailors discarded cocoa found on captured Spanish ships, not realising its potential. There’s a happy ending, though, as Stephen tells us about the establishment of the Cadbury empire in humble Bourneville, a far cry from chocolate’s roots in the exotic Amazon.

  

Stepping Out
David Williams
Another happy ending in David’s story Stepping Out, as loyal but downtrodden Ella blossoms, becoming both transformed and the transformer of other people’s lives. Her pleasure is the reader’s: ‘She likes the feel of his hands, the right resting with the exact degree of tenderness in the small of her back, the left drawing hers slightly towards him, hinting at a desire to kiss her fingers’. David’s writing is always subtle and understated, with a deep understanding of character and motivation—a joy to read.

Voyage to India
Elinor Lobban
Another love story, with hints of the exotic, and just the right amount of suspense and romanticism: ‘The breeze blew a lock of hair across her cheek. He wanted to brush it away. He longed to kiss her but cared too much to compromise her’. Elinor leads the reader on a winding path with some ups and downs and will-they-won’t-theys and delights with an uplifting twist at the end.

The winter edition of Vintage Script is on sale now.



Ronald and Richard

I wrote this account of my father (Ronald) and uncle’s (Richard) early life in India and what is now Pakistan a few years back. It’s based on fact but embellished by fiction! The photos are of my family.

On a fine day in 1925 Ronald and Richard set sail on the Raj Patan with their parents, Alfred and Sarah, from the port of Karachi in India to return to England. This marked the very start of their adventure. Their “home” in England was not really their home, as the two boys and their mother had been born in India, and its backdrop of palm trees and brightly-coloured birds and flowers was quite ordinary and familiar to them. But to the boys especially, England lured them with a weird kind of exoticism and for weeks beforehand they dreamed of apple orchards, country churches and soft summer rain on dry, red bricks as if these were jewels from the orient.

Richard (left) and Ronald (right)

Alfred had decided to bring the family to England for the very reasons that Ronald and Richard thrived in India. The boys received no formal education and spent their days in the care of their ayah or mother, scrambling freely around the dusty garden, enjoying trips to the beach in Karachi or sailing to the nearby island of Minora in the family’s yacht. The island was magical and unspoilt, nothing but sand and an outlook to miles of ocean. After dark the moon and stars reflecting off the waves distorted the pale night-time hues and coloured the surrounding landscape an eerie shade of blue. By day, picnics on the beach were a regular occurrence. A crude canvas windbreaker would be hauled up to shade the party from the heat. They would sit for hours there, the family and their extended group of friends, their picnic spread out on a pristine white tablecloth, which soon became stained with sand and mud, sipping tea from bone china cups and saucers and mixing dates and mangoes with fruitcake and scones.

Picnic on Minora

 

Alfred managed a kerosene factory and another favourite trip would be down to the wharf to see the huge ships pumping oil in and out. In those days, the city was an incongruous mix of old and new. The oil business was fast expanding and the sight of monstrous tankers against the steep cliffs and immaculate sands was quite a contrast, but to the boys, fascinating.

Alfred, back row, second right, and factory staff

The house in Karachi was spacious and cool, and had the luxury of a garden where Sarah would sit in the late afternoons reading. Although the climate was almost rainless, proximity to the coast meant that it was possible, with some coaxing, to grow bougainvilleas, rhododendrons and other tropical plants and flowers, and the odd fruit or sandalwood tree, and so the air would be scented in layers, in much the same way that expensive perfumes would be put together. To Alfred, used to the more restrained English gardens, these plants seemed menacing, but to Ronald and Richard they provided perfect hiding places and fuelled their imaginative games.

My grandmother, Sarah

 

The garden, tropical and beautiful, was far from peaceful. Apart from the shouts of the boys as they played with the servants’ children, the supernatural echoes of nameless birds and insects would reverberate day and night. Parakeets could often be seen perched in the trees. They were far from shy, and had been known to swoop onto the veranda and interrupt afternoon tea to steal a treat. Every evening they would gather in a coven high above the treetops chattering, screeching and chanting until they tired and would settle to sleep, emitting the odd squawk as night caught up with them. 

The tropical garden

The family’s pet lemur, Felix, presided over the garden. Felix was a pet far superior to any ordinary cat or dog. He would happily balance on one’s shoulders and be carried aloft with quite a regal air. Apart from being kingly, he could be naughty too. He would snatch a banana or other treat from innocent hands and position himself on the veranda, taunting its original owner.

Felix the lemur on my grandfather’s shoulder

The boys were quite familiar with the local people who worked for the family, and Richard was especially fond of his ayah. Her husband also worked for the family and Richard would often warn him that if he didn’t look after his wife then he would take her off and marry her himself. This freedom made Alfred decide that the boys were growing wild and needed the discipline of an English education to set them up in life, and so the family packed up and headed for a more subdued climate.  

My dad as a baby

The journey back to England was an adventure in itself, and for the majority of the trip the weather remained as clement as the family was used to. Occasional stopovers would be made along the way, and Alfred would often bring back treasures from the local markets. One time, when the ship stopped in Egypt, he returned from the souk with an octagonal wooden table inlaid with brass and coloured enamel. It became a favourite piece of furniture back in England, perhaps because it always seemed to radiate warmth from the polished wood and reflect light from the metal. As the ship sailed closer to Europe, colours became more muted and the climate chillier. Arrival in Southampton couldn’t have been more disheartening. The day was cold and the fog was everywhere and nowhere, unseen but snapping at the boys’ heels and filling their lungs. Over time the sparkling colours and sounds of India faded in the boys’ memories, and the black and white photographs became even more monotone, but the unexpected heat of an English midsummer day would occasionally revive these impressions with tantalising intensity.   

Back in England

None of my family returned to the subcontinent after this, a source of much regret to my grandmother, Sarah, who spoke Hindi as well as she spoke English. That is, until my sister and I went on our own adventure to Pakistan and India a few years ago, where we found the site of our grandparents’ (long-since demolished) house in Karachi, bought a wedding dress, and shouted, “Pakistan zindabad!” at Wagah. And just to square the circle, I married a man from Karachi!