By Helen Noble
On a beautiful, bright and sunny day, the windows are open to
let in the cool breeze, and the tones of Karl Jenkins’ Adiemus are ringing out here, around the empty walls of the farmhouse. The task of packing up the contents of my life, for the ninth
time, an average of once every 3.33 years of my adult life, is almost complete.
Folding my clothes, I recalled the humour and happiness of many past parties, festivals, holidays, and social occasions I have enjoyed from within the various pieces of attire. I tried to rationalise their future use, and consign some to the ‘no future use’ pile. My left-brain reductionist process was no match for the powerful emotion of my autobiographical memories. This is a quality I inherited from my beloved, now deceased grandmother, Edna May Moore, who would be 100 years old. She’s been on my mind since I found the old photograph of her amongst my collection. She died 11 years ago and I have a vivid recall of the removal of her beautiful clothes from her wardrobes and jewellery from her boxes in the days following her funeral, one warm day in June.
As a child, I knew her as glamorous, generous and fun loving. She loved to dress up and dance, encouraging me to sing, once almost persuading me to perform in public. Sabotaged by my own shyness, I still remember the look of disappointment on her face, when I failed to take the stage. She made it better by taking my brother and I to the funfair, where we rode roller coasters drenching us all with splashes of cold water. We ate fish and chips on the sea wall, and sipped on beer shandy in the pub garden. I’m sure her earlier years, as a the wife of a World War 2 POW in the poverty-stricken mining valleys of Wales, were not so kind to her.
A single mother, with two children to raise, she worked tirelessly, yet door to her modest, terraced house was always open to extended family and friends. Funny how those who have so little, find so much time and space for sharing. Always donning a stylish head of coloured and curled hair, she turned her own interest into an income by converting her tiny front parlour into a salon where she permed, set, and cut and dyed the hair of her fashion-conscious neighbours. I know only a few such stories about those years of her life, which have been passed down by my father. He has spoken of the excitement of the collective, as they watched the first car to drive through the village, its driver the local doctor on his community rounds. 1940s radio broadcasts formed the soundtrack to their lives as the development of television still hovered a few years in the future. Life’s horizons were expanded by climbing the steep hillsides of the valley and surveying the distant landscape of their lives; momentarily escaping the eyesores of the slag-heaps and coal-dust coughs, to sample the fresh air of the mountain tops.
She lived to love again and watch her children grow. As an adult, I visited often, my own children soon learning to expect the treats and treasures she always produced during our many trips home.
Now, the valley-bottomed sites of old mines are flooded with the water of new fishing lakes. The heaps have been levelled to create parkland and nature rails. A magical transformation of her world, emerging only during the last days of her life.
With the love of her life, Jack, passing away just one week before my birth, I only ever knew my grandmother as a widow, one who seemed determined to make the best life for herself and her family. Seeing, feeling, her clothes helped me to fill in the gaps in my knowledge of her, picturing the unknown scenes of her life. I smelled her perfume, gently held her much-treasured golden locket, and I heard her laughter, the young woman who once wore the petite, dancing shoes.
I once more witnessed the glint in her eye, the spark of the romantic, a lover of life, born most befittingly on Valentine’s Day.
As I squeeze one more summer dress into the case, I know there will always be room in my future for the treasures of memories past.
Helen is the author of a number of fiction titles, including The 49th Day
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