In Grantchester.

Posted on August 25, 2013 by Scribe Doll

My friend C. has a sticker on her vehicle, which says, “My other car is a broom”.  She keeps it by the back door, ready to sweep out dust and other unwanted dirt.  To keep the house clean from unpleasant thoughts.  Clear of prejudice, sorrow and fear.  “We cannot afford the luxury of fear,” she once told me, a quarter of a century ago.

I notice her as soon as I get off the train at Cambridge.  She stands out from the crowd.  There is a soft glow around her.  White, with a hint of lilac – echoed in the lilacs, purples and violets she so frequently wears.  Twenty-five years ago, when I first went to see her, I knocked on a lilac front door.

Today, her long, abundant hair is braided.  Its rich, chestnut brown has only just begun to fade.  Age, however, has not dulled the knowing and gently amused glint in her deep blue eyes.  Eyes that look at life’s problems with inquisitiveness, like on puzzles to be solved.  Lessons to be learned.  Her hug is gentle yet full of healing warmth.  Everything about C. is healing.  She once cured me of an ailment two years’ worth of medics could not get their heads around.  All it took, was a little sideways pressure on an area on my feet.  C.  knows the map of the foot like an expert geographer.  When I told her I was suddenly better, she said, “Oh, good,” the way she would respond to someone telling her the weather forecast promised sunshine, or that the post had been delivered early.  Then there was the time when she suggested a herb which dissolved an ugly scar.  Then, it was a flower, then an oil.  It was C. who helped me see that illness can be a teacher and thus a friend.  C. who inspired me to study the precious art of observation, of questioning, and of trusting in nature.

She drives us through vibrant green meadows so flat they could go on for ever and ever, where the horizon is at your feet.  Along the river, elm trees sway against an expressive Cambridge sky.  The moody East Anglian wind moulds lead-grey clouds into purple mountains, golden valleys, and cyan blue oceans.  We reach the village, and turn at the church.  I look up at the clock, always expecting it to show ten to three, and begin reciting lines from The Old Vicarage, Grantchester.  We go past The Green Man, apparently named after the ghost of a headless knight that is rumoured to wander across the Fens on moonless nights.  Or so I was told, when I first arrived in Cambridge, as a teenager.

We have coffee sitting on deck chairs, in a orchard.  The blades of grass tickle my ankles, and a cheeky breeze slips its cool fingers under the collar of my jacket and brushes my skin.  We air is laced with pear, moist soil, dewey grass and coffee. A wasp sits on my bare forearm and begins grooming its antennae, my skin a temporary sunbed.  Not wanting to startle it, I use my other hand to lift my coffee cup.  A perfect creature, lemon yellow with black stripes, and a waistline to envy.  A ladybird flies onto the table, and begins to promenade on the edge of C.’s saucer.  We listen to each-other’s news.  We have not seen each other for a couple of years.  In between words, we listen to the Fens, and stories as old as the land, older than the University.  From a time when you could hear the river Cam giggle, the willows sigh, and when sprites came out to play.

I ask C.’s advice on a matter important to me.  She does not give her opinion.  Instead, she helps find stones to rebuild the interrupted path between my head and my heart, so I can find my own way to my answer.  She helps me not be afraid of my decision.  I grin, relieved to have been reconnected to myself.  She smiles that otherwordly and yet very real smile , as though that is no big deal.  “Take care of yourself,” she says, later, as she drops me off at the train station.  I know behind these ordinary words, there is a gift of true friendship.  A blessing.

Scribe Doll

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Turandot – A Story of Redemption

Posted on August 18, 2013 by Scribe Doll

One of my favourite operas – if not my actual favourite – is Turandot.  Inspired by the Persian fairy tale Turan-Dokht, it was Giacomo Puccini’s swansong, left unfinished at his death and completed by Franco Alfano.

There is something profoundly different about Turandot – a kind of power that is absent from Puccini’s other works.  Something absolute and overwhelming.  Tosca grabs you by the gut, La Bohème captures your heart, but Turandot – at least for me – bewitches you, then capsizes you.

716hZ5fNWzL.Image._My mother had a 1959 recording, with Birgit Nilsson in the title role, Jussi Bjoerling as Calaf, and Renata Tebaldi as Liù  Six heavy records in a square cardboard box with the picture of a fierce-looking, scary Chinese dragon on the cover.  I do not know how this opera found its way onto our record shelf.  I do not remember anyone else in the family ever listening to it, beside myself.  I have a blurred memory of my mother sitting on the Persian rug, libretto spread open beside her, telling me, “… but Turandot says to her father, the Emperor of China, ‘I know the name of the Stranger.  His name is Love.’”

I must have been nine or ten.

On many an afternoon, I would stack the records on our Phillips record player, and hold my breath in anticipation as the sapphire landed on the edge of the glossy black disc.  No matter how many times I heard it, that solemn sweep of the opening notes and the subsequent rhythmic chords, never failed – and still never fails – to hit me right in the centre of my chest.  A Mandarin reads out an edict to the people of Peking.  Princess Turandot will marry the prince of royal blood who will solve the three riddles she sets him.  However, should he fail, then, as the moon rises in the sky, his head will fall on the executioner’s block.  And so exiled Prince Calaf, his blind father and their devoted slave girl, Liù, arrive in Peking to witness the execution of the hapless Prince of Persia, little more than a boy.

200px-Poster_Turandot

Turandot is the icy maiden, the embodiment of cruelty.  She takes pleasure in shedding blood.  Her beauty lures men to madness and death, since no one can solve her riddles.  Although the opera concludes with a marriage and love triumphant, this is not a happy ending, for it comes at a heavy cost.  To conquer Turandot, Prince Calaf loses his father’s love, and sees Liù make the ultimate sacrifice.  As Turandot declares her love for Calaf, it is very difficult to believe in her sincerity.  As my friend Sue says, “If I were Calaf, I’d have her killed straight after the wedding, before she has a chance to get me! You don’t seriously believe she can ever change, do you?”

Like my friend, I always felt the ending to be contrived.  For one thing, I always disliked Calaf.  He is so overwhelmed by Turandot’s beauty, that he becomes utterly selfish.  He cares little for the wellbeing of his blind father, and fails to see true, selfless love in Liù.  A man who will smash anything and anyone who stands in the way of his desire.

Blinded by love, Calaf strikes the baleful gong in the public square, announcing his intention to contend for the Princess’s hand.  Even the old Emperor cannot dissuade him.  Turandot appears, and sets the three riddles.  Calaf puts fear in her heart from the start, because she sees in his eyes the glow of impending triumph, the hand of destiny.  She knows that he sees her, through her.  When he solves her riddles, she falls prey to panic, recants on her vow, and begs her father not to give her to the stranger.  At this point, Calaf performs an act of generosity.  He sets Turandot a riddle of his own.  “Guess my name,” he says.  “Guess it by sunrise, and I shall die.”  And so the people of Peking are kept awake all night, whilst soldiers and guards search for the stranger’s name.  His name, Turandot’s only hope of escape.  Only Liù admits to knowing that name, but she takes the secret away with her to her death.

Yes, Turandot is cruel – but she has a backstory, which she tells us in her aria In questa reggia.  A backstory that goes back generations, to gentle Princess Lo-u-Ling, who reigned in peace and joy until her kingdom was conquered  in war.  The invader then raped and murdered Lo-u-Ling, her terrified scream echoing through the land.  It is Lo-u-Ling’s angry, humiliated soul that lives again in Turandot, and seeks revenge.  Revenge, or a settling of accounts.  Turandot/Lo-u-Ling cannot believe in love, since her memory is that of pain.  And so, she sets love riddles, hurdles, and tests, unable to emerge from a past of horror until the lesson is learnt, and order restored.  Only, this order can be restored with love, and not revenge.  It is Calaf’s destiny to put a stop to this cycle of destruction and self-destruction, and begin a cycle of rebuilding, of nurturing and of creativity.  Trapped in her pattern of distrust, Turandot is deeply afraid of change.  In a way, Calaf’s love exorcises the demons that have kept her prisoner for centuries, and sets her free.  Moreover, it is Liù that shows her what love is.  As the slave girl is tortured, the princess asks, “What gives your heart so much strength?”

“Princess, ‘tis love,” replies Liù.

“Love?” echoes Turandot in the same musical phrase, in disbelief, for she does not know what it is.  Love, in her memory, is nothing but pain and she is puzzled by what she sees in Liù.

450px-MaiNessun As a romantic love story, Turandot is as flawed as it is unsatisfying.  It does not add up.  Look at it as a story of destiny, redemption, accounts settled and order restored, though, and it suddenly makes perfect sense.  It is all in the libretto by Giuseppe Adami and Renato Simoni.  Once you know that, you realise Puccini’s music has been telling you that all along.

Scribe Doll

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Interview About Writing

Posted on August 7, 2013 by Scribe Doll

Rupert Davies-Cooke, of the Original Writers Group, interviewed me about writing in August 2013.

Scribe Doll

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Three Women in the Kitchen

Posted on August 4, 2013 by Scribe Doll

Three women in a South-West London kitchen, on a scorching summer afternoon.  The only cool room in the house.  Only the red setting sun peers through these windows.

Three women in a South-West London kitchen.  One, in the early Spring of her life; the other two in the late Summer of theirs.  The first, a fragrant English rose; the second, a translucent shell from the China Seas; the third, a colour-changing orpiment from the Caucasus Mountains.

Three women in a South-West London kitchen, bound together by their different femininities.  Laughing, telling stories, counselling, preparing food.  A man steps into the kitchen, for a glass of water from the running tap.  An honest man, who has nothing to fear from these women, who see him as the brother with whom they share a roof.  He shies away from the blaze of this impromptu coven.  “Come and join us,” says one.  “Pull up a chair,” says another.  Yet he retreats, on tip-toe, followed by a chorus of shrill giggles.

“I’ll make Turkish coffee,” says the Caucasus woman, hazel eyes full of tricks.  “My grandmother taught me to read fortunes in the cup.”

Limpid blue eyes look up at her with youthful expectation, then she meets the stern gaze of her peer in years.  Almond-shaped, jet eyes that say, you should know better than to fill the child’s head with nonsense.  The woman from the China Seas stands by the sink, chopping vegetables on a heavy, wooden board.  Vermillion peppers, ivory potatoes, emerald spinach and glistening white onions.  She takes no part in these childish games.  She is the mistress of the house, and a wife.

 

The copper pot with the long, wooden handle is placed upon the stove.  It whispers, hisses, and finally gurgles.  The froth slowly curls up from the edges of the pot, and rushes to the middle, like sea foam to the shore.  Bubbles brown as earth rise up, boiling.  The  air is filled with the rich aroma of coffee.  “Quick! Get the cups!” the older woman tells the young one, then pours the earthy liquid into the small, porcelain cups, whilst the woman from the China Seas looks on, her steel knife a steady rhythm against the wooden board.  Her sisters, seated at the table, purse their lips and blow on their cups, to cool to coffee.

 

“A tale my grandmother used to tell,” says the woman from the Caucasus.  “Three sisters once sat in their kitchen, sewing a tablecloth.  The first said, ‘If the King would marry me, I would embroider for him the most beautiful shirt the world has ever seen.‘

‘If the King would marry me,‘ said her sister, ‘I would bake for him the finest bread the world has ever seen.’

‘If the King would marry me,‘ said the third, ‘I would give him an heir – the strongest and handsomest knight the world has ever seen.‘

Unbeknown to the three sisters, the King was riding past their window, and had stopped to listen…”

 

The English rose and the shell from the China Seas listen, as the Caucasus woman tells the story, then picks coffee grains from her lip with the tip of her tongue.  “Now turn your cup upside down on the saucer,” she says.  “Like this.”  Playful, entertaining her young companion.  “I am scared,” says the latter.  “What will you see in my cup?” she says, blue eyes clouded with hesitation.

The Caucasus woman avoids the challenging gaze of her peer.  “Only good things,” she reassures.  “Only the road that lies ahead of you, should you face the direction you’re facing today.  Turn away, and a different road lies ahead of you.”

 

They wait, as the earthy liquid spreads down the sides of the cup, leaving swirls and patterns.  The young woman is impatient.  “Is it ready, yet?”

 

The cups are turned up, again.  The woman by the sink puts down her knife, and watches, her curiosity attracted.  Cups are turned, angled and held up to the light.  Patterns emerge.  A tall tree bearing fruit, and a song bird spreading its wings.  “Freedom,” says the English rose.

“Then be it so,” replies her companion.

A man and a woman, linking arms.  A child holding the woman’s other hand.  The young woman giggles, the bloom on her cheeks deepens.  “A child may represent a fruitful venture,” warns her friend.  “Something new and wonderful.”

“Let’s see yours, now,” says the English rose, eager for the game to continue.

It has been a long time since the Caucasus woman has read her coffee cup.  A long time since she has known hope.  But she knows she cannot allow her hopelessness to taint the excitement in the bright blue eyes that are staring at her.  She angles her cup to the light from the window.

 

A figure standing at the foot of a tall, steep mountain, with sharp, jagged edges.  On the peak, the firebird.  The prize, if the figure can reach the top, and claim it.   A figure sitting at a desk, writing on a scroll.  A man next to her.  “Angle the cup,” entreats the young woman.  The man and woman stretch out their arms to receive something.  The English rose claps her hands.  “It is, isn’t it? That’s what it looks like,” she says.  The woman from the China Seas smiles.  The Caucasus woman stares.  Then she stands up, picks the cups and saucers from the table, and washes them in the sink.

 

She cannot tell her sisters what she has really seen in her cup, for she does not dare believe it.  She turns her back to them, smiles to herself, and feels her heart quicken in her breast.

 

 Scribe Doll

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Sunday at the Globe

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Scribe Doll

Focussing my thoughts is proving impossible, this weekend.  Like trying to corral cats.  They dart across the room, bounce off the walls, whizz past me before I can catch them, hover before my eyes, teasing, then spiral upwards at vertiginous speed.  They nose-dive buzzing into my ear as I am trying to sleep.  As I open the fridge door, trying to work out what to eat, they snatch any concrete cooking plan I come up with, and slalom out of the kitchen, out of my reach, at supersonic speed.  I slam the fridge door shut, all motivation to prepare food gone.

I consider going to the last service of the Legal Year at the Temple Church, this morning.  The perfection of the choral singing always quiets my brain chatter.  Today, though, I know my thoughts will be swinging off the organ loft, knocking the choristers’ music scores off the pews, and pulling faces at all the barristers.

I remember I have arranged to have coffee with my friend B. at the usual café near St Paul’s.  It’s been B.’s role in our fourteen year-old friendship gently to lure the spooked cat my brain often turns into, down from the tree it runs up, with a saucer full of perspective.  I grab my writing notepad, the large tome of The Alexandria Quartet, which I am reading at the moment, shove everything into a rucksack, and run out of the house.  My attempt to save time by avoiding the – let’s call it leisurely paced – District Line backfires.  I end up taking three different Tube lines.  I lose patience with commuters who promenade down the long, Underground corridors.  Do people have to walk hand in hand all the time, and block the way?

B. wants to try queuing for returns at the Globe, for Macbeth.  I pounce on the prospect of some distraction.  “Oh, can I come with you?” I say.  That is exactly what I need.  Some open-air Shakespeare.  I can watch the show, while my thoughts go and play with the Weird Sisters and Greymalkin.

I first tried reading Macbeth on a stormy night, when I was about twelve.  I had to check every few words in the dictionary.  I think I must have managed the first couple of pages before finally going to sleep – but the sense of mystery, magic and thrill of those powerful words has remained with me to this day.

With only half an hour to go before the show starts, chances of returns are small.  Still, the sun is shining, so we rush over Millennium Bridge, and join the queue.  We strike lucky.  Ten minutes before the show starts, two Groundling tickets.  That means standing – something I promised myself, several years ago, I would never do again.  However, the theatre atmosphere has just sprinkled a sense of fun and adventure on my head, and I’m game to stand for three hours.

I am in no way nationalistic, but I find something very special, mellifluous and bewitching in the voice of a British stage actor.  It is limpid and brilliant, like finely cut crystal.  The show starts with a blood-stirring beating of drums and a complaint of bagpipes.  Scottish music always tugs at something deep inside me.  Words, beautiful words fly across the playhouse.  Words rich in meaning and sound.  Words that caress the ear and are a feast for the mind.  Shakespeare.  Did he really write all those extraordinary plays? Or was it the School of Night? My speculations are interrupted.  There is a little boy standing in front of us.  Suddenly, he faints.  B. catches him and, supporting his fall, gently lowers him to the ground, as the First Aiders appear out of nowhere.   Within a few minutes, the little boy is smiling, his eyes squinting in the sunlight.  I remember fainting a couple of times, when I was eighteen.

During the interval, we go and sit on the steps outside the Globe.  I start munching my sandwich, when cold drops of water start falling on my neck and shoulders.  They quickly grow harder and more frequent.  Then, the skies rip open.  “Do you want to go back in?” asks B., casually, but I am already sprinting up the steps, ahead of him, to find shelter, swearing at the BBC weather forecast for not mentioning the possibility of rain.  The timing, though, is choreographed to perfection.  The rain stops exactly at the end of the show interval, and we go back in.  I am feeling a little drowsy.  Perhaps I have eaten my sandwich too quickly.  I suddenly feel tired.  The sun pounds at my eyes, and I wonder where I have put my sunglasses, then realise B. has them in his breast pocket.  I am not in the habit of getting my friends to carry my things, but I must have got distracted, and he must have picked them up to keep them safe.  Lady Macbeth comes in for her madness scene.  Suddenly, her voice grows distant, and her face dark and blurred.  In fact, the entire stage is suddenly drowning in dark splodges.  The sudden realisation that I am about to slide down to the ground brings me just enough presence of mind to make a conscious effort to keep myself upright.  No.  I am not going to faint.  I don’t want to faint.  I whisper to B. that I am popping out, somehow float out of the theatre gates, and manage to sit myself on the bench just outside.  For a moment, I am afraid I am about to slide off the seat.  No.  I don’t want to faint.  I am not going to faint.  After about ten minutes, I am once again feeling solid enough to go back in, and watch the final battle between Macbeth and Macduff.  By the time I pick up my thoughts from the Weird Sisters, they are all tired out, and follow after me willy-nilly, dragging their feet, yawning.  On the way home, I resort to the undergraduate dinner solution – a take away.  No cooking, no washing up.  Yippee.  As I eat, my eyelids feel increasingly heavy.  My thoughts have dozed off, sprawled on the floor, curled up on my table, and lying across my laptop keyboard.  I pick them up gently, one by one, and arrange them so they are more comfortable but taking care not to rouse them again.  They do not look so intimidating now.  With any luck, they will behave, tomorrow.  In the meantime, I see the moon rising behind the oak tree outside my window.  Time to sleep, she says.

 Scribe Doll

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Deciphering the Music Code

Posted on July 21, 2013 by Scribe Doll

Saturday morning.  My friend L. and I are on the ‘phone, arranging one of our brunches in Notting Hill.  Her soft Irish tone turns businesslike.  “Now do you want to come up for your lesson before or after brunch?”

I search my memory for a reference frame.  “Lesson?”

“Yes.  I promised, over a year ago, I’d teach you to read music.”

I grin from ear to ear.  A child about to be given a long-awaited treat.  “After brunch,” I say.  I suddenly remember I forgot to have dinner, last night.  I don’t want hunger dizziness to spoil this moment.  A secret is about to be revealed to me, and I need all my concentration.

 

I have adored music for as long as I can remember.  My mother says I could tell tunes apart before I could string a sentence together.  I play CDs all the time.  I don’t listen to music.  I breathe it in and let it permeate through every cell in my body, and every thought in my mind.  I need music like I need air.  I have no difficulty believing, in Lorenzo’s words as he courts Jessica (The Merchant of Venice), that –

 

“There’s not the smallest orb which thou behold’st
But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.”

 

I scribble words because I cannot compose music.

 

Music caresses my soul, balms my wounds, stirs my emotions, feeds my resolutions and inspires my dreams.  When, about two years ago, I suddenly developed tinnitus, I thought I would lose my mind.  The thought of not being able to hear music was simply unbearable.  The fear of such a possibility was so overwhelming, it conquered my deeply-rooted distrust of the medical profession.  I went to a surgery.  “Take a paracetamol,”  I was told in a less-than-sympathetic tone.

“I said hiss – not hurt,” I snapped, containing all impulse to spit some serious venom and wondering, once again, whether I was before extraordinarily evil or profound stupidity.

 

A couple of weeks later, I resorted to some medically-unapproved complementary medicine diagnostic tools which showed that I had displaced a couple of neck vertebrae.    After a few subsequent visits to an osteopath who unceremoniously pulled, pushed, crunched and stretched me, I could hear music again without the interference of any buzzing, ringing or hissing.

 

While at University, I used to sing at balls and formal dinners, accompanied on the piano by my friend Helen.  We called ourselves Champagne Sorbet.  Unable to read music, I would memorise the tunes.  I have a sweet-sounding pearwood alto recorder, and I play (badly) everything by ear.  I watch with envy people who sit on the Tube, leafing through musical scores, the black squiggles on the staves actually translating into music in their heads.  I would happily swap one of my languages for the ability to read music.

 

L.’s studio flat is cluttered with odd pieces of inherited furniture, hand-painted china, embroidered cushions, leaning towers of books in English, French and Russian, and every imaginable ornament – be it glass, plastic, wood or fabric.  Against the wall, stands the upright piano.  The top and surrounding floor space are littered with books and scores.  Chopin, Sondheim, Porter, Bach, Beethoven, Scriabin, Kander and Ebb, Jule Styne.  She clears a space on the table, covered in an Estonian linen tablecloth with lilacs, daisies and poppies, and smoothes an A4 sheet of paper over it.  Her biro sinks through the paper into the soft fabric as she draws five parallel lines across the page.  “This is a stave,”, she says.

Soon, both sides of the paper are covered in treble clefs, bass clefs, quavers, semi-quavers, and pauses.  L. explains the mathematical nature of music.  I think of the word Harmony.  She illustrates the meaning of rhythm, and the term heartbeat comes to my mind.  She shows me the pattern of a bar, and I think Perfection.  Of Dante’s concept of the Universe, conducted to the beat of all-encompassing Love.

 

“Now, let’s practise,” says L.  We sit by the piano.  I am too much in awe of the instrument, to touch it.  Eventually, I brush the dark wood lightly with my finger.  L. has bought a beginner’s manual on piano playing especially for the occasion, and bends back the spine before sliding it into the score holder.  She brings her thumb down and a sound, like an alerted reaction, pings across the room.  “This is Middle C,” she says, matter of fact, in charge of the magnificent instrument.  She makes me sit on the stool and allocates each of the hesitant, clumsy fingers of my right hand, to an ivory key, then instructs me to play the notes printed on the score.  She counts as I push down my fingertips.  Sounds result.  Oh, joy!  My little finger rebels.  She tells me off for my lack of control.  I finish the page and she gives me encouragement.  I have to stop.  After barely five minutes, my wrist is aching.  L.  shows me muscle-strengthening hand exercises.  I watch her knuckles spring up and down, like a spider ready to pounce.  My own hand refuses to follow her example.  There seems to be a breakdown in communication between my brain and the muscles in question.  I ask her to play, instead.

 

L. pulls a score from under the stack of papers, and spreads it open.  Chopin’s Prelude in E Minor.  She touches the keys with authority, yet something about her manner with them is cajoling.  The notes drift up, filling the room in different colours, all pastel and translucent.  Ethereal and full of regret.  They float up to the ceiling, then slowly fly out of the window, rest on the swaying leaves of the tree just outside, then disappear into the distance, lost amongst the street sounds.

 

The music pleads with me, like a prayer.  I try and think of words to describe it.  But I can’t.

 

 

Scribe Doll

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Trees as Story-Hoarders

Posted on July 7, 2013 by Scribe Doll

Someday, I would like to live near a weeping willow.

“You’re mad! It’ll wreck your water pipes!” My beloved friend S., with her bucketful of sobering practicality.  “Their roots are so long, they’ll reach out from the bottom of your garden all the way to the foundations of your house and break the pipes to get to the water.”

I slowly lower my raised back.  I did not say I wanted to own a weeping willow but that I wanted to live near one.  The very concept of owning a tree is nonsensical, of course.  You cannot own something which has stood observing this world long before you were born, and which will keep on observing it long after your visit here is over.  I just want to be close enough to a weeping willow, to go and spend time with it as often as I please.  Perhaps somewhere by a river, since we both enjoy the healing, gentle flow of its waters.

There is something of the story-hoarder about trees.  There they stand, in silence, like an unnoticed piece of stage scenery, while generations of humans play out their dramas.  Watching, observing, absorbing, storing it all.  Unlike humans, they are not shapeshifting, ever-moving troubadours, sowing their tales the width and breadth of the earth.  Rather, their stillness becomes the repository of stories, since trees are the bridges that connect two worlds.  Their roots plunge deep into the darkness of the earth core, while their branches reach out into the golden whiteness of the light.  And they are willing to whisper a story or two into an ear they deem attuned enough to hear.  You must ask, though, or they will just stand there, the seal of silence over their secrets.

Someday, I would like to live near a weeping willow.  Something about her ensnares my imagination.  Her world weariness, the grace of her springy branches swaying in the wind, her gentle caress on the surface of the river, the playful slap she gives your face if your punt gets tangled up in her mane.  Cambridge weeping willows’ breathy voices tell you of bygone times when Magic – not the Varsity – ruled the Fens, and the River Cam giggled on Midsummer’s Night.  Long, long ago, before Reason silenced Knowledge.

Again, in Cambridge, I remember a copper beech that glowed, ablaze, in the evening sunlight, in the Corpus Christi College owned grounds of Leckhampton House.  She stands between the squat concrete blocks of the George Thomson Building and a sculpture by Henry Moore.  On many a summer’s night, I would lie on the lawn, on my back, and stare up at the multicoloured stars until that moment of elation when I felt the world was upside down, and I was falling into the sky.  On my way back, when I caught sight of the surreal black form of the Henry Moore, anguish would pounce on me.  Then my eyes would search for the living silhouette of the copper beech, and be reassured.  Her husky, deep voice reminded me that she stood sentinel over my safety.  And I knew that the faceless concrete building and the discordant sculpture were illusions, but that the copper beech was real.

In London, at the start of this Millennium, I befriended a cedar of Lebanon in Bishops Park.  I had just moved to Fulham, and had gone to explore the local park.  Within minutes, angry, lead-grey clouds crowded over the blue sky, and rain came pounding down on me.  I saw the cedar of Lebanon, and ran to shelter beneath his evergreen canopy.  I leaned against his trunk, and waited for the rain to stop, while listening to his rich, mellifluous voice, and gossip about the bishops of London.

I was heartbroken when, soon afterwards, they axed off the arms of the cedar of Lebanon, and carved his smooth trunk into a wood sculpture representing two bishops.  I know not, nor care, who the bishops are or were.  To me, they have not only butchered the cedar, but humiliated him.

My current home stands by a towering oak.  Now that the foliage is densely green, I feel as though I am living in a tree house.  The leaves rustle in the wind, like a thousand tiny cymbals.  They glisten and flutter in the sunlight.  Squirrels perform acrobatic turns on the branches, then run and hide in the hollow.  A blackbird raised her brood on it, and regularly chased away a coveting magpie.  A glossy ivy clings to the body and arms of the oak, in what looks like a steadfast, faithful embrace.  There is something of the sorcerer about this oak, of a wise old man, like Merlin.  I have not heard his voice, yet.  Quietly but undeniably powerful, he watches me in silence.  I do not think he has made up his mind about me, yet.  I hope that, when he eventually does, he will deem my ear to be sharp and attuned enough to whisper a few tales to me.  Perhaps, one night, when the wind is hushed, and the moon is bathing his leaves in silver.

Meanwhile, I am nurturing two twin saplings.  A few months ago, during a time of frustration and hopelessness, I buried a few lemon pips into a pot of soil.  Hopes against a bleak, bleak winter.  They sprouted.  Some, I gave away.  The two growing in pots on my work table, I decided to keep.  Green, glossy young things, straight as an arrow, that have great plans of becoming  lemon trees.  I want to help them get there.

Scribe Doll

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Skiving Off

Posted on June 30, 2013 by Scribe Doll

Something woke me up earlier than usual, this morning.  It was the light pushing through my curtains.  It had a different colour and texture than of late.  I switched on Radio 4, negotiated myself out of bed, and approached the window, gingerly at first, then gave the curtain a firm tug.  The bright sunlight punched me right in the face and flooded my room.  Yes – the sun was actually out.  I lifted open the sash window, and leaned out.  The wind ruffling the oak branches outside did not carry its usual, insidious chill.

Tempted as I am just to go and bask in the sun, with my scribbling notepad, I just have too much work to do.  I am going to act like a responsible adult and not an essay-delaying undergraduate.

Right.

No.  It’s no good.  I am staring at the same page for ages, and my mind keeps wandering.  I feel restless and boxed in.  I give myself licence to explore a compromise, and put my work into my rucksack.  I’ll go to the Village, and work at a café table on the sunny pavement.   My painful tennis elbow needs warming in the sun.  I cling to that excuse.

Tennis fans are already spilling out of the Tube station.  The shops are all decorated with lime-yellow tennis balls.   Tennis balls everywhere.  Stacked up in pyramids, hanging from ribbons, or just strewed in the window as if they don’t care.  Funny – the championship isn’t actually in Wimbledon proper, but in Southfields, two Tube stops away.  I walk up Wimbledon Hill.  The Village is not quite awake, yet, and the only café tables out on the pavement are in the shade.  Perhaps I can go and sit on a bench on the Common.  I get a take-away cappuccino and croissant.  On Wimbledon Common, I can’t find an empty bench that faces the sun.  Again, something feels lacking.

I miss my favourite London park.  I suddenly realise it.  I miss my park, by the river.  And so I start walking along the edge of the thick woodland, towards Fulham.  As I approach a bus stop, the 93 bus slows down but I let it leave again.  I’ll catch it at the next stop.  Or perhaps the one after that.  Along the path, I have to contend with runners.  What is it about joggers that seems to expect right of way? Does exercise endow them with a special virtue that states, “Step aside and let the jogger through – you’re only walking”?  The sun is caressing the back of my neck, and warming my elbow.  I slow down, take a sip of my velvety cappuccino, taste its richness, then take a bite from my freshly-baked, buttery croissant.  Yes! Now that feels good.  A passing jogger, trainers thumping hard on the path, face twisted in the evident discomfort of excessive physical effort, cheeks all red and floppy, catches the smug expression on my face and darts me a dirty look.  I smile back at him, feeling even more unashamedly smug.

Another bus stop.  Not yet.  I’ll walk a little further.  I feel a sense of triumph when, about four miles later, I walk down Putney Hill, along the High Street, and reach the river.  The green water ripples glisten in the sunlight.  I inhale that unmistakable river smell Rupert Brooke described as “thrilling-sweet and rotten, Unforgettable, unforgotten”.    Ducks are grooming on the bank.  Canada geese paddle expectantly.  The white band under their beaks looks like a bandage for toothache.  Above Putney Bridge, the sky is a deep blue canvas brushed with strokes of purple-grey gossamer clouds.  At the bottom of the bridge, the Tudor belfry of All Saints church marks the start of Fulham and the entrance to my favourite and, formerly, my local park.

Bishop’s Park does not have the fame of Hyde Park, the elegance of Regent’s Park, or the wide expanse of Hampstead Heath.  However, it possesses a unique charm and can cater to different tastes and moods.  Right at the foot of Putney Bridge, you can sit in the rose garden, where the breeze carries sweet, heady fragrances, as well as the sound of church bells.  There is the wide lawn at the back of the  Palace, where you can sprawl on the grass, or have tea on the stone patio of the café.  You can venture through the arch into the walled herb garden, gently brush the numerous plants with your fingers which you then take up to your face and breathe in rosemary, sage, lavender or thyme.  If it is shelter from wind and people that you seek, then you can take refuge in the courtyard of the Tudor palace that was once the residence of the Bishop of London, and listen to the playful murmur of the fountain, and the tinny old clock chiming every quarter of an hour.  Or you can sit on one of the benches on the embankment walkway, beneath the branches of horse-chestnut trees whose trunks are so wide, you would need two people to stretch their arms around them.  Old trees with centuries of stories to tell.

I turn around to see what is rustling behind me.  A squirrel is rummaging on the ground, trying to remember where the nuts are buried.  On the river, seagulls swoop, their cries exaggeratedly strident, like idle threats.  Above, the rheumatic caw of a jet-black crow, glossy in the sunlight.  I throw a handful of monkey nuts.  The crow calls out to its friends then lands next to my offering, stabs the shell with its beak, and extracts the peanut.  Deep black eyes make contact with mine.  I nod and resume my walk.

Today, I shall go and work in my favourite spot in the park.

No, I’m not telling where.

Scribe Doll

 

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People-Watching in the Village

Posted on June 9, 2013 by Scribe Doll

Six weeks after moving to this South-Western corner of London (well, it’s practically Surrey), I still had not explored its better-heeled district: the Village.  It was a warm day, so I decided to take my painful, recently acquired – and oddly appropriately named – tennis elbow, to bathe in the sunshine, at an pavement table of a French pâtisserie on the High Street, and just watch passers by.  Watch and scribble in my A4 spiral notebook. And sip dense, luscious chocolat chaud, of course.

At the table next to mine, the fathers of two families are comparing the prices of their properties, and express surprise in what sounds like a competition of whose million-and-something place has increased in value faster.  I am told Village residents arrange highly-advantageous home swaps or rent out their properties for astronomical sums during the last week of June and the first week of July.  Unless, I imagine, they are tennis fanatics, themselves.  That’s right, I’m sitting and watching Wimbledon Village.

Something about the atmosphere reminds me of how Fulham used to be when I first moved there, thirteen years ago.  The stripy shirts, Rupert Brooke haircuts, velvet alice bands and strings of pearls have gone, but you can still imagine the passers by being called Miranda, Dorcas, Crispin, Sebastian – and have double-barrelled surnames.  The vowels are still glissando and the consonants brushed past.  I even catch a few elongated “Yeaaah”s that bring back fond memories of my College days, at Durham, where the term “‘Rah” was the mot du jour.  The air is imbued with that unmistakable scent of freshly-printed banknotes.  Crisp, perky, not quite worn enough to acquire self-deprecation or soft enough yet to slide into your wallet without sticking out.  Fulham, however, had always felt like London, to me, whereas this High Street could run through any picturesque town of the Home Counties.

The High Street is lined with shops displaying designer weekend wear in cornflower blue, aqua green, brilliant white and nail varnish red; boutiques selling printed scarves, silver jewellery and some politically-correct-to-purchase knick-knacks.  True to that unexplainable English belief that the first sign of chic is to have a taste for things Gallic, there is a line of French restaurants, bistrots and pâtisseries.  I wonder if this is the reason Wimbledon supermarkets have – much to my frustration – such a limited range of Italian wines (pardonnez-moi but I have always preferred Italian and Spanish wines).  You can feast your eyes on food shops abounding with French and Italian cheeses, herb and garlic marinated olives, colourful vegetables, crusty-looking bread loaves with purposefully-irregular edges and, I suspect, softer, doughy insides (we don’t want to be too Continental, after all), and fruit cakes with labels proudly stating that they are either home made or farm made.  Everything is laid out in that so-called Continental style (which never includes Germany or the Netherlands) which praises that looks-like-it-doesn’t-care rusticity, and which most self-respecting “Continental” hostesses would never bring out for respected Sunday guests.

A man is pushing a baby in a Cath Kidson pram.  I wonder how the infant feels about the pattern.  There is a striking number of dachshunds trotting from leather leads clipped to elegant collars.  In spite of the insidiously chilly breeze, most men are wearing shorts.  Shorts and flip-flops.  And sunglasses.  It seems like some kind of uniform.  Some enter the pâtisserie accompanied by their sons, who are striking, four-foot reproductions of their fathers.  Same style of shorts, of flip-flops, of sunglasses.  Oozing the self-confidence of someone born with a parachute on his or her back.  Cars drive down the narrow hill, that are a little too tall and a little too wide for a city, and which I imagine to be ideal when driving through a jungle or a desert.

There are flower baskets swaying from lamp posts, pretty buildings in pastel colours, and everything looks neat and its right place.  There is a Hemingways Bar, which I hope to explore as soon as I have a few more banknotes – crisp or limp – in my wallet (meanwhile, invitations welcome).

I love this place.  I think I’ll adopt one of cafés, and use it as a regular scribbling haunt.  I’ll wear my bright blue Mulberry man’s shirt with narrow red and yellow stripes.  Over chinos.

Yes.  I can see myself really enjoying this.

Scribe Doll

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‘An American in Paris’

Posted on June 2, 2013 by Scribe Doll

It was the only time my mother actively encouraged me to skip school or, rather, ballet school, for reasons other than health.  “If you want to be a dancer, you must see this film.  It’s as important for your education as your classes.”

As a child, more than anything in the world, I wanted to be a dancer.  More than anything else in the world, I loved music, so getting my body to be at one with it in an expression of joyous harmony represented for me the ultimate achievement and boundless happiness.  The physical world made perfect by pulsating to the harmony of music.

The moment I could hold a pencil, I drew ballet dancers.  When I lost my first tooth, I asked the Tooth Fairy for records of Swan Lake and The Nutcracker.  I spent hours in my room, listening to Stravinsky’s Firebird, and staging a mental ballet full of colour and thrill.  I played Prokofiev’s  Cinderella so often, I scratched the record.  Even now, whenever I hear it, my auditory memory expects to hear the hiccups of the needle at specific points, and part of me is surprised when the music plays smoothly.

I begged and hassled my mother to send me to ballet school, but we could not afford it.  Finally, at the age of eleven or twelve, I was accepted by the Nice Conservatoire.  And so began a strenuous, painful and humiliating weekly class.  My body was at odds with ballet.  I was too stiff, too clumsy and just the wrong shape.  Inside, I felt fast, light and agile, but I was trapped in this chunky box that was my body.  Only last year, an osteopath dissolved over thirty years of gnawing regret and sense of failure.  “You have short tendons,” he said.  “You were born that way.  You could never have been flexible.  There is nothing you could have done.”  Strange as it may sound, it was as though he removed a rucksack full of bricks off my back, and gave me permission to stand up straight.

My mother has always loved U.S. musicals, and instilled the same love into me at a very early age.  Living in Italy and France, we would sit together and watch them whenever they happened to be on television, in black and white, with most of the songs dubbed into Italian and French.  My mother, who had seen most of them on the silver screen and in the original English, would provide a running commentary on the real colours of the set and costumes.  Afterwards, she would often sing me the songs in English.  I sang songs from South Pacific, The King and I and Carousel throughout primary school (yes, Rodgers & Hammerstein were my mother’s favourites).

I loved ballet, but what really filled me with unadulterated, bank-bursting joy, was tap.  I would push brass drawing pins into the heels and toes of my shoes, and try clicking rhythmical patterns on the tiled kitchen floor.  Sadly for me, tap classes were not an option.  No one really learnt to tap in those days.  It was then considered a thing of the past, that had gone out of fashion with the waning of the MGM musical.

I remember walking into the kitchen, one day after school, and my mother looking up from the TV listings magazine.  “An American in Paris is on television, tomorrow afternoon,” she said.  It was afternoon at the Conservatoire, but the excitement in her voice promised a highly desirable alternative to yet another humiliating session with our ballet teacher, a claw-footed Madame who poked the end of her stick into our knees if we failed to lock them hermetically, and reserved her rare smiles for the one and only boy in our class.

And so, the following afternoon, we sat staring into the small black and white television, swept away by that brand of magic only Hollywood and MGM alchemy could manifest.  Luckily, this time, although the dialogue had been dubbed, the songs had been kept in English.  My mother did her best to help me imagine the vibrant colours in the ballet sequence.  “If you could only see this in colour, on a large screen!” she would exclaim, excited but powerless.  I was charmed by Gene Kelly’s shrewd yet heartfelt smile and life-affirming dancing, mesmerised by the imaginative and inspiring choreography, engrossed by (unusually for a Hollywood musical) a good storyline, entranced by Leslie Caron’s versatility in ‘Embraceable You’… And utterly bewitched by the George Gershwin’s happy and yet hauntingly wistful music.

To this day, together with Ziegfeld Follies and Broadway Melody (1940), An American in Paris remains my all-time favourite film musical.  It is a masterpiece.  In spite of a French schooling and a degree in French literature, I can only think of Paris landmarks as sets for Gene Kelly’s dance numbers.  In my early days as an English as Foreign Language teacher, I would show my classes the Georges Guétary-Gene Kelly ‘S Wonderful scene as a prompt for eliciting English love idioms (“So why are they dancing? How are they feeling?”).  On my first trip to New York, I strolled down Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street, my heart fluttering at the thought that George Gershwin must have walked along those sidewalks.  My two favourite composers are Johann Sebastian Bach and George Gershwin.  The former reassures me that the world makes sense; the latter makes me happy to be alive in it.

As I have reached my middle years, I relate to a line in the film, spoken by Georges Guétary.  In my opinion, it is one of the best film lines ever.  When I joined the Red Room, a year and a half ago, I decided to use it as the quote below my photo.  It is spoken at the beginning of the film, as we hear the character of Henry Borel’s voice trying to introduce himself, just before we see his reflection in the drinking fountain mirror.

“I don’t mean to imply that I’m old.  After all I am only… What’s the difference? […] Let’s just say that I’m old enough to know what to do with my young feelings.”

Scribe Doll

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