after the floods

Last months terrible flooding in Matlock is receding into memory. On Thursday 7th November I was traveling from London, arriving into Derby Station at 9.30pm and the weather came as a shock. East Midlands Trains provided taxis for stranded travellers, as the track beyond Ambergate was flooded. We took the high road to Matlock, driving through deepening puddles and it was a relief to see the lights of the town in the distance. We arrived and a fellow traveler and I walked to the bridge to see the river, it thundered below us, almost reaching the top of the arches that span the Derwent.

I struggled up the hill home, almost midnight, rivulets of water soaking my feet. Friday and Saturday were very bad in the town. We learned that a woman had died in the flood and this was devastating.

On Remembrance Sunday the sun shone for the first time in days. I went for a walk and photographed the swollen river and saturated fields overlooking Matlock. At 11am, stopping by a drystone wall for two minutes silence, I gazed over the town beneath an immense blue sky and felt terribly sad. The Last Post sounded from a nearby war memorial, marking the end of our silence and alone with my thoughts I felt connected to others nearby. 

capturing a robin

The forest opposite my childhood home

I'm reading my favourite book for the third time. It is a buoy in an unsettled and uncertain moment in my life. The story so captures me I forget about this day, and am transported to an age before cars, before World War 1, when a passing bicycle would create such a stir that folk would run to their gates to gawp and wonder. The book is Lark Rise to Candleford by Flora Thompson. 

A memory was sparked as I read of a village woman catching birds for the sport of it. Hidden, patient, holding the end of a length of string in her hand, the string tied to a stick, which had a sieve propped upon it and a sprinkling of crumbs beneath as bait. When I was small my father taught me how to catch a bird using such a method, just once, crouched behind our honeysuckle hedge, capturing a robin red breast and letting it go. Now I understand, from the vantage point of passing years what he was teaching me. My father didn't give me much in the conventional sense of what fathers are meant to be for daughters but he taught me something beyond words that day, a childhood in rural Scotland, a childhood where he hunted to eat, a childhood of ingenuity, responsibility and patience, of soil, and rain, and cold. 

My dad drew a circle on our dust path once, explaining that the Earth was hot at its core, together we uprooted a dead tree for our fire, we caught a robin and then let it go and all these things cause this 47 year old woman's heart to ache. I was born a month before his 55th birthday. Sieve, stick, string, crumbs. My Dad was odd in Essex, always mistaken for my Granddad, rake thin, venturing into the forest to drag home trees to burn.

At school, I excitedly shared capturing a bird with my father, writing about it or telling the teacher. I remember my confusion and shame as the teacher told me it was a horrible story and cruel, with classmates pulling faces. As is the way of small children I wasn't able to ask why she said that and became withdrawn and quiet, realising something of otherness, oddness and unbelonging. 

contribution

Sitting in the back of a taxi, listening as a good humoured 67 year old Bangladeshi born taxi driver told me his life story, his 50 years in Yorkshire, his wife, children and eight grandchildren. We joked I'd write a book about him once out of the taxi!

As these things do, the conversation turned to my family, so I told him about being childless and about my work with children. He began to speak and I braced myself, BUT he amazed me by saying, 'that's how you make your contribution, the children will never forget you'. 

I was quietly staggered - my input being acknowledged and recognised by a parent, as part of the rich and complex tapestry of child raising, not excluded or dismissed. Did he have any idea of the impact of these words? I'll never forget them. 

robert

My father, Robert James Logan died on this day in 1990.

ruby

In the summer of 1990 I worked in a nursing home for a couple of months before heading off to university. My father had died in the June and I left home for Derby in September. 

My father spent the last months of his life in hospital, dying on the morning of June 2nd. Watching him slowly fade, gaunt, with bedsores and towards the end his oxygen starved brain leading to confusion, I was a teenager with a larger than most experience of ageing, and a teenager in deep, profound distress. Working in a care home was a strange choice looking back, like prising my eyes open with matchsticks and forcing myself to gaze unblinking at suffering, failing bodies, death. Was I numb? Did I feel some duty? I do not know.

There was a woman in the home who was dreadfully confused, behaving as a toddler. If left on the toilet for too long she would smear herself, her thighs, walking stick with excrement. I remember being on my hands and knees washing her, verbally scolding her. In some part of her brain she knew she had done wrong and whimpered a little. In her room was a black and white photograph taken in the 1930's of a stylish, smiling young woman with beautifully waved dark hair, she had on pencil pleat shorts, gorgeous legs and was perched on the back of a motorbike. Young, at ease, carefree, loved, our reality and the image at odds, and I've never forgotten that moment. She was a girl just like me. 

Just once I went into Rudy's room, the curtains were drawn and in the dim light I could make out a naked figure on the bed, she lay on her back and was so thin, I recall my shock at seeing the outline of her spine through her stomach. The room smelt of urine, and Ruby was conscious, eyes open, uncomfortable, my memories are vague, that we turned her, bed sores being present in many... Outside, I felt a shiver of enjoyment from a staff member who regarded my reaction, probably assuming that was my first encounter with death, having no understanding of my own recent trauma.

Death was in that room, and I hope it came soon. Over the years I've thought about Ruby, never forgetting her name, never seeing her girl self photograph. I also think of the other woman, the one who's name escapes me, but her image does not, the young creature, radiant at the beginning of her womanhood. Its been almost 26 years since these experiences, their families do not know they are with me, that I sing for their bones. 

Around this time I remember sitting at a bus stop, an old woman glancing at me turned to her friend and said loud enough for me to hear, Young people today don't know their born,  depressed, newly bereaved, working in a care home I vowed never to be that unseeing woman. 

skinned rabbit

As I think about my dad departing this life I wonder upon his description of me on my entry into it...

My dad said I looked like a skinned rabbit when I was born - v e r y long, pink, reminding him of his boyhood past hunting for food. While my mother laboured, dad was in the pub. Mum has no memory of the time of mine or my sisters birth. She was cut, forceps were used, alone and quiet in her labour. 

Me the skinned rabbit
Him the hunter, with trap, with sling shot, with arrow?
Hope for a son
But a daughter, watchful, reflective, brave
LOOK AT THIS, LOOK AT YOU
As sensitive as him, him before

nicotine

My memories of the 1970s are stained with tobacco. The upper deck of buses were for smokers and I remember the fog and stink of smoke, of my travel sickness and puking into see-through plastic bags. At home dad smoked, in no doubt helping along my childhood bronchitis and later, asthma, which has left a weakness in my lungs today.

Dad stuck polystyrene tiles onto the living room ceiling, the only way to conceal the spidery cracks that polyfilla was no match for. These tiles soaked up nicotine, each month deepening in colour, giving the room a sepia and nostalgic feel. When I was old enough and with money from my Saturday job I would buy a tin of white paint and erase the last years worth of roll ups. In that unhomely home I tried my best, did the jobs my parents couldn't see or have the power to do anything about. I made do, mended and now I work to forgive. 

Later, aged 19 I watched dad's health decline and him spend the last three months of his life in hospital. The night before he died, oxygen deprived and confused, I gave him his last sip of water and fed him a grape, my final acts for dad. As I said goodbye I put my face close to his and he looked into my eyes and frowned, as if meeting an acquaintance he couldn't quite place. Walking to the train station that night I prayed he would die, please die. He obliged the following morning, alone. 

Sitting next to his body, my way of saying goodbye was to touch and take the measure of him in a way I couldn't while he breathed. I placed my thumb and forefinger around his thigh and felt the sheet below - he weighed 7 stone at death. Flattening my hands I patted his still warm chest and looked into his eyes which were beginning to discolour. Discovering that it is not possible to close the eyes of the dead I felt cheated by the films I'd seen where so easily, so obligingly the deceased close their eyes. His remained open, him absent, body empty. No faint rise and fall of the chest, so still. Unnerving.

My ritual complete, I turned my head at the sound of an anguished cry of 'Dad!' as my little sister rushed into the hospital ward. It was heartbreaking.

jim

Last weekend I went to Sunday Assembly, a godless congregation who's motto is live better, help often, wonder more. It's a heart lifting, soul connecting, life affirming hour, belting out songs in the name of good, we celebrate being alive. If you get the chance go, just go.

Smiley faced volunteers greet everyone at the door of Conway Hall and I immediately feel part of something. The hall was filling up fast and I found a seat next to an older gentleman and got settled in. Jim was his name, originally from the north of Ireland but in London for many years. He was lean, poorly dressed for the cold weather with a genteel face and enviable bone structure. He reminded me of my father who had ancestors in the north of Ireland. I told Jim this, and though we struggled in hearing each other with the bustle of the filling hall, I saw he was pleased and he patted my back lightly.

At the end of the assembly we turned to each other to say goodbye. He shook my hand and said, 'You think I am like your father?', and after a short pause, 'I would have liked a daughter like you.' We clasped each others hands, I was deeply moved and my eyes filled. We pushed our chairs to the side of the room and became separated in the crowd. I joined the mass of people heading for a cup of tea, blinking back tears and wondered if I'd see him again, also feeling that that was our moment, what had to be said was said. Where on earth do you go from there?

My own father has been dead for almost 25 years and his alcoholism meant we never got to know each other. He was rarely kind to me and never expressed pleasure in having me for a daughter and that's why Jim's words touched a nerve. It was amazing to hear a father figure say these words. Something to hold onto.

I've done a lot of work and have forgiven my father, he did his best. I keep the brave child me close and she still feels ouchy, the fact she feels is a miracle in itself.