21 MARCH 2003 – GLASGOW
Well, they’ve done it: despite protests the world over, the Americans have dragged us into war and are bombing hell out of Iraq. The other day, Julian, Danny, Jed and I watched the Commons debate on a pub TV; watched Blair, reeking of Righteousness, stand his moral high ground, use his oratorical skills to persuade Parliament it was the only thing to do. But we were all a little stunned when the first missiles landed on Baghdad, in spite of knowing it was inevitable. Danny and Jed were unusually subdued. A cloud of hopelessness descended on the flat and not even Julian’s best comic efforts could dispel it. Jed went out and bought an enormous, widescreen, ex-rental television – a bargain, he said – so we can follow events as they unfold. But after the first evening, I couldn’t watch it and left them to their obsessive channel-hopping. Coverage seems to be 24/7: unreal night vision targets flare momentarily as ‘smart bombs’ pick them off; reporters on hotel balconies wear flak jackets, try not to flinch when shells whizz and bombs crack in the city behind them; ‘ordinary’ Iraqis, i.e., men in cafés, give guarded responses to questions about Saddam Hussein; and the first footage of limbless, crying children in narrow hospital beds has begun to filter through. Unbearable.
At least it has prompted me to take up my journal again. Not to record the horrors, but to track where I am in it all, what with the baby coming. I finally, finally stopped lamenting my lost journal and bought this new notebook the other day, a rather fine one, covered in turquoise silk with green embroidery, a bright little talisman against the darkness, one that won’t so easily slip from my grasp. Still can’t for the life of me remember what I did with my last one. I know I had it the day Julian and I met that peculiar man in Silvio’s café, but none of the staff would admit to having seen it. Perhaps our friend with the blank-eyed stare and the sonorous voice found it. Appalling thought! That a stranger might read it! When I try to recall what was in it, what incriminating details, embarrassing revelations, I come up with very little, even though it covered most of last year and all of the year before. It makes me think I must try to be more conscious of what I commit to these new pages, treat this notebook as something other than a repository of self-reflexive outpourings.
I already regret not recording the start of my pregnancy. And yet, would I have written anything during the months of sickness? Probably not. I have never felt so ill, so utterly wretched, so totally in the grip of a process at once part of me and a thousand times more powerful. It was hard not to think I was carrying some alien life form. Yet, now I’m better than I’ve been for months, especially since I’ve felt the baby kicking. All the old clichés turn out to be true: I’m ‘blooming’, the nurse at the clinic told me; Weary, Cheery and Dreary, the three trimesters, have suddenly clicked into place and I’m enjoying a welcome break in Cheery-land. Progesterone sure as hell beats the pants off Prozac as a mood enhancer! Which is just as well, since I couldn’t keep the damn capsules down. It’s such a relief to have stopped vomiting, anything afterwards would be heaven by comparison. But it’s more than that, I’m full of energy, joy almost. Against all reason, it has to be said, what with Mother’s frank aversion to the news when I told her in London last month, the disappointment in Daddy’s voice pulsating darkly down the phoneline, Julian’s wild oscillations about the prospect of fatherhood. And I don’t care. I don’t care. ‘I’ve boarded the train there’s no getting off.’ I’m having this baby and that’s that. Perhaps the feelgood factor is some dastardly trick one’s hormones play, to convince one to see the pregnancy through. It’s certainly become more of a reality in the past few weeks; I can believe there is a baby now. I ought to have let them tell me the sex when they did the scan, then I could assign a pronoun, make it even more real: she’s kicking; he’s peaceful today for a change. But I’d rather wait, somehow. Generic BABY is as much of a concept as I can cope with at present. And it’s definitely as much as Julian can handle. He goes quiet sometimes and I wonder what he’s thinking, but he’s never once suggested he won’t go the distance and stay with me. With US. With me and little Letty, as he calls the baby. For that I am truly grateful.
10 APRIL 2003 – GLASGOW
Baghdad has fallen to the Americans; the statue of Saddam toppled. Comical Ali, so-called, the Iraqi Information Minister, denied it right up to the end. ‘If the Americans come to Baghdad, we will hit them with shoes!’ he said. Danny told me a whole cult has grown up around him – website, T-shirts, badges, the lot. ‘Wait till you see, that cunt’ll turn up on the Parkinson show!’
Meanwhile, yet another demo last weekend, though much smaller than the enormous ones in February. Is there any point? Is anyone listening? Somehow, being pregnant makes it more urgent. Imagine bringing a baby into a world where people do such things to one another. And yet, there’s my father supporting Blair too. Demonstrations and bannerwaving, those are the politics of adolescence, he said to me; you have to grow up eventually and that means making difficult decisions and abiding by the consequences. As if it’s Blair or Bush who will have to suffer for what they have unleashed. The most they will endure is political defeat, followed by the publication of their war memoirs and many lucrative years on the after-dinner speech circuit. Well, Blair, at any rate; I doubt if George W. will leave the golf course! I have never felt so cut off from Daddy as I did during that phonecall. He even used the odious euphemism, ‘collateral damage’, when I spoke of the images of maimed and orphaned Iraqi children. This I might have expected from my mother, but not Daddy. As for my ‘difficult decision’ to go ahead with the pregnancy and ‘live by the consequences’? That was another matter: You’re throwing your life away. It’s your grandchild, I said, but he was unmoved.
Julian is in London to speak to his parents about the baby; I wonder if he’ll have more success. It meant he wasn’t at the demo, which I was glad of in the end. Danny was there, Jed, the watchful Clare, complete with dreads(!) and her little Muslim friend, Fariah (I think). Clare was wearing a T-shirt she’d had printed Katharine Hamnett-style with a message of her own:
Very effective, I must admit. Wish I’d thought of it. Together, they made quite a statement: Clare, like some fierce but diminutive Celtic warrior princess, white T-shirt, black slogan, flaming, snaky hair; her friend in black from head to toe, carrying a placard with the same message – English on one side, Urdu on the other. A jovial policeman walked alongside us for a bit, told them it was a dangerous invitation to make to him and his colleagues. Clare shot the poor guy a look to wither his manhood! And Fariah unleashed a stream of invective in Urdu. Or at least, that’s how it sounded. They both seemed so young and – what? – unencumbered, that I had a flash of myself in my current state, cow-like, ponderous. And, if I feel that now with over three months to go…
Jed was very sweet, told me my new top was the exact shade of the kingfisher’s wing he’d seen last week down by the Kelvin. Made me realize it’s my colour of the moment, kingfisher, the same as my new diary. I asked him if the bird was as vivid as its reputation and they all seemed surprised – assumed I’d have seen flocks of them at Wellwood. I was immediately uncomfortable. Of course there was a river, but we’d left for London before I became interested in such things. It was pure iridescent, man! Jed said, his eyes alight. I began to tell them about the heron Julian and I saw by the weir last November, but caught a glimpse of Clare’s scowl and let it drop. She’s unvaryingly sullen towards me now, despite my best efforts to be friendly. Whatever Julian says, she read more into their Florence adventure than he insists it warranted. I tried to broach it with Danny after the demo, but he gave me such a look! I was mortified; I forget sometimes, that we had our own brief liaison situation. Mostly it’s fine, no tension that I can detect. But this time, Danny said, Is your head full of wee boxes? Some you keep locked up, so the things that don’t suit can’t escape and damage the official version? I guess I deserved that, though I was a bit taken aback by his ferocity. It sounded rehearsed too, as if he’d given it some thought. The good thing about being pregnant is that one is so completely taken up, one’s body and mind surrendered to the process, that these things recede quickly into the background. Next day, he brought me a mug of tea and asked, a trifle anxiously, if I was alright. He’s so solicitous, Danny, about my condition, protective even. I struggled out of the sagging armchair and gave him a hug, told him I really appreciate his support. That seemed to mollify him and he went off to work quite happy. God, that sounds as if I’m simply exploiting him, but truly, I do depend on his being here, especially with Julian away.
Had a sudden urge – several months overdue! – to dig out my thesis again, while the hormones remain favourable. By this time I ought to be on the outskirts of Drearyville but, fingers crossed, so far I still feel good. I got as far as reading my notes on To the Lighthouse, but when I went back to the novel to check out some quotes, I found Lily Briscoe so arid, so thoroughly two-dimensional, that I couldn’t imagine how I ever perceived her struggle to paint as heroic! It must, I think, be another trick of the pregnancy; childless women seem so pointless. Mrs Ramsay, who struck me before as unbearably smug and interfering, now seems rounded, complete. I didn’t even bother to open the Gertrude Stein. The whole thing will have to be done again from start to finish. Frankly, my dears, I don’t give a damn!
17 MAY 2003 – LONDON
What was I thinking of, coming here? I’m sitting at the glass-topped desk in ‘my’ room at Mother’s. When I look out the window, I can just see her, chair camouflaged in the purple shade of the plum tree – The blossom this spring was simply stunning, darling. Such a shame you missed it – nursing a cup of coffee, flicking too quickly through the pages of a magazine to be actually reading it. I’m starting to calm down again – deep breaths – but why is it that she can get to me so? Why did I think this time would be any different? I was feeling good when I walked in the front door, absurdly happy to see the stained-glass nymph still dipping her toe in the pool, actually looking forward to spending time with my mother, grandmother of my child-to-be. And what was the first thing she said? God, darling, you’re so big! I do hope you are using cream to prevent stretchmarks. And that was the least offensive of her remarks. She poured us a coffee then launched into – Celia Legrozet cut me dead at a charity dinner last week. The child is definitely Julian Legrozet’s, is it, darling? Only, there are rumours that the family doesn’t believe so. This last line she delivered to my back as I walked away from her. Hence, my retreat to my room and Mother’s to her garden. Julian certainly didn’t tell me his parents were harbouring such thoughts. He did say they may be ‘a little ambivalent’ but that ‘they will come round’. Deep breaths. Think of the baby. Last time I sat at this desk, I could roll right in to the edge. Now the baby informs me in no uncertain terms just how close I am allowed to come to hard objects! I feel him kick at least twenty times a day now.
I’m so glad I saw Daddy last night, before coming here. Once I got over how stylishly cool the restaurant was – glass and light minimalism with a Japanesey feel, and me like a stranded whale among the sushi! – I began to relax. He was looking well, Daddy, if a little greyer, and clearly pleased to see me. I was determined to make the most of this meeting, since he’s going abroad again. OK – don’t mention the war, I thought. And what does Daddy do once the starters are on the table and the waiter has withdrawn? As I guide the chopsticks to my mouth, he says, So, what do your anti-war friends say to Iraq now? Evil dictator out of the way; temporary UN-backed administration; road to democracy embarked upon. Everything rosy! I mumble a few things about warring factions, Sunni and Shia, American oil interests, dead children, recruitment of new generations of suicide bombers. But there is no way my father is going to listen to any of that. He sits there in his expensive suit and holds forth between mouthfuls, shiny and solid with that assurance of his place in the world, which I have always envied. Everything he says comes with such easy authority, I find it difficult to stand my ground.
I knew I had to change the subject if I was going to rescue the evening. The portions of food were fashionably tiny and I was still starving after two courses. I asked for another dish and Daddy raised his eyebrows, Eating for two, is it? I realized that was his first allusion to my pregnancy. But then suddenly he leant across the table, took my hand and launched into a litany of questions and concerns: Was I alright? Did I really want the baby? Would Julian do the decent thing and support me? What about my PhD? What about my career? Did I need more money? It was my old daddy again. I almost expected Biddy to bound up and lick my hand! From there, we found our way back to the more familiar and comfortable terrain of our days at Wellwood.
It wasn’t till we got to the hotel – as plush and sumptuous and dripping with red and gold tassels as the restaurant was trendily bare – and were sitting in enormous armchairs in the residents’ lounge, that I asked Daddy about his great-aunt Laetitia. I was too tired and hormone-befuddled to take in the genealogical details; it was the story I wanted. Not much to tell, he said. But Mother said you really admired her. That’s what I told her, he said, and winked. He must have seen disappointment on my face, because he did his best then: I do know she was involved in the suffragette movement before the First War. What happened to her afterwards? I asked. She became a campaigner for rights of one sort or another, squandered the family fortune on various ‘good causes’– he didn’t need to wiggle his fingers; his intonation conveyed the inverted commas round the phrase – lived till her nineties and died in penury. And Harry, I asked, what about Harry? Who? my father said. Never heard of him. Her, I said. Harry was a woman. Never heard of her, he said. And that was all I could winkle out of him. We went to our separate rooms then – what luxury after the flat! – and this morning shared breakfast before Daddy headed off to the airport and I came here to Mother’s.
Talking of whom, where has she gone? She’s left her magazine and cup on the seat under the plum tree. I’d better go and make some kind of peace with her. Tonight, Aunt Laetitia’s trunk…
18 MAY 2003 – LONDON –GLASGOW TRAIN
Well, Daddy’s account of Aunt Laetitia didn’t offer any new insight. I have her diary and the letters from Harry I found in the trunk last night spread out in front of me here. As things stand, the two brief letters I’ve read so far don’t reveal much more: the address, 15 Larchfield Road in London; date: 19 Sept. 1915. Then –
Dearest Laetitia (that gave me such a strange feeling!),
I have at last recovered sufficiently from our European adventure to risk reaching out to you again…
They must really have fallen out in the end.
… I write to ask if you would be willing to meet with me to try, in some small way, to re-establish our relations on a more friendly footing, away from the baleful influence of the ‘arrangement’ we lived by in Florence. I had thought that, should you agree, we might choose somewhere public and open, such as Kew Gardens, and see how we go from there.
And it ends –
I await your reply, and remain forever
Your loving Harry
There’s no indication of whether or not the meeting happened, no surviving entry in Laetitia’s diary around that time, just a few ragged edges near the spine. Then, in another letter, dated 14 October 1915, two lines and a photograph:
Mr Haldane, the young American we met in Florence, sent me this photograph taken in Fiesole. I thought you might like to have it. H.
The photo is not particularly clear. It shows two women sitting at a table on a terrace in dappled sunshine. The one in the foreground is smiling from under a wide-brimmed hat, squinting a little, her face turned up to the sun; the other, further back, is almost totally obscured by the shadows of leaves. On the back of the photo are the words: ‘Laetitia Gardener, Fiesole, April 1915’. The writing is Harry’s, same as the letters, same neat hand from the dedication in the notebook. It’s fascinating trying to cross-reference the letters with the journal, ‘read’ the ripped out pages, guess at the mysterious ‘arrangement’. Unbearably tantalizing! How odd to erase sections of one’s life like that. I should think one would want to hold on to all of it, especially the parts one can’t expose to the public gaze. Perhaps she foresaw that someone from the future would rummage about in her personal writings, pore over her private papers, ferret out her secrets. Had she known it to be her namesake, would it have made a difference? Why won’t you tell ME, your greatgreat-niece, Laetitia? Will you mind very much if I find you out? Before we parted, Daddy said he would try and find out some more information about Laetitia.
18 JULY 2003 – GLASGOW
Bright sun again today, not particularly hot, I’m told, but I’m finding it close to unbearable, what with the traffic fumes and the migrainey shimmer above the cars. Silvio’s wasn’t much better, the hiss of steam from the espresso maker apt soundtrack to my discomfort. So, back in the cool of the flat, before the sun moves round and makes sitting in the window impossible.
Another dream last night, like most nights since I came back from London in May. This time, the action has moved on; it’s more like a half-submerged memory. I need to nail it before the baby comes. So here goes…
The point disappears soundlessly in the soft fur between the legs. There is a sudden stink: blood, raw meat. A hand works quickly to withdraw the knife, lay it on the bench. In the dusty light a flash of the blade. Pink fluid oozes from the slit in the body, as fingers probe the lips of the wound and pull apart. More pink revealed. I am unprepared for the WHACKWHACK! of the cleaver. My eyes are level with the edge of the bench and I blink and blink. The furry feet set aside look wrong; white knuckles of bone gleam. When I turn to you again, you are pulling the skin like socks off stumps of limbs, folding the fur back on itself along the hare’s body, rip, ripping it away from the naked flesh. Why are you taking his jumper off? I ask. The skin reaches the front of the body, stops at the base of the skull. WHACK! goes the cleaver again and the head is off. You toss it by an ear to the side of the bench from where one dead eye regards me. The neck is ragged, trailing strings of blood, Two more whacks then silence. I stare at the naked body, the glistening headless doll…
I sat up with a cry and Julian held me. Shh, shh, it’s OK, it’s OK. Was it that pesky wabbit again? Shh, it’s alright. And so we added another to my list of theoretical frameworks to tame the beast: Looney Tunes. Elmer Fudd gets lucky and bags Bugs Bunny. That’s all, folks!
By the time I calmed down, we were fully awake. Julian lit a roll-up. He’d avoided the discussion till now, but this time when I asked what we should call the baby, he said, If it’s a girl, she could be Florence after the place of her immaculate conception. And if it’s a boy? I ask. Let’s see what Joyce has to offer, he says. He jumps naked out of bed, takes down Ulysses from the shelf, opens it at random and reads off a list of names. I remember some of them: Goodman, Simon, Blazes Boylan, Horatio Nelson, Theobald Matthew… That’s just the first two paragraphs, he says and reads out another list, ending with: Dedalus, Dignam, Bloom. He looks up and smiles, See, a rich crop! Never fails. Any among that lot tickle your fancy?
How about Matthew? I say.
I favour Dedalus myself. What do you say? He puts his ear to my belly and the baby kicks hard. He agrees, Julian says. Unequivocally!
Danny came in at that point in my musings and turned on the TV. Dr David Kelly, the Iraq weapons expert, has been found dead. There are pictures of an area of woods, cordoned off with crime tape, and a stricken Tony Blair disembarks from a plane in Tokyo. Now the shit will really hit the fan, Danny said. Will it? I said. Action and events, things happening, are unimaginable to me now; the world has stopped for me till the baby’s born.
27 JULY 2003 – QUEEN MOTHER’S HOSPITAL, GLASGOW
My baby boy was born at 3.00 a.m. He’s asleep in the Perspex crib beside my bed. So much black hair – such a red face. So beautiful! Quiet now among the white beds after the clamour of birth. Julian fetched my journal so I could record it. The night nurse is reading in the nurses’ station opposite. Earlier, Danny and Jed brought flowers. Danny had a tear in his eye, I know he did, called the baby ‘Wee Man’. How you doin, Wee Man? Julian’s gone back to the flat for a sleep – white as a ghost after staying with me through labour. He has bruises on his arms where I
9 NOVEMBER 2003 – KELVIN QUADRANT, GLASGOW
A long gap since the last entry – no time, what with Matthew and getting our new place ready. And now I have two journals to choose from. Funny my lost one turning up on the day we moved out of the flat. It was behind some books on the shelves in our room. How it got there, I can’t imagine. I stopped among the packing cases for half an hour to look through it. It’s as if it belongs to someone else, someone in a different age. I blushed to read my preoccupations before Matthew was born. It’s so strange to think that’s the person I was less than a year ago; even stranger to transport myself to a world without Matthew, in which his cry had never sounded, the cry round which my entire existence now revolves. A chill came over me at that moment, kneeling on the floor in the flat, with the light dying at the window. I was struck by an unbearable longing to hold him close and rock him and feel the weight of his little body in my arms. But I couldn’t. He was at Peter and Maeve’s. I got hold of myself and the feeling passed, but not without a surge of resentment towards P. and M. Unfair. They have been incredibly kind, looking after him for us. And the best of it is, they never made it seem like an imposition; they so delight in Matthew, that it’s rather as if we were the ones doing them the favour. Sometimes I wonder if they
When I think of my hesitation in taking up their offer! I don’t know what I expected that first day; some ghastly high rise with broken lifts and graffiti and used needles abandoned on the stairs. But their house is warm and comfortable – a good close, as Maeve said. There’s plenty in the scheme not so good, but this stair’s not bad. Danny was there to introduce us and he stood back smiling when Maeve took Mattie from me. I found myself swaying in unison with her, as she rocked him, cooing, his little red face peeping out from under his hat, his eyes squeezed shut. Your mammy can’t take her eyes off you, she said to him. No she canny. And it was true. I liked her immediately. She has a faded version of Clare’s red hair, dyed a kind of strawberry blonde to hide the grey, and Danny’s green eyes almost, though more of a blue-green. And when she looks at you, she has a level gaze that could cut through any bullshit. A little unnerving. She’s obviously very close to Danny too. I was slightly anxious the atmosphere would change when Peter came in, but I needn’t have worried. Danny and he have clearly arrived at some sort of workable truce. He was quiet that first day, Peter, quite formal when we were introduced, more reticent than Maeve, I thought. But since then, it’s an absolute joy to watch him with Mattie. He walks about the floor with him and sings him funny little Glasgow songs, as well as Van Morrison and other golden oldies. I sometimes wish
Clare is the only source of tension in the house now, the only fly in the ointment. Most of the time she keeps to her room, but occasionally she doesn’t escape soon enough when I turn up to drop Matthew off, and it’s obvious she’s miserable. The whole family is very edgy around her, since she didn’t sit her English exam in May and consequently ruined her chances of going to university this year, despite doing rather well in her other subjects. She dug her heels in and left school, with no plans to sit the exam next time round. Now she seems to do nothing but mope around the house all day.
14 DECEMBER 2003 – KELVIN QUADRANT, GLASGOW
Mattie asleep, fitfully; teething I think, his cheek red. Julian gone to buy him some rusks and a ‘playstation’, as he calls it – a ‘command centre’ of spinning, clacking, rattling coloured plastic – for his Christmas!
A letter from Daddy today – not coming back before the end of the year after all. Still hasn’t seen Matthew.
Saddam Hussein captured, hauled from a hole in the ground in Tikrit, bearded and filthy. Americans cock-a-hoop.
12 APRIL 2004 – SILVIO’S CAFÉ
Haven’t been in here for ages. Danny taking Mattie for a walk in his buggy in the hope the movement will induce a nap. A chance to catch up with myself before Julian comes. Coffee and a scone, I think. So tired. Mattie up again most of last night. Not even Maeve could get him to sleep last time he was there and she’s the champion. Nearly puts me to sleep with her rocking and crooning! Met her sister Patsy on Thursday. No mistaking she’s from the same family – a mass of red curls, pale skin, dark blue eyes. She and Clare were deep in conversation when I arrived – they could easily be sisters – till Maeve introduced me. Clare scuttled off to her room then as usual, leaving the real sisters to argue over who got to hold Mattie first!
US began bombing Falluja on Good Friday. Happy Easter, from the civilized Christian West!
15 JULY 2004 – KELVIN QUADRANT, GLASGOW
Less than two weeks till Matt’s first birthday – can’t believe it! It’s passed in a flash at the same time as feeling like eternity. How does that work? Thank God he’s sleeping better now – I’m starting to feel vaguely human again. Dug out Aunt Laetitia’s journal once more, determined to get to the bottom of it. Read it cover to cover this time; realized I had actually seen it all before, I just didn’t feel as though I had. Not surprising, given the removal of half its pages – kept having the sensation I was just missing something. But I was right first time round – mainly art criticism, travelogue stuff, a quest for the paintings of Artemisia Gentileschi. Nothing more about Harry. A mystery. A closed book. Daddy still hasn’t found out anything about Laetitia – or at any rate, hasn’t sent me it.
Round at the old flat yesterday, all of us glued to Jed’s giant TV for the Butler Report. Talk about Teflon Tony! Hutton, now Butler. Couldn’t stay till the end – Mattie was crawling around, ‘into everything’, as Maeve puts it. Danny’s done a great job holding back the tide of grunge, but there are still too many hazards in a flat geared towards starting the revolution!
*
23 OCTOBER 2004 – SILVIO’S GLASGOW
Waiting for Danny to bring Mattie down from the flat when he wakes up. He sent me off for coffee and a chance to read my letter from Daddy again properly, without Matt grabbing for it. Typical Daddy – he writes me a letter instead of phoning. He’s had to cancel his visit again – or rather, postpone it, he says. But he’s sent information about Aunt Laetitia – as a softener, no doubt. So let me get it down here.
… Laetitia was a leading light in the suffragette movement, an embarrassment to the family, with all her banner-waving and unladylike activities. She narrowly avoided disinheritance by marrying well at the eleventh hour – some silly sod who was besotted with her, Lord James Gregory by name. Marriage only lasted four years – or rather Lord James did; he died suddenly, done in, so the story goes, by his helpless adoration of the beautiful but difficult Laetitia Gardener. (See photo enc.)
The photo is of them on their wedding day in 1921; L. in flapper gear, cloche hat, dark bob, looks straight at the camera, a determined set to her jaw, striking rather than beautiful. Lord James, in some sort of military get-up, has failed to watch the dickybird; his face is a soft blur, though the angle of light reflected in his eyes suggests he’s gazing fondly down on his bride.
It seems there was a child, which died in infancy, broke Lord James’s heart. As for Laetitia’s political activity, you might imagine not much of a record was kept by the family, but I managed to acquire the enclosed booklet – you’ll never guess from whom – Nanny Rosenthal! Do you remember her? Of course I bloody remember her. Though, if I’m honest, I rather thought she was buried somewhere in the grounds of Wellwood – with Biddy, under the horse chestnut!
She lives in sheltered housing now, but is sharp as a tack and appears to have quite an archive of family memorabilia. I thought the booklet might satisfy some of your curiosity. In answer to one question, I can tell you that you weren’t named after the late, great Laetitia. Good Lord, no! Your mother got the name from some magazine.
Thanks a million, Daddy!
Give my grandson a big kiss from me (thank you so much for the delightful pic!) and I promise to come and see you both before he starts school!
The booklet is yellowing, musty. Its unadorned cover bears the title: Magdalen Mothers, and is subtitled: ‘An Account of Work in East London with Prostitutes and Their Children. Authors: Laetitia Gardener and Harriet Martin, 1927’.
Harry!
Started to look at the pamphlet, when Danny popped in with Mattie, both of them in a good mood, grinning at one another. He’s taking him down by the Kelvin to see if they can catch a glimpse of ‘that fuckin kingfisher’! Matt’s going to have a very salty vocabulary for one so young! But it’s sweet of Danny to give me a chance to read. Come to think of it, it’s a lovely day for the river. L. & H. can wait; I should still be able to catch up with Danny and Matt if I run…