I know my mother put her older brother on a pedestal and I am sure the younger siblings did too, especially the boys. I wondered about Uncle Jim’s later service, when he transferred to the Royal Marine Commandoes—the division that would undertake more covert operations—and whether he served with men who had indeed been in smaller units during the Normandy Landings, their remit to seek out and destroy the enemy, especially snipers. Sitting in my upstairs home office on a sunny day in California, I speculated whether one of Uncle Jim’s new buddies might have told the story of those dreadful events that happened as a result of being targeted by a German sniper. I could imagine Uncle Jim coming home on leave and, when asked to tell his siblings about what he’d been doing, recounting a story heard from another marine commando. Had my mother and Uncle Charlie been mistaken in their listening, and absorbed the story as something their older brother was involved in? Mum always told me how close she was to Jimmy, that she would walk with him to the station when he returned to barracks following a couple of days’ leave, and how he would talk to her about his life in the Marines, what he was doing and his mates. She adored him—he was her hero.
Do we absorb stories told by our family and make them our own, so they become a sort of genetically encoded myth ingrained in our cellular memory? The story goes through another wash cycle, and our re-memory is changed. I decided to let it go—but perhaps not for long, because I’m a storyteller too.
There’s still a big question mark in my mind regarding my mother’s epic recounting of being buried in the rubble when a bomb hit the street. The details were so raw, so specific, and I’d witnessed her claustrophobia, which was real and terrifying. I suppose I don’t want to believe she would willfully burden a child with a tale so horror-filled and vivid. But while talking to my aunts to corroborate some of her stories, more emerged, and I learned how brave she could be—and so were her siblings—but then, everyday bravery by ordinary people is what happens in a time of conflict. Everyone has their stories.
“We were walking home from work through the blackout,” said Aunt Sylvie. “Just your mum and me, and it was pitch black, but the bombers were going over, and I was scared. So your mum said, ‘Come on, Sylvie, let’s sing—sing with me and you won’t be scared.’ And she started to sing. Your mum made me sing and dance along the street through the blackout until we reached the shelter.”
“It was during an air raid,” said Aunt Ruby. “I was terrified, so I ran down into the cellar and all I could hear was shrapnel hitting the metal dustbins outside, and the bombs falling. I was a little girl and I had only just come back to London—Sylvie, Rosie and me had been brought back from evacuation by our dad when he came home on leave and discovered our foster mother was feeding us a slice of bread and dripping for each meal and nothing else. As soon as he left after his leave, our mum had us evacuated again, so we were sent away. I was so scared all alone in the cellar, I clapped my hands over my ears and closed my eyes and started to cry, but my Joycie came to find me. Everyone else had gone down the shelter, but your mum stayed to look for me. She grabbed me by the hand and made me run with her through the bombing to the shelter, so we’d be safe.” My mother would have been about fifteen or sixteen at the time.
In reconsidering her stories, at first I wanted to discover the facts. Did this happen? Did that happen? I started to dig a bit more, then I realized it just wasn’t worth it. Whatever the facts, my mother had shared her truth—she had woven compelling stories wrought by her memories and she not only entertained people with them, but she inspired them, touched their emotions, and yes, she sometimes scared them in the way that a good thriller can have you on the edge of your seat at the movie theater. As soon as she had told me her stories, they were inside me and there was no taking them back. I couldn’t un-know them, so it was up to me to decide what I would do with them—and there’s only one route ahead for a teller of stories. The image of that little French boy was too sharp, too defined in my mind’s eye. It’s a piece of fabric I’ll work with, probably sooner rather than later, the needle threaded with whatever my imagination comes up with to create another story.
I completed the first draft of this memoir over three days spent in a cottage on the northern California coast, just south of Mendocino. It was a wonderful personal writing retreat, to finish something I think I began writing in my mind when I was a child, sitting at the desk Fred Cooke had given me, a treasure I accepted with such gratitude so I could pretend to be a real writer. On my last morning before driving home I was walking my elderly Labrador along a deserted beach when I saw a whale just off the coast. Not unusual in northern California, but always magical. And at once, I could hear my father’s voice, as if he were with me.
“See that, Jack? See it? Look where I’m pointing—follow my hand. There you go. Look at that! Not a lot of people get to see something like that—a whale! It’s what they call a ‘cetacean’—and we’ve seen it! I bet no one will ever believe us—we’ve seen a whale! We’re very lucky. Very lucky, aren’t we, love?”
I sat down on a washed-up tree trunk, a massive piece of driftwood worn by the sea and time, and recalled a radio interview I’d heard while on the long drive from San Francisco down to Ojai in southern California. It featured the British singer-songwriter Dido, and she had just been asked how coming to the United States and touring across the country had affected her work. A few seconds of silent airtime passed while she considered the question, and then she replied, “There was something about the openness of America that made me feel limitless.” Remembering those words, I felt my throat catch and my eyes fill with tears, grateful I was alone on that beach as I rested my head on my knees and began to weep.
My parents left the bombsites and memories of wartime London for an openness they found in the country and on the land—they were a couple of kids in search of that feeling of being limitless, and through good times and bad, fair weather and foul, they not only found it, but they created it. They challenged us to look forward, to take their example and create something bigger for ourselves. So again I wondered if it should be any surprise that both my brother and I would be drawn to America and the promise of limitlessness in her wide open spaces.
I looked up and squinted, wiping those tears from my eyes as I focused on the ocean again, and watched small waves cresting the whale’s back as she spouted once more before moving off across the limitless sea. I stood up and clapped my hands—the only sound my old dog can hear now—summoning her to my side so we could make our way back across the sand. It was time to go home.
Yes, Dad, we were very lucky. More fortunate than we ever knew.
Acknowledgments
It was a class on writing the personal essay with Bay Area writer Adair Lara that started the memoir ball rolling for me almost thirty years ago. I abandoned the project and stashed it in a drawer so I could concentrate on publishing my essays—but Adair also encouraged me to write fiction. She read the first fifteen pages of Maisie Dobbs and pressed me to continue, though she asked if I was planning to revisit my memoir. It took a few years, but thank you, Adair, for helping me set out on the path.
I bit the memoir bullet again when I attended Barbara Abercrombie’s workshops at UCLA Extension, delving into memories and family stories while searching for truths among the facts. In Barbara’s class I met writer Monica Holloway, who became a dear friend. Sixteen years after that first meeting, Barbara and Monica both read This Time Next Year We’ll Be Laughing and I am ever grateful for their encouragement.
Attending Hope Edelman’s 2018 memoir master class at Hedgebrook, the retreat for women writers on Whidbey Island, Washington, helped me focus more deeply on my memoir’s underpinning, giving me the confidence I needed to delve into the childhood relationships and events that defined my life. Her suggestion to remember points of tenderness touched me deeply—thank you, Hope, for your sensitive, focused modes of inquiry.
My literary agent an
d dear friend, Amy Rennert, has been a rock for me since, as a first-time author, I sent her an unsolicited letter and sample pages for a novel I’d written called Maisie Dobbs. At our first meeting, Amy asked me a question that has remained with me: “Who do you want to be as a writer?” Whenever I tried something new, Amy encouraged me even when I doubted myself. From the moment she read my memoir, she was enthusiastic and supportive on a personal and professional level. My deepest gratitude for your wise counsel and lovely friendship, Amy.
I adore my big, giant-hearted and sometimes rather crazy extended family, some of whom have answered my questions with patience and compassion. My cousin Susan Noonan graciously read the manuscript and shared some of her own memories—thank you, Sue, for your love and support. And thank you to my cousins Linda Willmott and James Clark for providing crucial information about your dad’s role during the Normandy Landings. To my cousin Larry Iveson—as always, thank you for offering your perspective on aspects of our family history. To my beloved aunts Sylvia, Ruby and Rose—thank you for answering questions about my mum and for sharing your own stories, even when the remembering was difficult. I now have enough material for another book! To my entire family, thank you for tolerating my putting a few of our collective experiences through the wash cycle of remembrance.
To my friend Holly Rose—thank you for reading my manuscript, Hol. As always your comments were direct and much appreciated.
The late Laura Hruska, co-founder of Soho Press, was my first ever editor. After a few welcoming words regarding the Maisie Dobbs manuscript, she warned me, “I am your worst idea of a strict high school English teacher. Every manuscript I touch is returned to the author hemorrhaging red ink, but we will find out if you have what it takes to be a professional writer.” From that moment I was determined to gain her respect—she was wonderful, a true publishing pro. Now my deepest gratitude goes to Laura’s daughter, Bronwen Hruska, Publisher at Soho Press for her enthusiastic response to This Time Next Year We’ll Be Laughing, and to Associate Publisher and Editor, Juliet Grames, for such insightful editing. My thanks to Dan O’Connor for his sensitive copyediting. Writers are solitary storytellers, but when a book goes into production, the author becomes part of a team—and I would be remiss if I did not thank the entire team at Soho, including Managing Editor Rachel Kowal; Director of Sales and Marketing, Paul Oliver; and Sales Manager Steven Tran. At time of writing there are people I have not yet worked with, but their enthusiasm is already evident, for which I feel blessed.
When I asked my brother, John, if he wanted to read my memoir, he declined, adding, “It’s your memoir, Sis, your memories. I’ll read it when it’s published.” His response could not have been more trusting and respectful—mind you, let’s see what he says when he has the book in his hand.
To my husband, John Morell, thank you for listening to my stories, for encouraging me to write This Time Next Year We’ll Be Laughing, and for your support throughout the process of bringing it to fruition.
The two people who deserve my most profound gratitude are my late parents, Albert and Joyce Winspear. More than anything, this book is for them.
This Time Next Year We'll Be Laughing Page 27