Margaret is writing a letter too, in fact we are both sitting here scribbling away like it’s a wet Sunday in a Jane Austen novel! It’s her gran she’s writing to. She had a stroke back just before Christmas, and has been in hospital all this time. Now she’s home again, and getting by on her own, but she finds it stressful to try to get to the phone when it rings, and has told Margaret that she would rather have letters from her. I expect it’s nicer anyway, when you’re old and alone, to have a letter you can take out and re-read over and over, rather than a phone call which is over and done with once a week. I often get out your letters, Pete – I had a bundle of old ones out the other day, and it felt just as though you were here in the room with me.
You will like Margaret. She’s fearfully earnest about things: she’s just joined some homelessness group (all women they are) that runs a little hostel place near the town centre. She gets fired up about everything going – you should hear her sometimes in the mornings, she actually argues with the radio if John Humphrys has someone on she disagrees with. And she writes letters to her MP! I didn’t know people still did that. I hardly know anything about him, though I’ve lived here for thirty years: that man Slater, you know, he’s New Labour, and from what you read in the Town Crier he’s too smooth for his own or anyone else’s good. Maybe all this crusading passion is because Margaret’s young; she’s just in her first teaching job, so I guess she’s twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. But even at that age I don’t remember ever caring quite as much as she seems to! She’s beautiful, too. I don’t mean just pretty, I really do mean beautiful, it’s the only word for it. I don’t think I’ve ever described her to you, have I? She’s tall, with curly almost-black hair, and big grey eyes with these little flecks of amber in them. And her skin – it’s so white it’s almost see-through. There’s a word for it, I think it begins with a t, but I can’t remember it. She has that gawky awkwardness of tall girls, completely unaware of her beauty. ‘Coltish’, I think would be the word for it – like Katy Carr before she fell out of the swing. (Sorry, Pete, I know you won’t ever have read What Katy Did, but you know me and my books.) Anyway, Katy is too tomboyish an image for her, because of that astonishing skin.
Things have been pretty quiet in the bank this week – it was Dora’s birthday, and she brought in cake for coffee break. Homemade it was, a proper old-fashioned Victoria sponge with raspberry jam and butter cream (real butter in it, too, none of your soft marge). I must admit I did enjoy my slice, but it made me sad to think she’d spent all the time making the cake for us – like she doesn’t have enough on her plate, with her eldest back home after splitting from his wife, and Dave off work again with his bad back. She’s the one who should be being spoiled on her birthday – and I bet she cooked a special tea at home, too. Oh, and the garden is starting to burst out all over the place, love: everything seems to be beginning to sprout these last few days. That forsythia we put in by the back fence – four years ago now, is it? I was trying to remember – is a riot of colour. I think it’s come earlier this year, with the mild weather we’ve had, and that and the daffs really make a splash through the kitchen window.
Well, I’d better stop now, there’s the supper to get on. I’m cooking for Margaret again. Chops, we’re having. I did them for her once before and she really loved them; might do something for that pale complexion, too! All my love, Petey, and I miss you, as always.
Cora xxx
From: Margaret Hayton [[email protected]]
Sent: 22/2/05 22:07
To: Rebecca Prichard [[email protected]]
Dear Becs,
You’d laugh at me. I’ve joined another of my groups that are going-to-change-the-world, as you always used to put it! It’s homelessness and the great patriarchal conspiracy this time. It manages to combine all the aspects that you would send up most of both Women’s Action and the Homelessness Support Group, from college. They work as a collective (go on, sneer, you know you want to); two of them are paid workers and the rest are the voluntary support group, but they didn’t bother to tell me which were which, and it didn’t seem to matter. They meet every week in each other’s houses. Last night Alison (who seems to be the sort of unofficial self-designated queen bee) served organic herbal tea without a trace of irony. There’s a lesbian couple and they both appear to be called Pat. I suppose that can happen – it’s not one of the difficulties of a gay lifestyle that had ever occurred to me before. Oh, and in fact, when I say I’ve joined the group, I also seem to have become treasurer. Not only did I make the mistake of revealing that I possess and know how to use a computer and spreadsheet package, but in a mad moment I actually uttered the fatal words, ‘What does it involve?’
You’d also scoff – I’ve eaten pork chops three times without turning a hair! Cora, the woman whose house I’m living in, offered to cook a few weeks back, and I forgot to say anything (seems like everyone was veggie at college, or at least knew that I was, so it was never an issue) until it was too late and there it was, staring up at me from the plate, a big slab of no-messing, like-it-or-lump-it meat. Having eaten that and not said, of course, the next time I couldn’t possibly tell her, or else she’d feel bad! What an idiot I am – I expect I’ll have to swallow my principles (and a lump of dead pig) every Sunday evening from now on, until . . . Well, until I can afford a mortgage round here on my NQT main scale salary, which will be (does rapid calculation in head) oh that’s right, never! I suppose up there you can pick up a threebedroomed semi on your way back from Asda.
School is good: the head is on another planet but his deputy, Mrs Martin, seems quite sorted, and the rest of the staff are OK. There’s a kid in my class, Jack, who’s almost completely blind, so he comes with a full-time helper, Karen, which means always another body around the classroom. I’ve got Year 3s, which I think is my favourite stage. The Infant nuts and bolts are already in place – they’ve sounded out their phonetics, and they’ve learnt to count forwards in 2s, 5s and 10s and backwards in green bottles, speckled frogs and monkeys bouncing on the bed – and now they are just beginning to unfurl their Junior wings. They haven’t yet absorbed the view that it’s cool to be bored. The most feeble attempts at teacherly humour are still rewarded with gleeful delight, and everything is fresh and interesting, so that life resembles an endlessly rolling episode of ‘Blue Peter’.
How are you getting on at that Ofsted-failing, sink-estate-fed place of yours? I don’t see how you can ever take the mickey out of me again for my world-changing tendencies, after accepting that offer! Have you thought about hiring some personal protection? I know you’ve only got a Reception class, but I hear gun crime starts young on Moss Side!
And how is the delectable Phil, by the way? Are you still together?
Love,
Margaret x
From: Rebecca Prichard [[email protected]]
Sent: 22/2/05 22:56
To: Margaret Hayton [[email protected]]
Hi Margaret, great to hear from you! I was beginning to think they didn’t have the internet down there in Hicks-wich, sorry, I mean Ipswich! (Is it true that the streets are paved with sugar-beet?) And I knew it was no use trying to text you – I remember your views about mobiles irradiating the brain. I do like the sound of the two Pats, by the way – a couple both homosexual and homonymic.
The delectable Phil is history (which is strangely appropriate since he’s got a post teaching it in Swindon). I guess the delicate bloom of our relationship may not have survived the distance between Manchester and Wiltshire, but in fact it had withered on the bough anyway before we’d even packed up and left college. It seems that Julie Biddulph also found him delectable – and so apparently did Letitia ‘Tits’ Carvaggio, just the once, when she was drunk at a post-exam party. Her outfit was really accentuating her name that night, as I recall; I went home early, and Phil always did have the willpower of a particularly suasible flea.
Since Phil there have been Aidan, Ben, and now my latest
acquisition, Campbell (and no, before you say it, I’ve heard them all already – I am not working my way through the alphabet). Campbell is something of a toyboy, a third year Chem. Eng. student from UMIST. He’s still here now, as a matter of fact. He has an essay to finish, which is why I happened to be checking my e-mails. He does such a cute little frowny thing when he’s concentrating – makes me just want to bite his eyebrows!
But what about you, chuck? Any nice fresh-faced farmer boys on the horizon down there in Ipswich? Or are you still keeping up your vow of chastity? I seem to recall your being sworn off men, along with meat and overuse of the mobile, from some time in your second year, as being all equally injurious to brain, body or soul. You were practically married from the third week in college to your very own Mr Rochester (until it turned out he had that mad first wife locked in the attic), and for ever after that the cloistered nun! But I bet there are some Suffolk swains who can tempt you to leave the Order . . . ?
Big hugs,
Becs xx
PS. Incidentally, I am ignoring your taunts about the incomparable Brunswick Road Primary. I am not on a mission to save the socially excluded youth of tomorrow; I needed a job within striking distance of Dad’s increasingly carcinomatose colon, and it was all I could get. But, since you ask, the kids are a blast. Four-year-olds are the same the world over. Teaching Reception is basically herding cats whether it’s in Moss Side or Mayfair.
From: Margaret Hayton [[email protected]]
Sent: 22/2/05 23:05
To: Rebecca Prichard [[email protected]]
Dear Becs,
I really am sorry about your dad, and for being so insensitive. Is it really that bad?
And you’re not far wrong about lpswich being a communications black spot. Cora doesn’t even have a computer, and it’s taken me until now to get broadband sorted out.
Sorry to hear about Phil, too (I’m sure there’s a joke in there somewhere, continuing your metaphor, something about a flower of passion that wilts in Wilts: needs further work, I feel), but glad to hear you are keeping up the cracking pace that you set in college.
Night night. Sleep tight – or not.
Love,
Margaret xx
PS. I see you haven’t forgotten the essay espièglerie game. (Do you remember I once informed Professor Sharkey that her own early work was ‘haruspical’? And you swung some corkers past Fairbrother in Child Psych. – two ‘proemials’ and a ‘fissiparous’ in one assignment, as I recall.) I’ll give you 5 for ‘suasible’ and 6 for ‘homonymic’; ‘carcinomatose’ (if you haven’t just made it up) is an 8.5.
WITCH
Women of Ipswich Together Combating Homelessness
Minutes of meeting at Pat and Pat’s house, 24 February 2005, 8 p.m.
Present: Alison, Susan, Pat, Pat, Margaret, Ding, Emily, Persephone
Apologies for absence: None
Witch House: current occupancy
Room 1: Carole
Room 2: Lauren
Room 3: Nasreen
Room 4: Joyce
Room 5: Helen
News of residents
Nasreen moved in on Saturday. Unfortunately, Housing Benefit have informed her that as an asylum seeker she will have no entitlement to any of the usual state benefits. She will receive a £35 weekly voucher for food, but nothing towards her rent.
Helen has been very distressed this week, and cutting up quite badly; she had to go into A&E for stitches on Sunday night (thanks to Alison for driving her there). Her GP has got her into some group therapy at the Young People’s Psychiatric Unit, specifically for survivors of childhood sexual abuse.
Carole’s application for move-on accommodation from Suffolk Churches Housing Association was unsuccessful, but they have suggested that she apply again the next time their lists are open.
Persephone has had a session with both Joyce and Helen to cleanse their auras. She is currently doing a course on Indian head massage, and suggested that several of the residents and ex-residents might benefit from this therapy.
News of former residents still receiving support
Marianne is doing well with her job at the chemist’s, although Mr Singh is still keeping her mainly in the toiletries section.
Finance
This was Ding’s last report as treasurer. There are currently no voids, and no rent arrears, except for Nasreen. Ding reported that since voids and bad debts have been so low this year, it should be possible to fund Nasreen’s rent out of the 5 per cent voids allowance which is written into the budget, at least for the immediate future. This was agreed to.
It was decided to make the Lottery grant application for a new washer-drier. The old machine is now out of its extended warranty, and is not likely to last much longer (especially in the light of Carole’s unsuccessful application for rehousing). It is already putting grey fluff on everyone’s things.
Thanks were expressed to Ding for three years of excellent work as treasurer of WITCH – and to Margaret for taking on the job.
Any other business
Emily asked whether she could go on a welfare rights training day in April on understanding disability benefits. Ding confirmed that there was sufficient money left in the training budget to pay for this, and for any collective members who might also wish to attend. After some discussion, however, it was decided that the training budget was not appropriate to pay for Persephone’s Indian head massage classes.
Next week’s meeting: 8 p.m., at Persephone’s house.
42 Gledhill Street
Ipswich
Suffolk IP2 3DA
Mrs Barbara McPherson
Director of Recreation and Amenities
Ipswich Borough Council
Civic House
Orwell Drive
Ipswich
Suffolk IP2 3QP
26 February 2005
Dear Mrs McPherson,
I am writing to you to raise my concern about the problem of dog-fouling in the small park between Gledhill Street and Emery Street. As you may know, there is at present only one bin provided in the park for dog waste, and it is a long way from the Emery Street entrance. Dog-owners who leave the park by that gate do not always bother to walk back and dispose of their dog’s waste in the bin. At least one additional bin would, I am convinced, make a big difference. The park is used as a play area by many local children, and this form of pollution is not only unpleasant and a nuisance, it is a hygiene issue.
Yours sincerely,
Margaret Hayton.
The Hollies
East Markhurst
28 February 2005
Dear Margaret,
Thank you for your lovely long letter. You write such nice, chatty letters, it’s almost like having you here with me. I’ve read it two or three times through, so I’ve really had my money’s worth. I’m glad you and your landlady are getting along, and that you’ve found these new ladies in the housing group to be friends with, too. I did worry about you at first, you know, all alone in a big new town like that. But you’ve always been good at making friends, right from a little girl, so I know I shouldn’t have fretted. The very first day you started nursery school, I remember I went with Mum to meet you at three o’clock, and the first thing you said when you saw us was, ‘I’ve got a new friend and she’s called Horatio.’ It took us three weeks to work out what her name really was – though your mum said Carnation wasn’t much better than Horatio!
Your mum still phones me. But I’m using the frame to get about, and with the phone being in the hall, it takes me a while. So many times I seem to get there and the person rings off just before I pick up. I need to lean myself up against the frame, so I can free my good left hand to lift the receiver. Or if I do manage to answer, it will just be somebody selling something – as if I needed a conservatory at my time of life! Or life insurance – there’s not a lot left to insure, I told the girl last time, but she didn’t laugh, I suppose she was scared of being rude. I’ve tol
d Mum to let it ring a nice long while if she calls. I suppose she’s too busy to sit down and write a letter – most people are these days. There’s always some Mothers’ Union meeting, or choir practice, or the church magazine to get out, or just someone round at the vicarage needing tea and sympathy. It’s a full-time job for her as well as your dad, I always think. I sometimes wonder how these lady vicars get on, because I can’t see their husbands taking on all the parish jobs, somehow, can you?
Kirsty, the young lady who is coming in to help me, is really kind. She comes every day except Sunday, and she is supposed to get me up, help me wash and dress, and get my breakfast. I feel really guilty, because I’ve been so used to getting up early, seven o’clock prompt, ever since your grandad was alive, and of course in hospital they were always round with a cup of tea ever so early too. Well, Kirsty comes at nine o’clock, which is when she starts work, and that’s fair enough, she has her own little ones to get up and fed and off to school first. But I feel so idle just sitting in bed until she comes, so sometimes I have a wash and a piece of toast before she arrives, and then hop back into bed when I hear the gate. Then I have to pretend to be hungry when she makes my breakfast later. (I can tell you, love, because I know you’d never say anything.)
There are lots of things I can manage one-handed, the kettle and the toaster, and saucepans – you’d be surprised what you can do when you have to. But tin openers are impossible, and peeling potatoes. Often I get Kirsty to peel me some veg for my tea when she’s there in the morning, and she’ll leave them in a plastic bag in the fridge. Or else I’ve started to buy those bags ready peeled and chopped from the chill section in the Co-op. There was a man on the television saying how bad they are for the environment – all that packaging and whatnot, and I thought to myself, I know someone who wouldn’t approve, then. But I think you’ll forgive your old one-armed gran, won’t you? Anyway, as far as cooking tea goes, I often don’t want so much these days – it’s getting older, and not being able to get out and about to work up an appetite, I suppose. And having two breakfasts most days helps too!
More Than Love Letters Page 2