January - A time for pondering, pottering, and wondering, remembering, planning. These first few days of the year have been persistently damp, wet, and blustery, the sort of weather that continually interrupts your thoughts with sudden gusts and raindrops buffeting and tapping at the window glass. Yesterday my eye was caught by a spring green dress of some sort of silky material that made me imagine the skirt catching an April breeze to blow and swirl and caress your legs. I imagined pale taupe patent Mary Jane heels with matching bag to swing casually from the arm of a soft taupe suede jacket, the question was pearls or peridot? Cream lace gloves? I laughed and dear Mum's face swam before me, laughing too. Later as the wind buffeted, and the raindrops tapped, and I sipped my cup of tea the dress wandered back into my mind and brought with it a cascade of hidden memories.
Do you remember when, in a time before the World Wide Web, buy now shopping sites and advertising for things you didn't know you wanted popping up on the social media tucked in your pocket? A time when we would stroll into a cafe in a department store, order a coffee and take out a shiny magazine to browse instead of grabbing a takeaway cup and scrolling through our phone on the go? A time indeed when we wouldn't dream of eating or drinking whilst walking along the high street? Mother would be horrified!
Mummy - Dear Patricia - (that in itself sounds like the title of a novel!) the devoted wife and mother, housewife and friend, a parcel of tradition, dedication and loveliness all tied up with ribbon wrapping a bubble of adventure, creativity and maybe a little rebel hidden deep inside ready to peep out from time to time. That's how I remember her, my Mum. Dear Patricia from the first Brighton post-war Council estate, the daughter of a corporation bus driver and a mother who had grown up 'in service' and now cleaned and sewed for others, left school at 14, becoming a young working adult, never a teenager, beginning at the Co-op stationary department, then up to the Lingerie floor before moving on to the top floor treasury department of the grand Town Hall, Patricia metamorphosised into a stylish young woman. Brighton in 1950 was, like most towns in Britain, a town of many independent shops and stores all coping with the remains of post-war rationing. For this economy conscious proud young generation, style was important, most women were proficient with a needle and thread, or treasured black Singer sewing machine. Yards of fabric were chosen from Hannington’s Department Store and patterns cut from brown paper, jumpers and 'twinsets' were knitted listening to the evening shows on the wireless. If money allowed, what was left from that little brown wages envelope after your donation to Mother's housekeeping budget, you could save for two pairs of shoes, probably one navy, one beige, perfect for any occasion. Of course, Patricia would walk Brighton's maze of Lanes and hilly streets rising from the seafront to Churchill Square searching every shop and department store for the correct shade of gloves to match outfits, the handbag usually navy in colour if you could not manage the purchase of an alternative. Great effort was put into coordinating outfits when invited to a wedding, and dancing skirts were run up on the Singer using the yards carefully to create that necessary circular effect. I grew up with Mum running up sleeveless sixties dresses on her own Singer and remember how proud she was, after Dad secured a job in London, to create her own very fashionable pale blue crimplene dress when invited up to London to attend his employers wedding. Matching black patent court shoes and bag; gloves too of course.
As my sister and I grew more independent and Dad progressed at work, Patricia found more opportunity to blossom, to bring out more from that hidden bubble inside her personality. Why was I surprised, as a teenager, when she confessed to me that she had always wanted to be a hairdresser. I am glad she had daughters and not boys, I hope in some small way it helped her having girls to share her creativity with, rare moments that as we became older, she would share more often, and it certainly rubbed off at least a little. I remember, on Thursday mornings after we had gone off to senior school and college, before she did the weekend shopping and carried the heavy bulging bags home, she would visit the hairdresser. Later a six weekly facial was added, and she carefully applied pale pink nail varnish. After leaving school, on a half day from secretarial college Mum would meet me for lunch, Debenham's cafe or House of Frazer roof garden with the whole of Guildford Town spread beneath us. I might have my hair done or we would browse around the fashion departments and Boots the Chemist. Each new season there would be a shiny copy of Woman's Journal or The Telegraph fashion supplement, maybe sometimes a precious Vogue. These would be coveted, read and searched for 'this seasons' fashionable colours, both in make-up and clothes, how high were the hem lines, how wide the trousers and heels stilettos, stacked, wedges, slingbacks or flats (we won't mention platforms!) Then came the eyeshadow. Frosted or matt? Liner or not? and please don't confuse matters by adding navy mascara to the choice of brown or black. At the age of eighteen or nineteen I would sometimes be invited to accompany Mum to London, a chance to dress up and catch the train to Waterloo, a black cab to Selfridges, a major treat indeed. We would take in Oxford Street, buying small treats such as classy stockings or tights just for fun before going to Dad's office to meet him for the tube train back to Waterloo, a truly terrifying adventure in high heeled shoes! Then at Christmas Dad would produce the latest Estee Lauder or Elizabeth Arden make-up gift box of seasonal colours, for his three best girls - oh joy of joys what it was to be a late seventies/early eighties girl about town once in a while!
Mum never lost her flair for fashion, and I never saw her with grey hair until the very end. She remained the 'prettiest girl in town', well at least in the retirement flats that became her home, and until the end none of her neighbours knew that she was over eighty let alone a year off ninety - you did yourself proud Mum.
Looking back, I know I was always my Dad's girl with more love for the countryside than town, but there always was and always will be that little bit of Mum in me, enjoying a bit of glam from time to time, that needed to be a bit of a rebel. She might have taught me well, but I never could 'follow the crowd', even now. I paint my nails a different colour each week and I regularly wear a purple hat. My everyday footwear, as I am tramping lanes and footpaths up upon the Sussex Downs, is generally Dr Marten style boots in a range of colours from silver to red to floral but, even in my simple country life following nature and the seasons I still can't go out to lunch or dinner unless I have matching shoes and bag. I visited their grave today and wore a fuchsia-coloured raincoat.
Oh, and YES, I did go back and buy that dress!
Cheers Mum. Happy Birthday Patricia, you beautiful lady.
Words and pictures by Artist and Druid © 2023
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