A

B

C

DArtistʼs books by Sally Berridge

A Re-picturing my life - cover

B End paper

C Tissue - cover

D Edge of Tissue - detail

Author’s note Notes for the photocopied or web versions of my PhD thesis: two books entitled Tissue and Re-picturing my life. Please note that these books do not translate fully to the screen or the photocopier because:

1. The books are designed to be tactile objects. 2. Their covers and bindings, an integral part of the books, cannot be made into

electronic files. 3. The files that you see, in their non-virtual form, are printed onto various

papers and fabrics that enhance their tactile and emotive nature. For example, pages are printed onto tissue paper, transparent drafting paper, brown kitchen paper, parchment, elephant dung paper etc. to enhance their content.

4. Throughout, red silk threads are a part of Tissue: they are part of the binding; they appear on various strategic pages; they sew several pages together for the ‘Forgotten’ page; they half-sew the ‘Secrets’ pages together.

5. The whole thesis comprises the two books plus a box in which they travel. The box is made to resemble an army dispatch box complete with labels.

Although the content is there on the pages, for the full effect it would be better to have a look at the real thing. I hope you enjoy reading the books. Alice Berridge University of Canberra December 2006.

It is through chance that, from all the various individuals of w

hich each of us is composed, one em

erges rather than another. Henry de M

otherlant Explicit Mysterium

.

Who w

e are is less a fixed entity than a convocation of selves in constant flux, selves which are changed by m

igration, so that although the traveller is the journey, it is impossible to step into the sam

e journey twice. H

ospital.

The dead remain silent. Primo Levi.

You must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on. Sam

uel Beckett.

I is memory come alive. Rimbaud.

It is I myself w

ho remem

ber, I, the mind. St A

ugustine

Memory is a great artist. Maurois.

Mem

ory is born every day, springing from the past, and set against it. G

aleano.

Mine eyes hath play’d the painter ... They draw but what they see, know not the heart. Shakespeare.

Personal existence is a kind of crossroads where things happen. Levi-Strauss.

The self is a constantly changing fabric of inner experience - a gossamer or ‘shimmer’ which might vanish. Meares.

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in their stone boats. Sexton.

Midnight shakes the memory as a madman shakes a dead geranium. Eliot.

Intus et cute: inside and under the skin. Gnothi seauthon: know thyself.

Re-picturing my life

by

Alice Margaret Berridge, M.Sc

An exegesis submitted in conjunction with an artist’s

book, Tissue, for fulfilment of the requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy at the

University of Canberra.

November 2006

Certificate of Authorship of Thesis

Except where indicated in footnotes, quotations and the bibliography, I certify that I am the sole author of the two parts of the thesis submitted today entitled

Re-picturing my life (this volume) andTissue (an artist’s book)

I further certify that to the best of my knowledge the thesis contains no material previously published or written by another person except where due reference is made in the text of the thesis. The material of the thesis has not been the basis of an award for any other degree or diploma. The Thesis complies with University requirements for a thesis set out in http://www.canberra.edu.au/secretariat/goldbook/forms/thesisreqmt.pdf

....................................................... Signature of candidate ....................................................... Signature of chair of the supervisory panel Date ..................................

Copyright in relation to this thesisUnder Section 35 of the Copyright Act of 1968, the author of this thesis (comprising this

exegesis, Re-picturing my life, and an artist’s book, Tissue) is the owner of any copyright subsisting in this work, even though it is unpublished.

© Alice Margaret Berridge 2006

In the preparation of the two books that make this thesis, I would first like to gratefully acknowledge the constant encouragement, support and assistance of my primary supervisor, Associate Professor Jen Webb. As a poet and creative writer herself, Jen has extended her skills, understanding and tolerance to my continuing metamorphosis from arty scientist to creative communicator. She has assisted me in developing my creative thinking, while at the same time guiding me towards appropriate theoreticians and rigorously assessing my interpretations.The other members of my supervisory panel, Dr Hazel Smith and Dr Mitchell Whitelaw were

also generous in giving their time for meetings, and in making suggestions and comments, as well as several hours of editorial work in the final stages.Dr Anthony Cahalan generously looked at late drafts of my work and made thoughtful

suggestions for improving my graphics and design: his suggestions made considerable positive changes to the overall look of the work. My son Simon has been a constant support. Our frequent jokey, flippant email conversations

during the last stages of the project have helped me to maintain some form of sanity. Simon is a writer too, so he understands the fog in the head, the late nights and early mornings, the rewrites, the constant search for typos. My other son Adam has also helped my sanity by providing meals and company from time to time when cabin fever struck me. His balanced view of the world has helped me to keep it all in proportion. My friends: Mira Sonik has always been there on the end of the phone when I needed to chat

– her blind faith in my ability is nothing short of miraculous. Lynne Grehg has also been an encouraging companion along the way and has always helped me put things in perspective. Marie Gordon has provided food, conversation and much-needed gin and tonics. I have had great discussions with fellow student Jordan Williams, and she has been a constant source of support and inspiration. Cathy Frazer has always been present for interesting discussions and has reminded me of the world of science communication over many a family dinner. Patty Please, a hydrogeologist turned psychotherapist, has also been treading the narrow ridge that is a doctorate straddling two worlds: the old knowledge and habits of science, and the excitement and openings that present themselves when exploring new fields of knowledge. And the challenge of developing a sound synthesis.I have had many interesting conversations with my four grand-daughters, Jess, Samm, Zoë and

Honor, trying to explain to them just what it is I have been doing, and why I needed to do it. I hope they look at the artist’s book and get some ideas about part of their heritage, and, more importantly, keep the doors to creativity open in their own lives. Thank you, each one of you, for the many and varied ways in which you have helped me to

complete this piece of work that has been (and I am sure will continue to be) so important to me.

I would also like to pay tribute to Rachmaninov, Bach, Bruch, Barber, Chopin, Callas, Glass and Dvorak in particular, and all the other composers and performers whose music has enlivened and infiltrated my work.

Cover image: Adapted from the opening page of Stultifera Navis (The Ship of Fools) by Sebastian Brant (1494). http://special.lib.gla.ac.uk/exhibns/month/Mar2002.html

Acknowledgements

Autobiography is a slippery genre, if, indeed, it is a genre. To deal with its slipperiness I use action research and qualitative inquiry to create a bricolage, an artist’s book, Tissue. Within the patchwork, stitched-together form of Tissue, digitised text and images (autobiographical stories, poetry, photographs, drawings and paintings) sit in varying relationships to each other. Also, I use poetic language and images to display aspects of the discourse of memory in digitally manipulated text/images where language and image are not illustrative of each other but are interconnected and equal, synergetic, creating new meanings. To simultaneously enhance the handleability of the pages and distance their electronic nature, I use a number of different papers and fabrics as the skins of the images. Using the ideas of Roland Barthes (principally) and others as reference points, in this exegesis

Re-picturing my life, I address the ways in which the present is informed by the past; self, identity and the body; the function of memory, and its mediation and articulation in the narration of autobiography; the significance of autobiographical objects and landscapes, and the nature of an autobiographical author. I also explore the effects on myself, as a migrant, of the fragility of identity in the face of major

social disruptions such as mutiple migrations, and consider whether the narration of personal experience through autobiography aids in the construction of a new identity that is more grounded in the new surroundings. In this exegesis I argue that, in this process of revisiting the past and reconstructing narrative,

text and image in my artist’s book, I have both re-written and re-pictured my life. Yet, while this process of regaining and articulating my lost family information seems to have initiated some bodily changes, and, more importantly, appears to have strengthened and stabilised my sense of self, it has not alleviated my feelings of exile. Indeed, my feelings of exile and the absence of any single identifiable homeland have strengthened.

Abstract

1 Preliminaries 111 Process 5 Qualitative inquiry and action research 5 Frames 6 Exegesis 8 Bricolage 9 Explicate and implicate orders of reality 11 Polysemy 12 The living processes in which cultural entities are situated 12 The ontology of relationships and connections 12 Intersecting contexts 13 The interpretive aspect of all knowledge 13 The fictive dimension of research findings 13 Art as qualitative research 14 Artist’s books 16

111 Permeations 18 Pages/patches 18 Pastiche 20 Plagiarism 21 Place/space/landscape 21 Person/a 26 Pentimento, palindrome 34 Periautography 35 Poetics/reverie/imagination 44 Paradoxes 46 1. Time, memory and self 46 2. Time and human consciousness 47 3. Time and identity 47 4. Time and the writer 47 Photographs/presences/absences 48 Palinode 51 Picture 54

IV Articulation 58 Image 1. Precious 58 Image 2. Dispatch box Burma 1942 58 Image 3. Tibetan bowl 58 Image 4. Bird dream 59 Image 5. Grounded 59 Image 6. Bleeding 59

V Anlage 60

V Aubade 60

VI (P)references 61

V1 Afterwords 66

Table of Contents

Plates Frontispiece Plate 1: Self as collage: Plate 2: Ocularis imaginationis Plate 3: Body/mind Plate 4: The magical power of the eye/I

Figures Figure 1: Consciousness and biology: the making of self and identity

(after Damasio 2000) Figure 2: Touch is the threshold between self and other

To see the Moon that cannot be seenTo see the Moon that cannot be seenTurn your eyes inward and look at yourself,Turn your eyes inward and look at yourself, in silence. in silence.

There is a place where There is a place where words are born of silence, words are born of silence,

a place where a place where the whispers of the heart arise. the whispers of the heart arise.

Rumi Rumi In the Arms of the Beloved In the Arms of the Beloved

1

Writing autobiography is like trying to cram a large jellyfi sh into a jam jar. Squeeze one part into the jar, and other fl oppy parts bulge out from the edges. Long jellied trails escape. Tentacles cling obstinately to the outside of the jar. In the end, if you must put it in the jar, the only way to fi nish the job is to pull the jellyfi sh apart, consider which parts are important, put them in the jar and hope they fi t together easily enough, side by side or on top of each other. But then the bits in the jar, however important, are no longer a jellyfi sh. Th ey may be interesting, they may be intriguing, they may even be beautiful, but they are not the jellyfi sh. Autobiography’s usual inclusions are the

stories of self and others that make up a life. Hanging off these are the clinging transparent trails of memory and the sticky tentacles of identity. Th e parts that are crammed into the jam jar include dimensions of biography, of narrative, of cultural theory, of history, of landscape. As a form of personal expression,

autobiography can include language, images and photography. So we know autobiography’s inclusions, but when we try to defi ne autobiography we are back with the jellyfi sh and the jam jar. Autobiography is slippery and will not be fully contained. However, like the jellyfi sh, a life can be exposed, articulated, examined, cut up, the bits held up to a mirror and evaluated for importance, then rejected or pushed into a jar. Th e stuff in the jar isn’t a life as such, but it can be interesting, it can be intriguing, and it can even be beautiful. But, realistically, the jellyfi sh never was going to fi t in the jam jar, so, you might ask, ‘Why do it?’Why? For me, some diff use but sticky

internal imperatives sought a voice. I listened to this voice and attempted to articulate its ideas and questions. As I progressed, I began to understand that the process of mediating my memories and thoughts, and articulating them into some physical form, was in itself important, and as worthy of investigation as the stories that were until then bound up in my head.

In this project I have made an artist’s book, Tissue, that contains my jellyfi sh parts, and I have made this second, smaller book about the process and context of selecting those parts. Th e process of selecting parts of my life to articulate in my autobiography resonated with Rumi’s words about silence and fi nding ‘the Moon that cannot be seen’ that I quote at the start of this exegesis. In this place of silence I found that writing about process and contexts brought in three elements: myself as a face (an object of inquiry); a mirror (an autobiographical work), and a wide-view mirror (this exegesis as a contextual framework). Originally my autobiography was to be a

historical document for my children and grandchildren: there were many gaps in our family history because we have lived in and between India, England, Kenya and Australia. Within these disjunctions, and given the deaths of both my parents at relatively young ages, much of my family information, mythologies, and connections were lost or had been discarded. I had only a fragile grasp on my place in the world: I wanted to search for lost family information and turn the result into an autobiographical story. I wanted to explore the role of memory for myself as a migrant by asking how the background memories of my lost family, community, language and landscape have aff ected my context for being. I asked the following questions:

Would my identity be aff ected by making the absent present, through regaining lost family information? And if so, how would it be aff ected?

How is my present informed by my past in such circumstances of loss and gain?

How would autobiographical writing, the narration of my personal experience, aff ect my memories, my identity and sense of self?

Would autobiography aid in the construction of a new identity that is more at home in my new surroundings?

How do memory and narrative function in autobiography?

1 Preliminaries

2

Everyone carries within them sets of memories of their earlier lives, but because migrants such as myself have experienced the caesurae of moving from familiar countries to new, unfamiliar ones, their memories may be separated from the present moment and ungrounded in their new environment. This seemed fertile personal territory to explore.I also wondered how poetic language

and images could display the discourse of memory, and whether they might provide gaps of understanding that could be filled by memories from the unconscious. So a secondary aim lay in examining the contribution of poetry and visual art to understanding the intersection of identity, meaning and memory.My wide-view mirror, reflecting my

contextual eye, detected several fields of inquiry relating to the context of autobiography, and brought in a magnifying glass with which to examine them in more detail. In terms of process, qualitative inquiry

and action research led me to bricolage as an appropriate process for the articulation of my story, and an artist’s book presented itself as a way of putting my memory and imagination to work to realise my story in the physical world. To contextualise my story and the way in which it is articulated, I looked at the work of Roland Barthes (principally) and Antonio Damasio, as well as many other writers, including Paul Ricoeur, Maxine Greene, Gaston Bachelard, Simon Schama, Rita Irwin, Jo Spence and Marius Kwint. I looked at these writers in order to

clarify my notions about the nexus between autobiography, memory, identity and narrative. In particular, I consulted and responded to Barthes’ autobiography, the ways in which he looks at past and present, and his writing on images and photographs. I examined Damasio’s work on self and identity, and the way in which he theorises about how the self arises out of material matter, and through this idea refutes Descartes’ mind/body split.

Autobiography can become embedded in narrative: Ricoeur addresses both memory and its involvement in narrative. Other writers in the field of narrative psychology, such as Jerome Bruner, Ulric Neisser and Michael White, shed some light on the interaction of narrative and the possibility of re-visioning the self. Greene and Bachelard address art

and imagination and the ways in which they can enrich human life, and Schama addresses the importance of autobiographical landscape and identity. Irwin and her co-workers suggest ways in which text and image can exist in synergistic relationships; Spence uses photography to reconstruct herself, and Kwint addresses the ways in which objects have a continual dialogue with memory and can unlock the personal.I have referenced the work of numerous

other writers as well, in looking at the intersection of autobiography, memory, identity, poetics and autobiographical objects. I also argue that in the process of re-visiting and articulating the past, of reconstructing personal narratives, I have re-written and re-pictured my life. My autobiography is my personal story, a

description of my ‘self ’; therefore I wanted it to reflect my current personal style and attributes in form as well as content. As I am a writer, poet, visual artist and photographer, it came easily to me to use combinations of text, image and design to depict aspects of my life story. Also, I wanted to avoid a simplistic life narrative because of the limitations of narrative construction (for example, stereotypical themes and endings, fictional typing, culturally dominant notions, causality and rhetorical conventions). Having studied a number of

autobiographical texts, I selected three to use as inspiration/models for my work. Each contains both words and images, but they are very different in style. My main focus is Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes.

3

Shanghai Dancing by Brian Castro and Storyteller by Leslie Marmon Silko also contain features that I have studied/emulated. My responses to these texts and the features that I found relevant for my work are described later.1

I considered that a poetic and interdisciplinary approach using images plus text, either alone or in varying combinations, would be useful in producing ambiguous and condensed information. Th is, then, would form a ‘readerly’ text containing complex juxtapositions and spaces within which the reader could react – to awaken or evoke the creation of meaning, to inspire or provoke responses. However, I also wanted to place the

personal (my story) within the larger context of culture and history. Th is meant reading the theoretical issues within the genre of autobiographical writing to gain wider knowledge of the fi eld in which I was working. Th ese texts led to further reading on aspects of identity, memory and history and how they are portrayed, and opened further options for diff ering ways of presenting personal material. I focused on bricolage and, later in the

process, on artist’s books because these forms promised to provide me with a methodology both practically speaking within the necessities of academic work, but also pragmatically within the resources at hand, while at the same time appealing to my personal skills and preferences. I decided to produce my artist’s book electronically because of the artistic, theoretical and reproductive challenges and options that were presented.Creative work is unknown until it is

made: it is an emergent methodology. Th e purpose of this exegesis is therefore not so much to explain or contextualise the art work, but to re-version, re-enact, and give understanding to my creative production. Th is exegesis outlines the new knowledge and understandings revealed through my creative practice. Th e complete thesis is a double articulation of practice and theory.

1 See Periautography.

Plate 1: Self as collage: self as gardener

Digitised print of collage. Paper, glue, gouache.

6

Qualitative inquiry and action research

I began my inquiries by reading academic texts on autobiography, memory, identity and narrative, in order to gain knowledge of the field in which I was working. I sorted old photographs and took new ones, and completed drawings and paintings. As I worked, new material came to hand that informed older material or sent me on a new quest because of further gaps that were revealed. I travelled to India, Africa and England to fill in gaps in family history. I visited the British Library, the Imperial War Museum, the Public Records Office and the National Archives in London, the Blandford Museum in Dorset, the Churchill Archives in Cambridge (and later enlisted the services of their researchers via email), and I employed a genealogist in Canada. I used genealogical sites on the Internet. I explored ways in which my information could be manipulated to form visual and textual pieces. The process became both circular and spiral: the reading and information affected the visual and textual work and the choice of content for the artist’s book, and this in turn affected the direction of further reading and information gathering. A dialectic developed between theory and practice, and the process developed into action research. Action research can be described as

a soft systems methodology that is oppositional to the positivistic, scientific approach that requires hypothesis testing.2 While action research is often carried out in a community setting, it is equally appropriate for autobiographical work because of the spiral of self-reflective steps that take place. Stephen Kemmis and Robin McTaggart

describe these steps of action research as both cyclical and spiral.

The elements of action research include:• Planning a change • Acting and observing the process and

consequences of the change• Reflecting on these processes and

consequences• Replanning• Acting and observing again• Reflecting again, and so on …

Kemmis and McTaggart also suggest that this somewhat mechanical sequence of the steps is a poor description of the process, because in practice the cycles of action and reflection may not be as neat and clearly defined as the above list suggests.3 Narrative inquiry is the name that Susan

Chase gives to the particular form of action research that involves the telling of life stories (birth-to-present narratives).4 Such a narrative includes the narrator’s point of view, values, emotions, thoughts and interpretations; makes the narrator the protagonist, and highlights the unique qualities of events and human actions rather than searching for common properties within a group.5 Arts-based inquiry as a methodological

and theoretical genre, according to Susan Finley, holds a unique place in new forms of postmodern qualitative inquiry. It allows for the multiple ways in which the world can be seen, and for the many ways in which experience can be constructed. It requires certain competencies for representations of the world to be effective, and it involves politics, as the forms in which experience is represented are influenced by cultural conditions.6 In arts-based research, the everyday, the vernacular, visceral, ephemeral moments of daily life may be captured and appeal to a broad audience because of these qualities. Texts may be re-written to disrupt the authority that is embedded in them, to challenge their cultural boundaries.7 Such research activity can be seen as ‘guerrilla warfare against the oppressive structures of our everyday lives.’8

11 Process

2 Kemmis and McTaggart (2005) p. 562.3 Ibid. p. 563.4 Chase (2005) p. 654.5 Ibid. pp. 656-657.6 Finley (2005) pp. 684-685.7 Ibid. p. 687.8 Denzin (1999) p. 572.

7

Dennis Sumara lists four aspects of action research that qualify it as a postmodern practice. First, the researcher needs a willingness to abandon the safety of familiarity and predictability in texts, and to value the ambiguous and the unknown. This attitude makes perceptiveness and re-interpretation necessary tools for the action researcher and encourages the production of new knowledge rather than just reportage. Second, more value must be given to

reflection on experience rather than on practice, because reflection on practice does not necessarily engage with the larger field within which practice is embedded. Experience allows the researcher to become embedded in the field of work, to dwell within the texts that are presented, and to become altered by the topographical features of the research field. The third aspect is to do with

embodiment. Sumara sees each body located in a historical, cultural, political and biological space that inevitably configures personal and professional knowledge, that affects its attitudes and responses to new knowledge, and that must be taken into account when interpreting research findings ‘because of the way in which location, human action and desire continually co-merge with one another.’ Sumara finally stresses the importance of creating forms that reflect the above complexities rather than producing trite cause-and-effect generalisations.9

In the spirit of action research, of qualitative and narrative inquiry and of arts-based research, I reflected upon my new information and experience and made decisions about: • How to fit the whole of my life into

a relatively small book and a short time frame of three years.• What to omit from my book, based

on ethical decisions. For example, I chose not to give details of my children and grandchildren.• How to articulate the information I did

choose to use.

Throughout the process I undertook a form of self-assessment through journaling to note personal changes (as far as possible in such a subjective area). Through reading and experimentation I transformed my family information into abstracted, concise forms for the artist’s book, using electronic technology. Part of this process involved accessing

and learning appropriate computer technology and programs. During the project I used an Apple Macintosh PowerBook, the Adobe Creative Suite (Photoshop, InDesign and Illustrator), Microsoft Office, Word and EndNote. I learnt the creative programs in one year in order to produce the visual material in the artist’s book. I used a Ricoh digital camera, a Microtek scanner, two Epson printers, a Wacom pressure-sensitive pen and tablet, and a variety of papers and fabrics. The spiral process of information

gathering and reflection could have continued ad infinitum, but a stop was called because there seemed little extra relevant family information to gather (in fact I have far too much material: only a small proportion of what I have discovered is present in the artist’s book). Also, the time frame of the project dictated a halt. More than those parameters, I had a feeling of completion.

Frames

Within the spiral process I had to negotiate several constricting frames. First, writing autobiography in an academic framework has meant that I have necessarily been judicious in omitting or including elements of my story to conform to academic needs. For example, I have generally omitted specific references to living people, although, when I have referenced them, I have taken pains to do so in an ethical way. The only part of my work that went to

the University Ethics Committee was an initial thought of interviewing the Africans who now live on the land that used to be our farm. This idea of the

9 Sumara (1998) pp. 42-44.

8

interviews became impractical when the Committee wanted to have the questions written in Swahili or other tribal languages to hand to participants, so they could think about their answers for a few days before I gathered the answers. I was unsure of whether I could even find the farm, let alone be there on two occasions. I didn’t know enough Ki-Swahili; nor did I know which tribal language would be appropriate. I was also unsure of the literacy levels with which I would be dealing, so I couldn’t write questionnaires appropriately even if I had the correct languages. The Committee also made the assumption that my visit and questions would be traumatic for the participants, and wanted counsellors present. In a land where sufficient food is a primary concern, counsellors are in short supply in country areas. For all these reasons I abandoned the idea of the interviews.Second, some of my personal archival

information, along with that of others, I considered unsuitable for academic scrutiny; these stories were omitted. Another frame concerned the use of an

alternative form of expression, such as an artist’s book, for a doctoral dissertation. Uncertainty about the exact criteria that would be used to evaluate my work has meant that I have probably leaned towards conservatism. Art is, of course, an enormous field in

itself, and while some kinds of art may be allowable as free expression, the processes I have used in the artist’s book have had to be carefully controlled and constructed for specific purposes, with the form (though not content) of the end product held in mind throughout. Each component has been manipulated

and placed thoughtfully in juxtaposition with other components to fulfil my personal need for a minimal storyline, so freewheeling expression was unsuitable for this purpose. Another constricting frame has been

the need to condense my material: how can one person’s history fit into a book?

10 Punctum is discussed further in the Periautography, Palinode and Picture sections.

My process of condensation took two forms: first, the selection of material to be included or excluded; second, discovering and assessing ways of conveying this information in the most concise and effective way. The process of condensation was

severe. My 5 GB of files (text, drawings, photographs) are now condensed into less than 700 MB. I could write second, third, fourth and more, completely different and longer autobiographies from my stores of leftover material.This condensation put intense selection

pressure on my choice of material to be included. My choices came to be based on the potential aesthetic, visual, historical or personal value of the raw material. Also, I considered the intensity of their importance to me: their potential in terms of Barthes’ idea of punctum. He describes punctum as that personal shock of recognition from an image: a response that can both attract and repel at the same time.10 Assessment of my moments of punctum has relied on out-of-the-ordinary life episodes that have affected me in some way: moments of high emotional intensity; clear caesurae between one part of life and another; the emergence of important new information. Such choices meant that, as well as condensing my material, I had to consider and prioritise the aspects of my story that are of particular importance to me. In this way, producing material for the artist’s book and the selection process has led me to reflect on my life’s priorities and thus how I see myself. Another frame has been the limitations

of electronic machines: while my computer contains enormous potential, its products are affected by the limitations of the scanner and printers.

9

11 Kroll (2004).12 Ibid.13 Nelson (2004).14 Barratt (2004).15 Fletcher and Alan (2004).16 Milech and Schilo (2004) p. 4.17 Ibid. p. 6.18 Ibid. 19 Ibid.20 Bolt (2004) p. 3.21 Octavio Paz quoted by Bishop (1997) pp. 275-276.

ExegesisTh e form of an exegesis and its

relationship to the creative component of the thesis has been open to debate since alternate (hybrid) forms of theses, so-called creative doctorates, have been accepted in Australian universities. Jeri Kroll suggests that those who

undertake this kind of degree need to demonstrate some kind of split personality because of the need to produce both a creative and a critical component.11 Th e critical component can be called an exegesis, critical essay, dissertation, annotation, documentation,12 writing about doing, a linear argument in language, a rhetorical text to valorise the creative work,13 a refl ective discourse to validate the creative component,14 a research paper that informs and positions the studio work.15 Barbara Milech and Ann Schilo outline three exegetic models. In the fi rst, the Context Model, the exegetical component ‘rehearses the historical, social and/or disciplinary contexts within which the student developed the creative … component of his or her thesis.’16 Th e second model, the Commentary Model, involves an annotation, explication or commentary on the creative work. Th e third model is called the Research-Question Model, where ‘both the exegetical and creative components of the research thesis hinge on a research question posed, refi ned and re-posed by the student across the several stages of a research program.’17

Th e strength of the Context Model lies in the breadth of language that can be used and the way in which it can conform with the institutional needs of universities, but the disadvantage is that the relationship between the two components of the work is not addressed. Th e Commentary Model, while it explores the relationship, positions the creative work as secondary to the written component. Th e Research-Question Model addresses

the relationship between the two components by suggesting that ‘both the written and creative component of the thesis are conceptualised as independent answers to the same research questions.’18 Th e advantages of this model lie in its resistance to the divide between artist/scholar and other similar binaries: its language is acceptable for university purposes because it fi ts to some degree ‘formal’ research models, and it frees the student ‘to research a single question in two languages … [it] mediates the “split” between theory and practice.’19

I have chosen this third model, the Research-Question Model, for this exegesis partly because of the advantages previously outlined, but mainly because it logically fi ts the ways in which I have worked. I have gained information and then

looked at ways in which that information can be used visually or textually to tell my story, so both forms of expression pivot on the same basis, the research questions. Th is process fi ts my action research procedure, the spiral framework of observing, refl ecting, imagining, making, writing, observing, refl ecting, imagining and so on. It overcomes the need for a ‘split personality’.Th e purpose of this exegesis, then, does

not lie in validating or valorising my artist’s book. It is not a linear argument in language. It is not a critical essay or annotation. Its purpose is to explicate the unseen discourses that lie behind and under the book’s content. As Barbara Bolt puts it, I want ‘to produce movement in thought, to take the form of concrete understanding’ through the more overt form of words.20

‘Minimal incoherent fragments:The opposite of history, creator of

ruins,Out of your ruins you have made

creations.’Octavio Paz Objects and apparitions:

for Joseph Cornell.21

10

22 Nelson (2004).23 Greene (2001).24 Lévi-Strauss (1972).25 Ibid. p. 17.26 Ibid. p. 18.27 Ibid. p. 19.28 Ibid. p. 21.29 Barthes (1977b) p. 126.30 Lévi-Strauss (1972) p. 22.31 See Palinode section concerning references to objects and their relevance to migration and sense of self.32 Lévi-Strauss (1972) p. 25.

In both the artist’s book and exegesis, I wanted to follow Robert Nelson’s approach and produce a reader-oriented text.22 However, I found it difficult to follow completely Milech’s idea of answering the same question in two languages, to separate text and image and verbal and visual thinking, and some images have willy-nilly crept into the exegesis. Despite this overlap, the exegetical images carry out a different function from those in the artist’s book because they are exclusively illustrative, while most of the images in the artist’s book are ‘content’. Writing an exegesis means contemplating

and analysing the content of the creative product and contextualising it within contemporary theory. While Maxine Greene acknowledges that analysis or reflective thought can interfere with the experience of art, she also believes that self-reflection and critical consideration can be liberating and educative, having the potential to open multiple worlds.23 My experience of making the artist’s book has been immeasurably enriched and developed through the contemplation and writing of the theoretical component.

BricolageI have taken an interdisciplinary

approach to my artist’s book, using both text and image to form a matrix that is a space of realisation, an experience of the in-between.In his book The Savage Mind,24 the

structuralist Claude Lévi-Strauss developed the terms ‘bricoleur’ and ‘bricolage’ to describe mythical thought ‘expressed … by means of a heterogeneous repertoire.’25 The French terms have no exact equivalent in English, and originally were connected with extraneous movements in various sports. Lévi-Strauss’ definition of a bricoleur is a Jack-of-all-trades, an odd-jobs man working with whatever finite and heterogeneous material he has to hand, with no particular aim in mind. Lévi-Strauss describes mythical thought

as this kind of activity, lying halfway between precepts and concepts: the

bricoleur’s means (the elements previously collected) are defined only by their use, representing ‘a set of actual and possible relations.’ He applies this concept to the intellectual and mytho-poetical realms, where intellectual content can also represent that set of actual and possible relations.26 Like a Lévi-Straussian bricoleur, I began by ‘making a catalogue of a previously determined set consisting of theoretical and practical knowledge, of technical means, which restrict the possible solutions.’27 I also increased the content of my catalogue or box of tricks as I progressed in the project, as the dialectic between theory and practice, knowledge and ‘reality’ developed. As Lévi-Strauss said, ‘earlier ends are called upon to play the part of means.’28

In mythological thought, structured sets are built up from the remains and debris of events, the ‘grimace’29 of an individual’s history: what better way is there to describe my life? In the same way that a photographer or writer can immobilise an imaginary moment in Barthes’ ‘grimace,’ the autobiographer concocts a series of verbal or visual images (or grimaces) and puts them together to represent a life. Lévi-Strauss also wrote that art lies half-

way between scientific knowledge and mythical or magical thought, that the artist ‘is both something of a scientist and of a “bricoleur.”’30 Material objects are constructed that are also objects of knowledge.31 In view of my previous life as a research scientist, this description fits my process exactly. He writes: ‘The painter is always mid-way between design and anecdote, and his genius consists in uniting internal and external knowledge, a “being” and a “becoming.”’32 The word genius can be problematic,

but, of the many possibilities, I chose the definition of genius (from Roman mythology) as ‘a guardian spirit of a place, person or institution’ – in this case, my personal internal guardian that mediates the operation of the nexus between my inner and outer worlds.

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33 Denzin and Lincoln (2005) p. 4.34 Kincheloe (2001).35 Denzin and Lincoln (2005) p. 5.36 Ibid. p. 6.

37 Kincheloe (2005).

Lévi-Strauss’ description of the painting process also seems a fair description of my autobiographical process. Th e concept of bricolage has been

developed and theorised since Lévi-Strauss’ time, and now can be seen in interpretive, narrative, theoretical and methodological forms.33 Bricolage is what Joe Kincheloe calls boundary work within post-structuralism: work on the boundaries between theoretical understandings and the ability of hermeneutics to synthesise data to move to higher levels of meaning. Kincheloe draws on Lévi-Strauss’ work to suggest that bricolage is concerned with the dialectical relationship between knowledge and reality, and that the concept arose through an understanding of the complexity and unpredictability of the social domain.34

Norman Denzin and Yvonna Lincoln conceptualise bricolage as a rigorous pursuit when the researcher is intellectually informed, widely read and cognisant of diverse paradigms of interpretation. Th e disadvantage, then, to being a rigorous bricoleur is the amount of reading, and the amount of knowledge within many fi elds that must be digested and brought to use, to avoid the label of superfi ciality. Th e bricoleur must have not only the skills of a quilt maker or jazz improviser, but must be able to use multiple methods. Moves can be made from ‘the personal to the political, from the local to the historical and the cultural.

Th ese are dialogical texts. Th ey presume an active audience. Th ey create spaces for give-and-take between reader and writer.’35 In my artist’s book I have interspersed

the personal with the historical, graphics with text: the sheets of tissue paper allow the reader a little respite between each

‘patch’ for give-and-take: they are canvases for intermezzi. My exegesis also takes the form of bricolage: the artist’s book is a base from which the exegesis draws out and examines the patches of diverse theories and ideas that surround it or are woven into its fabric. Th is kind of qualitative research is interactive, full of tensions and contradictions: the bricoleur is both shaping and being shaped by the process, while exploring previous boundaries that no longer hold.36

Kincheloe builds on the work of Denzin and Lincoln in extending the concept of bricolage as a rigorous method of qualitative research. He describes bricolage as a complex,

multi-methodological, multilogical form of inquiry that focuses on webs of relationships instead of simply ‘things-in-themselves.’37 Th is approach takes into account the social location of the researcher, the power relationships implicit in the research process and the abandonment of naive concepts of realism. It sidesteps modes of reasoning that come from logical analysis and the strictures of guidelines

The raw materials in the catalogue of my bricolage, my ‘fossilised remains,’ were/are: .my dreams .the internet .gaps in my family history.unanswered questions.my memories (how many of them

forgotten?) .institutional catalogues and

collections .gouache and paintbrushes.stories.my imagination.the letters ‘p’ and ‘a’ (and the rest

of the alphabet) .my arms, hands, fi ngers and brain in particular (the rest of my body for walking and sitting) .my supervisor’s critiques.autobiographical objects .electronic technology: digital

camera, scanner, computer, pen and tablet, printers, printing ink .reverie .other people’s memories

(accurate? I don’t know), their thoughts and dreams .paper, thread, cardboard, glue.

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that are outside the line of inquiry, and embraces complex research methods. It tinkers, in the Lévi-Straussian sense, with research methods and interpretive contexts to form ‘a high level cognitive process involving construction and reconstruction, contextual diagnosis, negotiation and re-adjustment.’38 According to Kincheloe, the disadvantage

of monological knowledge is its reduction of human life to objectifiable dimensions (those which can be expressed numerically): bricolage attempts to go beyond this kind of tunnel vision and find multilateral strategies that do not mistake perception for ‘truth.’ If bricolage is indeed concerned with the relationship between knowledge and reality, then it is an ideal methodology for autobiographical works, because it acknowledges the complexity of the relationship between writer and what is written, and the changes that are continuous and inevitable in the author, who is both the subject and object of the work. It allows multiple perspectives that avoid unquestioned monological knowledge.Bricolage demands a literacy of

complexity: Kincheloe describes twelve concepts for consideration when researching in a complex domain.39 Out of these, I selected the following seven that are relevant to my autobiographical work: the explicate and implicate orders of reality; polysemy; the living processes in which cultural entities are situated; the ontology of relationships and connections; intersecting contexts; the interpretive aspects of all knowledge, and the fictive dimensions of research findings.

Explicate and implicate orders of reality

According to Kincheloe, the explicate order consists of simple patterns and invariants in time that tend to repeat themselves and occupy recognisable locations in space and time (e.g., night and day). The implicate order is more complex: separateness disappears and elements appear to be wreathed or knitted together within a larger unified process (e.g., the human body, fractals). The implicate order is hard to discern because it is embedded within many levels of enfoldment. Yet, I would argue, that it is difficult to separate these two orders of reality.In my book, examples of seemingly

overtly explicate material are the fact sheets about ships: four ships tied in with my family’s journeys are described in some detail: from their first voyages, to their war service, to their dissolution in some scrap yard. These are ‘facts’ that can be verified historically (or mythologically). However, even straightforward

descriptions such as these carry their own mythology. For example, according to Marius Kwint and his co-authors, ships are ‘multi-purpose metaphors for human experience because they are destined to journey … they are at the mercy of the elements, then they inevitably decompose … Jason’s Argo, the Ship of Fools, the Ship of Fortune, Saxon burial ships. The sea becomes an analogy of bodily memory … the deep ocean washes up the detritus of human ambition, clues to stories.’40

I also used the (possibly) mythological ship, Jason’s Argo, in my artist’s book and gave it, too, a fact sheet. Barthes’ description of the way in which Argo was rebuilt during her voyages seemed an excellent metaphor for my journey while I produced my autobiography. I, too, had no port (homeland) to call in to for repairs: they were carried out during the day-to-day affairs of my life, but particularly on the voyage of articulating aspects of my life in the artist’s book.

38 Kincheloe (2005) p. 325.39 Ibid. pp.327-330.40 Kwint (1999) p. 15.

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Ships cannot sail without oceans. Oceans make voyages possible – they hold and support the journeys of the imagination and the flow of creative energy: the mythical elements of Jason’s heroism in claiming the Golden Fleece, the clashing rocks, sirens, monsters and ogres. The ocean (my imagination) has been an implicate factor underlying my construction of the books.Overtly implicate material is also

contained in the family trees. All members of the family tree carry trails that link them to the historical and personal elements of their lives. These trails are unsaid, invisible, implied. Such implicate material is apparent, too, in the first Dorset archaeological section (Blood Scar Trail Track Bone Money Memory Bedrock), although by its nature it is not possible to show such material more than superficially on a page or pages. In this case I have cut a circular hole through the pages down to bedrock to imply the depth of history. Implicate material is also present in the text/images where text is superimposed on images to create new meanings.The separation of material into explicate

and implicate orders seem to be possible only on a very superficial level. All events and objects are coded, filled with implicate meaning, substrates for the imagination.Polysemy Polysemy confers ambiguity on signs:

it implies the presence of several related meanings for a single sign, word or phrase, and in this way an infinite number of meanings can be generated by the reader from a text. In the artist’s book, some pieces (e.g., the Amputations section in the artist’s book and the Afterwords section in the exegesis) and in particular the text/images, are deliberately ambiguous or poetic to allow a multiplicity of interpretations. It is through such ambiguity that readers can assign their own meanings and thus connect with the articulations of my life story. Polysemy is appropriate for an autobiography because of the multiple meanings present in a life story, and therefore in its articulation.

The living processes in which cultural entities are situated

When I discovered that I had a detailed maternal family history going back 800 years, I wanted to examine the historical details and the political and social frames in which my ancestors lived. For example, my personal lifelong connection with agriculture has been enriched and enlivened by the information (previously unknown) that I come from a long line of farmers. For my own satisfaction, I also needed to know something of the social conditions under which these farmers lived and operated. This is shown in the second Dorset archaeological section (Bedrock Memory Money Bone Track Trail Scar Blood). Wendy Stephenson writes of this kind

of archaeological/historical art work (such as my two Dorset archaeological sections) as an intertwining of praxis and poesis.41 More than a plain, impersonal documentation of the times, my personal history is woven with the factual (facts from books) to form pages that are overlaid and ambiguous. The ontology of relationships and connections

Within complexity theory, relatedness holds an emerging and developing importance. In the autobiographic field, a complex relationship is defined as that between the self and the culture in which that self is placed. Not only is the unstable postmodern self affected by the culture within which it operates, but, more important, it seems that culture in turn becomes an inseparable part of the self. For someone like me who has lost so much family history, who had so little idea about my antecedents, it has been an important journey to discover so much in the past four years, to make explicit some of the cultural elements that must be part of me, but that I didn’t know. Vague ideas have taken on shape and form: inexplicably, I feel I know much more about who I am by finding out about my family.

41 Stephenson (2004).

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Most of the information in the family trees was unknown to me at the start of the project. I knew a few names, but no dates, no occupations, no life details. For example, I knew of my maternal grandparents’ divorce, but the experience of physically handling their actual divorce papers (from 1909) in the National Archives in London, reading of their bitter interactions and simultaneously discovering that my mother had a younger sister who died before the age of four, affected me deeply: there is no rational explanation, yet I know that experience has strengthened my fabric. Finding that I am in direct descent

from both a very successful smuggler (Isaac Gulliver) and the Prime Minister of England who invented policemen (Sir Robert Peel) is a pleasant irony. I found that my great-great grandfather started the colony of Swan River near Perth, in Western Australia. These were high-achieving people, and presumably I have some of their genes.Living in suburban Canberra as I do, it

is odd (but fortifying for my self-image) to know that I have several stately homes lurking in my background: Peel Fold, the Manor of Knowlemere and Drayton Manor in Lancashire; Hintlesham Hall in Suffolk; Chettle House, Letton House and Allandale House in Dorset. As far as I know, all these large buildings are now hotels or broken up into flats and apartments except for Drayton Manor, the seat of the Peels, which was sold off by its impecunious Peel incumbent in 1949 and is now a theme park.Intersecting contexts

No body of knowledge can stand alone or be complete in itself. There are always intersecting contextual fields, yet apparent connections may be artificially imposed, or artificial divides created to separate one field of knowledge from another. This project impinges on a number of theoretical fields: memory, identity, autobiography, place, objects, migration, history, art, literature and narrative, for example. Yet it is impossible to write a

heading ‘Memory’ and write only about memory. Memory is enmeshed and entwined with all those other fields. This impossibility is the reason I have

chosen to write this exegesis under a series of headings starting with the letter ‘p’ that is part of my bricolage catalogue (along with the rest of the alphabet). The letter began as a somewhat arbitrary choice, but I developed the idea after I was intrigued by the way Adrian Caesar (a Visiting Scholar at the University of Canberra) used it as a formal device in a seminar. The letter ‘p’ soon showed itself to be prolific and pertinent for my purposes, because the choice of relatively general terms as headings allows aspects of my autobiographical process to be discussed in sections that do not correspond to the limits imposed by their fields of knowledge (e.g., memory). The ‘p’ terms are horizontal fields rather than vertical towers or silos of knowledge: they segue into ‘a’ terms by the end of the exegesis.The interpretive aspect of all knowledge

In the artist’s book, my personal interpretation has been stamped on all the material I have used. From its selection and mediation in my mind, to its articulation and manipulation, each ‘fact’ or piece of information has been subject to my interpretation. I have analysed and used it within the boundaries of my own self, as I have any other element of my life. This is to be alive. In due course, readers will look at the book and make their own interpretations: there will be as many interpretations as there are readers, especially because my material relies to some extent on ambiguity and juxtaposition. So the material remains the same, but it burns a different picture into the eye of each reader.The fictive dimension of research findings

In complex fields, no fact is self-evident, no representation is ‘pure’. Thus even the official documents I have looked at (such as divorce papers and birth, marriage or death certificates) have been subject to social or legislative pressures

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and procedures. Although they appear official, they have been created within bureaucracies and power structures by humans with all their failings, and may have, for example, omissions that I cannot know about. Official documents are subject to categorisation, political emphasis and ways of organising information that can subtly affect the reading of such documents, particularly if they were compiled many years ago within a different cultural framework.Similarly, the story of my life has fictive

aspects. Although it is based on ‘reality’, that reality is tempered by the vagaries of memory (mine and that of others) and the many limiting frames set by knowledge transmission that I have mentioned above. Lévi-Strauss suggested that bricoleurs

make things out of what is to hand, with no particular aim in mind, to see what emerges. This almost describes my process, although I did have some intentions for collecting particular materials. Initially I had no idea how the creative work would turn out; the material now in the book could have been the basis of an exhibition or an installation. But, gradually, in the last twelve months a book has emerged from the material I collected.Further, I had no idea how (or if ) this

process would affect my sense of self, and I had absolutely no aim in mind for that aspect. But, as I have written, there has been a profound, positive effect as well as a rather difficult one and, seemingly, some physical effects as well.

Art as qualitative research I call myself an artist – but what does

this actually mean? Why have I chosen a creative doctorate? Why did I choose to represent my life with an artist’s book as my creative work? Contemplating the answers to these questions led me to consider the arts and aesthetic education, and the lack of value they are generally given in a technologically and consumer-driven society. Only yesterday, at my Pilates class, a middle-aged male public servant (living out a positivist paradigm?)

was mocking the fact that his prospective son-in-law had recently been awarded a doctorate in sculpture. Yet for me, living out a naturalist paradigm, art and life are connected, and I cannot imagine it otherwise, even though I originally trained as an agricultural scientist and worked for many years as a researcher in the biological sciences. This early training was grounded in life processes: there was no separation between theory and practice. Perhaps this connected attitude travels within me to my creative work in the arts. I know now that I am foremost a poetic and visually-oriented person rather than a scientist and, for me, art and science and life are simply differing aspects of each other.Many twentieth century artists and

art critics (e.g., Clement Greenberg in the early part of the century) posit the doctrine of ‘art for art’s sake’ (i.e., art is an aesthetic activity independent from everyday life). Nevertheless, other artists and critics have argued vehemently that art and life should respond to each other.42 My personal attributes, beliefs and tendencies put me in this camp. Like the Finnish art educators described by Arthur Bochner and Carolyn Ellis, I believe that art is embodied enquiry: that ‘imagination is as important as rigour, meanings as important as facts and the heart is as important as the mind.’43

Maxine Greene separates the kind of art she sees as vital (to human development) from didactic practices that contain moral or political messages, from decorative devices, from self-indulgence and from consumerism. She argues that involvement in creative practice can bring multiple domains of meaning to an idea or concept, and as such allow for the creation of new perspectives. New experiential connections and patterns of thought may be formed and new vistas opened through nurturing particular kinds of reflectivity and expressiveness that reach out for meaning. She believes the arts and aesthetic education to be essential to cognitive, perceptual, emotional

42 Haynes (2003).43 Bochner and Ellis (2003) p. 506.

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44 Greene (2001).45 Henri (1923/ 1984) pp. 44-45.46 Marcuse (1978).47 Bochner and Ellis (2003).48 Stewart cited by Wilson (2004).49 Wilson (2004) pp. 46-47.

and imaginative development, and that this kind of activity breaks through the ‘cottonwool’ of ‘dailyness’ [sic], passivity and boredom to engage better in the world with all its complexities. Uncoupling from the ordinary, as she puts it. Further, understanding is enriched when working with the raw materials that become part of the language in which art is expressed. But objects and events take on aesthetic existence only in transactions within the human mind, so a mind educated in art and aesthetics has the power of releasing itself from the trap of literality.44

If art and life are indeed connected, it is a logical progression to use artistic/creative practice to tell my life story: I use words and images within a personal aesthetic framework to make perceptible (to myself and others) the stories, ideas and concepts that until this point had not been expressed, making my internal ‘petrifi ed world speak, sing and dance.’46 Using the language

of art to express what is known, thought or felt means being continually reminded that this language is not transparent: it can communicate less than is desired; more than the artist intends; and, if suffi ciently ambiguous, can communicate completely diff erent ideas from those intended. Under these circumstances, viewers are invited to question their own premises, and art can become a process of inquiry. In qualitative enquiry, novel modes of expression such as fi ction, poetry and images may be used for expressing lived experience.47 Th ese forms of expression are used in my artist’s book to move towards expressing human meaning as I see it, and the unfolding of my life.

How does art become research? What is the ambiguous and uncertain space between art practice and art as research? Sylvia Wilson quotes Robyn Stewart, who suggests that art as research should contain ‘originality, being primarily investigative, and having the potential to produce results suffi ciently general so that the stock of human knowledge, theoretical and practical, is recognisably increased.’48 Wilson then argues that there are diffi culties with the setting of boundaries and that the interplay between art production, the creative process and the product are all ‘integral to the fi nal outcome.’ It is the uncertainty, paradox and ambiguity inherent in this kind of process that leads to a place of ‘generative possibilities.’49

Leslie Todres refers to the tension felt in attempting to retain the richness and texture of human experience when describing events that may be typical and general, and that therefore may lead to stereotypical descriptions. He fi nds that the insight, writing ability and aesthetic texture of phenomenological descriptions by ‘master’ writers such as J. P. Sartre are able to produce in

him greater understanding of everyday occurrences that might otherwise be ignored, but which nevertheless hold emotional signifi cance. Th ese master writers, according to

Todres, apparently accept Aristotle’s challenge to stay close to unique experience while adding a social and perhaps universal signifi cance through establishing what is typical of phenomena, and expressing it in an insightful and integrated manner. Todres also cites James

‘There are moments in our lives, there are moments in a day, when we seem to see beyond the usual – become clairvoyant. We reach then into reality. Such are the moments of our greatest happiness. Such are the moments of our greatest wisdom.It is in the nature of all people

to have these experiences; but in our time and under the conditions of our lives, it is only a rare few who are able to continue in the experience and fi nd expression for it.’Robert Henri The Art Spirit45

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50 Todres (1998).51 Saresma (2003).52 Bury (1995).53 Drucker (1995) p. 1.54 Lauf and Philpot (1998).

Hillman’s proposition that aesthetic awareness pervades the senses, the fluids of the body.50 This notion of the embodiment of aesthetic awareness is discussed further in the section ‘Person/a.’ Art can be connected with emotional

events either as expression, catharsis or healing. Tuija Saresma writes of the healing power of the arts in bereavement. Saresma applied poetics to an account of bereavement that echoed with a bereavement of her own, in an attempt to unite head and heart, creating a way of remembering while accepting the loss of the loved one.51 One theme in my book is the death of my mother when I was four and the effects that followed. In my case, several influences affected me: travelling to Calcutta to find my mother’s grave; writing and performing a ritual of release; writing about my journey; describing an intense dream with words and images, and writing the poem ‘Notes from an afterlife’. I also felt an urge to take singing lessons: apparently my mother was a singer. Perhaps I am learning to sing her unsung songs? At any rate, I no longer feel so weighed down or controlled by my loss, although it is still there.While I am unable to measure in any

way the effects that my artist’s book may have on a reader at this point, I have noted physical changes in myself both while writing/producing it and in a comparison with myself between the beginning and end of the process. At certain stages I found myself in tears

or elated for no apparent reason, and I had some intense dreams (some of which are portrayed in the artist’s book). When I returned to Australia from meeting my newly discovered English family, for some weeks my joints felt completely fluid and I found it difficult to remain upright. I felt as though I didn’t inhabit my clothes. My body was here in Australia, but ‘I’ was fragmented, parts remaining in Africa, India, England. It was about three months before I felt fully ‘together’ again. My feet have been size 6.5 since I was

13: last year I had to buy size 7.5, the

last pair of shoes I bought had to be size 8. According to tests I completed on Tickle.com, my IQ has increased by three points, as I have become three years older. I now have the same IQ as Bill Gates (how reliable is Tickle, I wonder?). My friends tell me that I have lost a sad look that I had. In all, I feel significantly more confident, settled and happier than when I began the process, even though I am still adfrift, in exile, without a homeland.

Artist’s booksI use the term ‘artist’s book’ (livre

d’artiste) to mean a book that is intended to be an artwork in itself, and over which an artist has had a high degree of control. In this thesis, the term does not mean a textual book authored by an artist.52

Johanna Drucker suggests that the artist’s book is ‘the quintessential 20th century artform … due to the flexibility and variation of the book form.’53 Artist’s books have a long history (since

the mid-1890s) through the works of William Blake, William Morris, Stephane Mallarmé, Pierre Bonnard, Guillame Apollinaire, Fillipo Marinetti, Max Ernst, Pablo Picasso and many others, but the Californian artist Edward Ruscha started a new trend in 1963 by making mass-produced books that were sold cheaply, and were small enough to fit in a pocket. This created a new paradigm for the interaction between artist and audience and was part of neo-dada, minimalist and conceptual movements. Part of the movement included the innovative use of catalogues for exhibitions, where an exhibition could appear principally as a catalogue (for example, Yves Klein), and where the artist’s work functioned equally well on the wall and on the page. The works of landscape artists such as Andy Goldsworthy and Richard Long are present in exhibitions only as books and photographs (in the forms of catalogues or artist’s books) because their works are essentially ephemeral and disintegrate back into the landscapes from which they originally arose.54

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According to Drucker, artist’s books are produced where several fields of endeavour intersect: in particular the integration of form and theme or aesthetic considerations. Such fields of endeavour can include conceptual art, painting and drawing, concrete poetry, electronic arts and the tradition of the illustrated book.55 The obvious definition of a book has lost its boundaries within the genre of artist’s books: artists have produced books that deliberately question the rules of conventional book production, such as the dimensions of type spacing, binding, images, margins and gutters. The book that was previously designed to be an invisible carrier of information through the utilisation of such conventions has been transformed into many hybrid objects, and the ‘invisible’ formatting features have been put to work in equal roles with the text to form meaning and to reflect content. In many artist’s books, spatial conventions have been abandoned in favour of wide ranging variations: concertina form, unreadable books with no text, interleaving of various kinds.56 Drucker excludes some of these works from her definition of an artist’s book: for her, the artist’s book must provide ‘a viewing experience sequenced into a finite space of text and/or images.’57 This definition covers the limits of a book: its physical boundaries, sequence and finitude.Sol LeWitt created an autobiographical

book Autobiography (1980) that contained photographs of the minutiae of his life in his Manhattan studio (floors, ceilings, bookshelves, bulletin board, etc.), similar to the components of anyone’s everyday life. He arranged the photographs in nine-by-nine grids, so it was, like his art works, based on the cube. There was no text at all. This book touched on three key aspects of modernism: the fragmentation of subjectivity, the introduction of a new form of narrative, and a political move from private to public critique.58

By also using my life story as a ‘readymade’ (cf. Marcel Duchamp), but,

unlike LeWitt, using both image and text, I have played with my own history as artistic material, subverting conventions and making creative interpretations of both personal and wider history. The form of the book, with its sequence of pages, somewhat emulates the passing of my life and gives it narrative movement; my use of image, text and papers make the pages explicate its affect. The balance between text and

image is crucial if a book is to be an integrated verbi-visual text. If a book is predominantly visual, the words can become flotsam on the jetsam of the images; if the balance between text and image is more equal, or if the images are superficial, the images can become merely illustrations of the text. In my book I have used the concept

of bricolage partly so that this balance between text and image can be addressed. Each ‘patch’ of the assembled bricolage has a different balance between text and image: some are purely text, some are visual poetry, some are text with illustrative photographs, some are purely image and some are images with text superimposed (not as a caption but as a conceptual device). Some pages have additions of thread. Also the ‘patches’ and sections are juxtaposed to create gaps for new meanings to appear. My book can be read from front to back as is common in Europe and America, but it could equally be read from back to front. The content appears linear to coincide with the timeline of my life (i.e., birth to present = front to back), but the book sections are not proportional to the length of time they represent. Also, sections of the book address events that happened before my birth, or when I was not present to experience them. The apparent linearity in time therefore enfolds the trajectories of other lives, and could be described as branched and spiral rather than linear. The material could be reassembled with

no regard for temporality, to make a different text. The pages have no numbers for this reason.

55 Drucker (1995) p. 2.56 Brollo (2005).57 Drucker (1995) p. 14.58 Lauf and Philpot (1998).

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Th e present structure is meant not only to convey meaning, to tell something of my personal story, but also to transmit something of wider human experience through its places of ambiguity.With desktop publishing, the potential

for the artist’s book is enormous even within the common sequential diptych format of a codex book. A complex narrative and aesthetic experience can be conveyed using this format as a vehicle for artist’s ideas, perceptions and critiques of society, and it can be easily reproduced. Traditional book form is open to parody,

irony and distortion in an artist’s book. Pages can become tactile objects in their own right through the use of fur, skin or lead.59 My pages are made from tissue paper, silk, calico, poplin, parchment, drafting paper, rice paper, brown kitchen paper, ink jet photographic paper and various other generic papers. I selected the papers, the skins, and

their colours to refl ect the qualities of the content that was printed onto them. For example, the title page of the Kenya section is printed onto paper made from elephant dung. In general, I used blue parchment for childhood memories and cream parchment for records of my adult experiences while working on the project. I used only one side of each page

because many of the papers were unsuitable for double-sided printing, and I wanted consistency. I chose to retain a conventional form (i.e., pages within covers) for my book because I wanted the form of the book to echo the way I see myself: outwardly conservative, but inwardly unconventional, a dark horse. Also, I wanted content to predominate over other distracting and conspicuous technical possibilities such as making the book skewed, writing around the edges or alternating portrait and landscape pages.All my pages are digitised and saved

as electronic versions. Images can be produced at will or I can produce limited edition prints, and if I wish, I can enlarge, reduce or combine them.

111 PermeationsPages/patches

Th e fi rst page, the title of my artist’s book, Tissue, and its articulation onto tissue paper in a script-type font, is designed to set the tone of the rest of the book. Tissue paper can be easily ruptured and scrumpled, discarded at the whim of the user. Th e word ‘tissue’ can also mean: a valuable and colourful fabric; matter composed from a number of smaller units (cf. bricolage); a fabrication; a wrapper for precious items; a complex composition made from a series of interrelated things; lies; something that will absorb bodily fl uids like tears; something fi ne, woven from delicate threads. Th e word ‘tissue’ implicitly foreshadows the qualities of the pages/patches that follow.I have written the author’s name as

Alice Castleman. I have always had diffi culties with my name: christened Alice, I was called Sally as nickname from the time I was very young. I have no offi cial birth certifi cate that names

59 Bury (1995).

Tissue: a cloth interwoven in gold or silver, or with fi gured colours; the substance of which organs are composed: organic body material in animals and plants made up of large numbers of cells that are similar in form and function and their related intercellular substances; a connected series; to form as a tissue; to interweave; to variegate; a tissue of lies; an intricate interrelated series of things; a thin fi nely woven fabric with a gauzy texture; a piece of soft absorbent paper that can be used as a handkerchief or a towel; tissue paper – a thin soft paper used for wrapping and protecting delicate items; tissue culture – the growth of tissue outside an organism in a nutrient medium, or the techniques involved in the process.

Plate 2: Ocularis imaginationis

After a drawing by Robert Fludd (first page of Ars memoriae, 1619) reproduced in Yates (1999) as Plate 17. Digitised print of a gouache painting.

22

60 Barthes (1977b) p. 142.61 Ibid.

me in black-and-white. All I have is an application for a birth certifi cate, and a certifi cate of christening. Willy-nilly, I was given my father’s surname of Berridge. Th en I had two other surnames from my

two marriages, returning to use Berridge offi cially when I became single again. Th is poly-naming causes me numerous problems with offi cial documents. My mother’s surname before marriage

was Castleman-Smith, a combination name from her grandparents. Her Castleman grandmother was allowed to marry a ‘lowly’ Smith only on condition their names became hyphenated after marriage. Until their marriage, Edwin Smith was allowed into Chettle House only through the back door, literally. Th e marriage was approved only after Anne Castleman went into a ‘decline.’ My mother was also married twice and had the surnames of Berry and Berridge, and seems to have been known as either Pat or Gwen, so she also had name diffi culties. Th e choice of Alice Castleman as my

author’s name returns my name to the maternal antecedents who have been missing from so much of my life. It also places me within my newly discovered maternal family, although none of them is called Castleman now. When I went to Chettle, I found that my maternal great-aunt’s name was Alice, as was my cousin’s daughter. Similarly one of those cousins is called Ted, like my brother. Names, while seeming arbitrary, often anchor family lines. I may offi cially change my name to Alice Castleman at the conclusion of this work, to anchor myself to my mother’s family more securely, and to become the genuine author of my book.Following the title page, each page (or

collection of pages within a story) is a patch made from the fabric of my life. Together, the patches make the patchwork quilt, the ‘rhapsodic quilt,’60 of my life’s story. Th ey are sewn together by the black and red binding of the book; by the red threads that surface here and there, holding words together; by the red words

that trickle through text and image. Th e texture and colour of each page varies according to the material that is printed on it, to enhance its aff ect. Each group of patches is separated from the next by tissue paper: a fragile patch that divides one time from another, one part of my life from another. In this way the interleaving tissues can represent intervals of time, even though there is no relation between the number of tissue pages and the length of time that has past. Some temporal sections are completed with transition pages of black time-related words and red arrows: these pages recur throughout the book where some kind of pause is needed before the start of a new section. Th ey can represent the passing and compression of time within the patches.

Pastiche

My autobiographical writing has borrowed from my memories and from the lives of those who have brushed up against me, from the writing and photographs of others. Of course it has, because I don’t live in a vacuum. My thesis is a bricolage of borrowed real and imaginary events, thoughts, memories, dreams, places and people, articulated and mediated through the fi lters of memory, image, language, and narrative. Bricolage shows both the fi ssures and sutures of my personal story. Barthes interprets pastiche as something

being a falsifi cation of itself,61 an interpretation that has relevance for the images I have produced, as I discuss in the Palinode section.

Pastiche: a piece of creative work that is a mixture of things borrowed from other works, that imitates or satirises other styles.

23

PlagiarismWriting autobiographical material

inevitably leans on the material of others: their lives, their documents, their writing. In my book I have used my own words, photographs, drawings, paintings and ideas. I have also borrowed from my family’s lives, for example, my father’s poem, my stepmother’s various diaries. In this exegesis I have also used my

own ideas and words while citing and quoting (or duplicating) the works, images and ideas of others. It is easier to avoid plagiarism in the exegesis: the academic rules are clear about quoting and citing the references used. For the family material, it is less clear. I cannot obtain my father’s or stepmother’s permission to use their words because they are both dead. I think my father wouldn’t have objected

to my use of his poem ‘Phantome.’ Probably, like most writers, he would have been pleased to see his work published anywhere, even in a PhD thesis.My main issue lies with my adaptation

of my stepmother’s diary of her voyage on the Georgic, where she met and became engaged to my father within ten days. I feel that I may have overstepped a personal boundary: I acquired the diary after her death when my brother and I sorted through her things, selecting items to keep. The diary wasn’t bequeathed to me, but I took it because I wanted to honour her by caring for it. It seemed a document of great importance to her and my father, to me, to my family and, in a way, to the larger history of post-war Britain. When I eventually read the diary, two

years after her death, I inwardly apologised to her for violating her privacy. I found a document that veered between the highly impersonal and mechanistic (descriptions of the voyage and passing scenery, stereotypical language with no emotional or sensory content) – an aspect of her that recalled her impersonal manner as a stepmother – and the highly personal, the writing of a woman who had unexpectedly fallen in love very quickly in the heady

months immediately after the war had ended. Yet the diary is also part of my family history: a part that my brother and I had known nothing of until that time, a meeting and alliance that affected both of us profoundly in ways that are not spelt out in my book.Twenty years have now passed since

Joyce’s death and it seemed somehow more acceptable to read and even rewrite her material. I have rewritten it in the third person and have omitted all the personal parts so they are not exposed to the public gaze. Yet, acknowledged as it is in the academic sense, I wonder if I am indulging in some kind of plagiarism. Do I have a right to even read it, let alone paraphrase it and use it in my own autobiographical material? I’m not sure. I think I wouldn’t publish it to a wider audience, yet I have considered turning aspects of it into a film script because it is such a great story set in a time now past. There is no easy answer: these kinds of difficulties are part of working on the boundaries.

Place/space/landscapeAccording to Gillian Rose, the

mainstream practices of mapping topographical, geographical and landscape features are steeped in a patriarchal discourse that separates the physical features of the land from the people who inhabit/ed those landscapes and the relevant power issues embedded within those lives. Geographical mapping carried out within a patriarchal discourse would therefore assume that landscapes were fixed in a knowable space, separate from the political, racial, and gendered histories within which they co-evolved.62 However, at the other extreme, perhaps in a feminist discourse, autobiographical mapping could prioritise subjective views of landscapes where the physical features may be ignored in favour of the recall of an externalised emotional topography. In reality, for a migrant, aspects of both mapping styles are important: both the physical and emotional topographies of a lost homeland are interwoven within

62 Rose (1993) p. 40.

24

memories, and may be altered or added to as time passes.Simon Schama, writing of landscape,

cites Rene Magritte’s words: ‘We see it being outside ourselves, even though it is only a mental representation of what we experience on the inside.’63 Through the artworks of many generations, humans have given the notion of landscape many poetic values (for example, the purity of wilderness; rustic life as moral correction for the sins of the city; the connection of certain herbs and flowers with religion; the generosity of the Creator; the myths of Arcadia and Pan).64

As Schama writes, landscape is a text upon which the generations write their obsessions. National and personal identities are closely linked to landscape as homeland: the ‘sceptr’d isle’ of Britain; Mount Rushmore as the citadel of American democracy; the Israeli and Palestinian conflict. For migrants, an idealised, imaginary homeland of the past may dominate their ideas of who they are in the present. Such an ideal may be shattered when they return to visit the realitiy in later years. Yet, for me, revisiting our farm in Kenya

in 2003 was a healing experience. I knew the farm would be different – after all, 50 years had passed – and I knew, too, that independence had changed land usage. I held no personal investment in how it might be. In this way, to find our old buildings and dam intact, to see the trees we had planted now fully grown and mature, to see that they were useful in providing fruit, shade, shelter, firewood and building materials, and most of all to feel a continuity of care for that patch of land, was a very positive experience. There was something very moving about drinking a cup of smoky tea – made from water boiled on a fire that was burning branches from a tree I had planted as a child. Less visible was a feeling of affirmation: I had previously wondered about my memories – whether they were accurate, whether they were postmemories.

63 Schama (1996) p. 12.64 Ibid.65 Hirsch (1997) p. 22.66 The idea of postmemory is revisited in the section Periautography.67 Brooke (1914/1970). My father loved Brooke’s poetry, complete with its echoes of war and imperialist perspective. To him, that was the way things should be.

Marianne Hirsch describes postmemory: ‘a very powerful and very particular form of memory precisely because its connection to its object or source is mediated not through recollection but through an imaginative investment and creation.’65, 66 In this mode, had I unknowingly taken in other peoples explications of the Kenyan experience and made them my own? It was a grounding experience to see those farm buildings almost as I remembered them (or as I remembered them from my photographs?). Later, on inspecting and comparing the ‘then and now’ photographs from Kenya, there was more confirmation of my memories, and therefore of myself.Landscape, too, is where migrants leave

their loved ones, and where memorials may remind past generations of those who have gone before. Landscape is where bodies are buried, to become part of that landscape as they disintegrate, and the plots of land that contain graves can contain particular emotional connections, especially if people move away or migrate.My experience in finding and visiting

first my mother’s grave in Calcutta, and then my father’s grave in Kitale, was also a life-affirming experience for me. I was not present at either funeral and so could not envisage where my parents were buried, and for unknown reasons this held importance in the way I saw myself. Now I can envisage my mother’s resting

place: a quiet green corner of noisy busy Calcutta, painted with purple bougainvillea, kites wheeling and keening overhead. And for cattle and sheep to graze around my father’s concrete slab seems particularly appropriate. Both these people were seduced by Britain’s imperialist activities, but I like to think that they in their own ways fell in love with the lands where they lived and would have been happy enough to leave their overtly British bones there. As Rupert Brooke wrote,

‘ … there’s some small corner of a foreign field That is for ever England.’67

25

68 Wolf-Meyer and Heckman (2002).

I have not yet been to see my stepmother Joyce’s grave, but I know where it is, and perhaps one day I will visit that small manicured cemetery in Sussex. But wild places, too, are substrates for

aspects of human connection with the land: wilderness holds a particular place in the mythology of landscape. Today, as wilderness shrinks, many people connect with nature through their suburban yards, city parks and lakes, and camping holidays. In general, our relationship with the

wilderness is becoming more virtual. For example, in tourist areas of the Blue Mountains of New South Wales, tourism providers use a large screen to show movies of the mountains, and many weary overseas tourists (seeing Australia in a week) are satisfied with this virtual visit: it obviates the need to walk, to look out for snakes, and it bypasses the extremes of weather where they might not see a particular landscape feature because of mist. The tourists are unloaded from a bus, herded into the movie and afterwards taken to a restaurant (separate from the locals) with a plate glass window through which they can see the valleys and mountains. Their feet barely touch Australian soil. Their noses barely smell the eucalyptus leaves. Their view of Australia is highly mediated, but is compatible with a world where more and more experiences are becoming mediated and virtual. I regard myself as fortunate to have

grown up in India and Africa, in a time when this kind of mediation had not yet developed. Although our farm wasn’t strictly speaking wilderness, it was ‘virgin’ bush, and we lived in tents and huts for a year or so. There were no telephones, no electricity, no running water. The everyday, though mediated by the attention of servants in both countries, was relatively harsh. We had to look out for snakes, protect the dogs from leopards, sleep under the stars, pile into a tent with our bedding when it rained at night.

Living on the Kenya farm also brought the needs of animals close to me, and this continued when I worked on farms in England: I learnt to put their needs before my own, to read the weather, to adapt myself as necessary. I think these learning experiences within the realities of those physical landscapes gave me a deep connection to those lands, and now it is to wild lands that I can turn for solace. The forms of landscapes where we spend

our childhood exercise our young eyes and imprint themselves upon our memories. Even now I look at the Brindabella Ranges and overlay them with the Cherangani Hills. The patterns of trees and hills become part of us, and when we return to the places where we spent our youth, the landscape triggers memories of that time. It is as if the landscape holds our memories for us.For Matthew Wolf-Meyer and Davin

Heckman, the ‘past’ that lives within one’s memory is an invisible, embodied construction of continuity in which landmark events become incorporated into a personal map-making, a process of making a map of the self: auto/biographical geography. They suggest ‘we invest our selves in our memory metyonymically’ through discourse with memory markers from familiar or ‘landmark’ landscapes and objects. Place, they suggest, ‘is the geographical place of agency, the landscapes through which subjectivities travel.’68 It is the markers, the landmarks of our lives written in landscapes, faces, objects that become inextricably twined with our memories and assist us to know who we are and where we are positioned in our life stream. These markers may have a physical presence now, in the present, or may merely be memories.In Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Annie

Dillard entwines her life with the natural world, the seasons, the plants and animals, watching events as they unfold before her. She observes closely, writing herself into the biosphere where

26

The remembered house is a mental holder of her family history and memories, and as she time-travels through it, the history of the various owners and their family connections, even the history of the plants in the garden, are revealed.Subhash Jaireth, Indian by birth and

Australian by passport (as he writes), uses a map for the basis of his boyhood memories of Delhie [sic]. This map leads to other maps, to gaps and additions to the memories and topography of his childhood, to the memories and historical records of others. The map of Delhi is inscribed with the history of the mughals, the British and the East India Company, the mutiny, Indian independence. Jaireth’s is a chrono-topography where time, faces, images and stories have been superimposed on buildings and streets of his childhood: the city is a memory-holder of his youth as well as all the other histories it holds.72

I travelled from India to England to Kenya to England to Australia. I had no home until I was twelve. And so, although I have a house where I live comfortably enough, I don’t feel as though I have a home, a single homeland, perhaps because of a residue from living in all those army cantonments, those boarding schools. I have too many landscapes and maps in

my head. They are spread too wide and thin, and have no single deep focus. When in Australia I yearn for England; when in England I yearn for India, when in India I yearn for Africa; so my habit goes. Being a displaced person, as I see myself now – that is, separated from my land, my place, even though I am not sure which land or which place – means I exist in a seemingly permanent exile. This place of exile is a place of paradox for me. I am a privileged migrant: I have been able to utilise many opportunities for education and the wealth of choices that it brings. I have had steady and well-paid jobs. I live comfortably. I am extremely fortunate. Yet a voice whispers that I am in exile. It will

69 Dillard (1978).70 Heddon (2002).71 Lively (2001).72 Jaireth (2002).

she lives, contemplating notions of evolution, intricacy and fecundity, fitting what she sees and experiences into her background knowledge as a biologist, simultaneously interweaving a new web of personhood from strands of herself and her observations. Within this solitary life, she has a momentary, poetic, visionary experience (the tree with lights) that transforms her connection with life. Her memories of Tinker Creek are embodied within her in that luminous moment.69 Deidre Heddon calls this interweaving of

autobiography and place ‘autotopography’: the location of a particular person in actual space. She documents her own relocation from Glasgow to Exeter with current photographs and old postcards and with changes of voice to illustrate her perceived change of self as she changes the location she calls home and relates herself to the new location. In her interpretation, gender, sexuality and place are intertwined though her readings of local graffiti: text is imposed on the landscape in a series of palimpsests (they are painted out and then re-written) to assert the heterosexuality of the writing subjects, to write themselves acceptable public identities.70

It is not necessary to revisit a place to bring memories to the present. Penelope Lively’s book A House Unlocked 71

demonstrates the invisible trail of memory with which we can endow places. She journeys into her childhood through remembering the features of a family house, Golsoncott in Somerset, where she spent her school holidays. She writes of the mansion of her mind, within which she can walk down the hall, out into the garden in the bright sunshine and stroll beneath the blue wisteria that pours from the verandah. She mentions items within the house: a Turkish rug, the dinner gong, a missing key, a grand piano. Each has a story. Each reveals family history. Within her mind, within the imagined landscape of the house and its furnishings, her childhood is recreated, although the house was demolished many years ago.

27

73 Heidegger (1996) pp. 37-87.74 Erfani (2002).75 Bachelard (1969) p. 36.76 Wolf-Meyer and Heckman (2002).77 Regard (2002).

not be silenced, and indeed has grown ever more insistent during the creation of this autobiographical work.Farhang Erfani describes those who are

in exile as displaced from their place, and therefore from aspects of their identity. Uncertainty, displacement and fragmented identities result from loss of place: place, more than merely land, provides a common ground of shared visions, common ethnicity, religion and language. For most exiles, there is no homecoming. Erfani ties this notion in with Heidegger’s notion of Being, and of ‘Being-from-Elsewhere’. Heidegger places humans in time and space, they are Beings-in-the-world, making the world meaningful for themselves through an active relationship grounded in commonality, in practical acts.73 Such everydayness, and the presence of other humans with whom we are intertwined, is our ground. To be elsewhere is to be separated from our ground: it is to live in a different state, to be in exile.74 Is it still exile when there has been no one personal place, one homeland, to be displaced from? It feels like exile, but I suspect it may be different. Can there be multiple exiles?Exile can be as much a mental as a

physical state; it can come about through voluntary or involuntary means. It is a state of mind. In my case, my feelings of exile continually surface through mental comparisons between Where-I-am (both physically and culturally) and Elsewhere, giving Where-I-am a lesser status in my mental inventory of where I would rather be. It has little to do with the comfortable realities of my everyday life, it is a vague, uncomfortable habit of a mind continually yearning for Utopia, an Elsewhere that does not exist, can never be found. Gaston Bachelard suggests that humans,

in their consistent re-imagination of reality, make a house, a home into an illusion of stability: the walls protect us, the home becomes a repository of family ways of being, of memories, a place where one can dream in peace. He cites Rainer

Maria Rilke’s experience of seeing a distant lamp at night, shining from the top of a solitary hut. This powerful symbol of solitude implied to Rilke the intimacy of a hut as a refuge.75

Perhaps I will build myself a hut, a home: I will make walls from straw bales rendered with clay. It will have an earthen roof sprouting nasturtiums. (I will water the roof.) A small pond in front of it will trickle with goldfish and waterlilies. Its walls will be drowned in roses and gardenias. A soft lantern on top will guide me home on a dark night: the light will shimmer and glow in the pond’s ripples. It will help me ‘navigate the starless night.’76 A weathervane will gently show me my ‘true north.’ On the other hand, I could sell my

house, pack my essential belongings (those few objects I just can’t do without) into two heavy brown leather suitcases and set off to live here and there, wherever appeals, as a nomad. Some people do.But, in a state of exile, what is the

placement of the autobiographer? If autobiography is a spatial practice as Frederic Regard suggests,77 what is the space from which I make my autobiographical material? One of the grounds of my identity is the fact that I have lived in four countries: but when people ask me where I come from, I don’t know what to reply.In England, at Chettle (the nearest to

a homeland I have discovered so far), I described myself as English, but living in Australia. I felt disloyal to Australia as I said this, since I have dual nationality and have spent two-thirds of my life here. Yet all my childhood was spent in a

bubble of ‘English-ness’, despite the day-to-day facts of living in India and Africa. For example, on the farm with no one else nearer than five miles, every year we would listen to the Queen’s Christmas speech on the battery-powered radio. We all stood to attention to drink her a toast, ‘The Queen, God Bless Her’. People tend to

28

78 Regard (2002).79 Barthes (1977a) pp. 142-154.80 Barthes (1977b) p. 1.81 Barthes (1977a) p. 145.82 Ibid. p. 142.83 Ibid. p. 143.84 Ibid. p. 145, 146.85 Bovey (2002) p. 8.

romanticise if I tell them I was born in the foothills of the Himalayas (incidentally, my birthplace was destroyed by the recent Pakistan earthquake: an odd feeling). Regard’s idea is that not only are we

grounded in language, but we are also grounded in ‘the world.’ The world is a shifting, changing organism, not so much in its geography, but in its cultures and systems and its chrono-temporal articulations.78 So, as an autobiographer, based on my triple languages (English, Hindi and Swahili) and geographic history alone, I have no option but to use multiple voices, because of the multiple grounds of my being. These voices are present in my artist’s book as the voices with which I write and by the various languages I use: text, image, image and text, text/image, image/text. As Barthes writes in his important

essay, ‘The Death of the Author,’79 when a fact is narrated into text, it becomes disconnected from the author. It takes on a life of its own. ‘It must all be considered as if spoken by a character in a novel.’80 So, according to Barthes, when I use text alone, I am just ‘the instance writing.’81 Barthes suggests that ‘writing is that neutral, composite, oblique space where our subject slips away, the negative where all our identity is lost, starting with the very identity of the body writing.’82 While in a sense this neutrality holds for the process of autobiographical writing, I cannot see that my identity has been lost. In fact, I consider it has been altered, and affirmed through both the process of articulating my story, and discovering more of my family history. Barthes also writes ‘it is the language that speaks, not the author.’83 This textual essentialism allows the author no agency, and in my case, though I cannot control completely how readers will interpret my work, I consider that I have had agency in creating a unique story, and, to some extent, suggesting how my patches may be read. While there will be as many interpretations as there are readers, I

consider that there will be some common ground in those interpretations. Could anyone else have written just what I have? I don’t know, but I suspect not. I think I am present in the text.Yet, as Barthes writes about Proust, I,

too, have to some extent become blurred with my characters and my writing has become a story, a model for my life. I have been changed in the process of writing. The text operates at a different temporal level from my life, it operates here and now: yet even as I write about the past I am born simultaneously with the text in the present.84 Images, too, have their own rhetoric; they are analogical representations and parts of coded messages. They can never be more than partial. Yet they are tied in to language and linguistic signs. When text and image are combined and text is used for the caption of an image, its function then becomes that of interpretation. When text and image are combined in a synergistic way (image/text; text/image) the end result can become a metaphorical opening. The multiple languages with which

I write, then, are those of codes, of metaphors and metonyms, of interpretation: and they write me as I write them. Perhaps in this way the importance of my past fades as I write it into being in the present.

Person/aBoth Roland Barthes and Antonio

Damasio address the body/mind question and reject Descartes’ separation of body and mind, as I describe below. I, too, cannot separate one from the other: the mind is nothing without its body; the body cannot function as a human without its mind.In my painting ‘Body/mind’ I adapted

an image of a medieval grotesque, a blemmyae, a man with his head in his chest,85 to make it female. The original illustration is from an Old English and Latin manuscript, The Wonders of the East, made in England about 1025-1050. The Wonders of the East was an Anglo-Saxon

Plate 3: Body/mind

Anatomie: scanned copy of Roland Barthes’ drawing. Barthes (1977b) p.181. Digitised print. Female blemmyae after illustration in Bovey (2002) p. 8. Digitised print of a gouache painting.

32

86 Barthes (1977b) pp.180-181.87 Ibid, p. 129-130.88 Ibid, p. 60.89 Ibid. p. 90.90 Ibid. p. 161.91 Ibid. p. 80.92 Ibid. p. 175.93 Ibid. First page (no number).94 Smith and Watson (2001) p. 38.95 Damasio (1995).

text based on the writings of Ctesias, Pliny and Solinus that sought to depict in images the monstrous races they described in words. Th e image appealed to me because it placed the brain, the thinking apparatus, within the body, making the human organism whole, not separated at the neck. My painting is

overlaid with a semi-transparent copy of the drawing Roland Barthes put near the end of Roland Barthes. He calls it Anatomie: it looks like body-as-blood vessels, and as I interpret it, is a comment on identity and images of the body being separate from the body.86 It is as though he tries to draw the body without it being there. Th e head appears not to be separate and there is no neck. For Barthes, the word ‘body’ is ‘word-

as-mana,’ it has ‘sacred signifi cation.’87 He suggests we have several bodies.88 It is the body that traces pleasure and desire.89 More than just an image-repertoire, the body is a place where something happens to language.90 Th e body ‘resists its own conceptualisation,’91 and it is the ‘irreducible diff erence.’92 Imagery is the medium through which he fi nds a relationship with his body: ‘an obtuse dream whose units are teeth, hair, a nose, skinniness … .’93 From these various ways of seeing the body, Barthes appears not to make the body/mind distinction.Yet the body is also a site of auto-

biographical knowledge: each scar has a life story attached to it; memories are embedded in the neurones; limbs or some kind of physical movement are needed to write a story. Embodiment is also culturally specifi c in the areas of ethnicity, language, gender, class, sexuality and location. Th is cultural specifi city will tend to control what may or may not be acceptable topics for mainstream

autobiographies. In the last century, for example, sexual confessions for women or homosexual men were taboo, but currently they are common.

Sidonie Smith and Julia Wilson suggest that we have three interwoven bodies: the neurochemical body, the anatomical body and the sociopolitical body, skin colour in particular being a physical characteristic that emerges as important in the

political arena.94 Skin is where inner and outer meet, and also is the place where similarities and diff erences aff ect identity. In my book I use ‘skins’ (papers) of diff erent kinds to print on, to give physical presence to nuances of aff ect, to give the images handleability, to connect physically with the reader.Antonio Damasio, a neuroscientist,

addresses the body/mind question in his book Descartes’ Error.95 He looks at Descartes’ Passions of the Soul, which postulates that it is thought, reason and will that make us human, allowing us to control our baser or animal instincts, and, he critiques Descartes’ famous/infamous ‘Cogito ergo sum’ from the Discourse on the Method that proposes the supremacy of thinking (and thinking about thinking) in the makeup of humans. Damasio proposes an opposite view. From his studies and observations in the clinical fi eld, he cannot separate mind, even at its most subtle, from the operations of the biological whole. He sees mind as physical, part of biological tissue, expressing itself in a complex and unique state. He describes the neural states that

are called ‘life,’ out of which, in some mysterious way, mind and emotions – selves – emerge from cells and fl uids. In his schema, an organism responds to an object or its representation and becomes changed in the process because it can hold

‘To write the body,neither the skin, nor the muscles,

nor the bone,nor the nerves, but the rest: an

awkward, fi brous,shaggy, ravelled thing, a clown’s

coat.’ Barthes86

33

96 Damasio (1995) p. 243.97 Ibid. p. 49.98 Damasio (2000).99 Ibid. p. 196.100 Ibid.101 Harré (2001).102 Barthes (1977b) p. 79.103 Dennett (1992) p. 3.

both representations simultaneously in the working memory of the brain. Then, when the brain produces a third

kind of image that shows the organism’s response to itself, subjectivity arises.96 Damasio demonstrates through several case studies that, in certain kinds of brain damage, intellect may be relatively unimpaired, but those decision-making functions and features we describe as ‘self,’ ‘identity’ or ‘personhood’ can have disappeared completely.97

What is the self? What is the identity that writes an autobiography? I think it is important to define these two terms (self and identity) that are often used interchangeably. Damasio believes that memory, identity and narrative rule human consciousness. In his book The Feeling of What Happens,98 he has developed elegant metaphors combining elements of neuroscience, psychology, physics and philosophy to suggest how immaterial human consciousness arises from the material matter of the brain. Damasio’s definitions make sense to me. For him, the self arises from a ceaseless number of protoselves that constantly emerge from the cortical cells of the brain. From the protoselves core consciousness and extended consciousness arise, to form the core self and the autobiographical selves. These in turn, in ceaseless iterations, become the ‘self.’ From this ‘self ’ comes our sense of identity, the mind and intellect, and the sense of qualia (how it feels to be). Identity depends upon a complex repertoire of patterned responses that grows as we grow, and is socially and culturally determined, while it also depends upon the biological and other qualities of the core and autobiographical selves. Imagination, he believes, emerges form the numerous protoselves that are formed in every moment. A simplified schema of Damasio’s ideas is shown in Figure 1. To summarise these complex ideas,

Damasio has the self and identity emerging from the physical cells of the

body, and so refutes Descartes’ ‘Cogito ergo sum.’ He sees mind, emotion, self, every aspect of what it means to be human, inextricably woven together within the body. All is embodied. He suggests that humans have an extended consciousness, inextricably associated with the body and with emotion, that creates an autobiographical self whose existence ‘hinges on the consistent reactivation and display of selected sets of autobiographical memories.’99 Damasio believes that the brain

reconstructs the sense of self moment by moment. Qualia, a sense of how it feels to be, arises out of meaningful memories, objects and landscapes that fortify identity in each living moment.Damasio’s explication of the formation

of consciousness, and from it self, identity and imagination, makes room for both biological and cultural notions.100 It also shows where the narrative construction of self and autobiography can emerge. His proposal is a useful, inclusive way of looking at the complex scenario of self and identity that can embrace polarised theories of identity such as psychological essentialism (for example, the theories of Rom Harré101), and textual essentialism (Barthes’ idea of the autobiographical subject as ‘merely an effect of language’102).The idea of a changeable, culturally

defined identity (or identities) emerging from a complex and subtly ever-changing self addresses notions of subjectivity and heteroglossia within a narrative frame. Daniel Dennett103 argues that the self is a centre of narrative gravity, in the same way that a physical object has a centre of gravity, and that this centre has both spatio-temporal and historical qualities. For example, when a writer creates a fictional world, there are echoes of it in the outside world (the ‘real’ world) that somehow preserve the ‘truth’ of the fictional world. Dennett calls these ‘truth-preserving interpretations.’ He goes further, to suggest that ‘we are all virtuoso novelists, who find ourselves

Figure 1. Consciousness and biology: the making of self and other (after Damasio 2000)

Note: see separate file.

35

104 Dennett (1992) p. 7.105 Ricoeur (1995).106 Bruner (2002).107 Neisser and Fivush (1994a).108 Payne (2003) p. 23.

engaged in all sorts of behaviour … We try to make all of our material cohere into a single good story. And that story is our autobiography.’104

Yet narrative in human life and identity is more than just a self-serving semi-literary device to subjectivise reality. Paul Ricoeur connects identity and narrative (his ‘identity’ appears to be Damasio’s ‘self ’). He moves narrative and plot from their place in literature to a study of ‘self-identity.’ In his proposition of discordant concordance, sometimes discordance and sometimes concordance can rule in identity. This idea fits with Damasio’s self that can look at its own thoughts, and compare past ideas with present ideas to come up with a synthesis. Ricoeur brings in the narrative plot: he

suggests that identity becomes part of the plot of a narrative (‘emplotment’), and there is an emplotment of both actions and character. Yet there is a misfit between writing a life-story and life itself. Autobiography does not fit life. Narrative plots have some kind of beginning, middle and ending, but as Ricoeur writes, ‘life is open-ended.’105 In my beginnings, my conception and

birth were the decision of my parents; they were nothing to do with who I am now. I have no idea of the circumstances of my conception: was I a mistake? Indeed, was the man I call my father indeed my biological father? I have my doubts. We are all part of the narrative of our parents, and they, in turn, of their own parents. This is why I included my family trees and short biographies of my parents and grandparents. The middle of a life: what is it? When

is it? We don’t know the end when we are writing, so the middle cannot be calculated. It is impossible to construct an autobiography that fits the time line of a life: I am very conscious that my own, like Barthes’ in his autobiography, focuses almost exclusively on the first twenty or thirty years of my life.

There is too much material to fit into one book: our life narratives are open to be constructed several times. This is the position I have taken with the artist’s book. Also, I tried to avoid an overt narrative and Ricoeur’s kind of emplotment. Although my time line is more or less from my beginnings to the present, there is no clear opening of my life because I can’t remember it.An ending is also problematical. An

autobiography must end, while life continues. In my book there is an ending: it closes with Soen’s haiku, ‘In the midst of winter / I find in myself at last / invincible summer.’ But this refers to the effect on me of producing the book, of having found some kind of a place for myself in a family, a feeling of completion and an odd elation, rather than equating the end of the book with the end of my life narrative. My ending describes how I see myself at present, compared with how I felt about myself at the beginning of the project. It is comparative, and therefore is not a true ending.Narrative psychologists Jerome Bruner,

Ulric Neisser and Robyn Fivush believe we need to tell ourselves stories to know who we are. Narrative underpins the ‘self ’: our stories define our selves, connected as they are to our memories of the past and our future hopes and fears. In psychoanalysis, studies of Freud’s id, ego and superego are now augmented by enquiry into the human need to construct an incessant personal narrative. Bruner and Neisser agree with Damasio to the extent of believing that it is through narrative that we constantly construct and reconstruct ourselves in response to our external environment.106, 107 Narrative psychologists believe that

narrative-as-therapy can be used to assist people re-frame their lives. Michael White and David Epston have developed this field, basing their work in the notion of narrative as a postmodern concept that challenges previous notions of modernist ‘dominant truths.’108 White explains, ‘we live by the stories we have about our lives,

36

109 White (1995) pp. 13-14.110 Payne (2003) p. 41.111 Freedman and Combs (1996) pp. 22-23.112 Bruner (2002).113 Damasio (2000).114 Neisser (1994) p. 1.115 Barclay (1994) p. 57.116 Bruner (1990) cited by McAdams (1996) p. 29.117 Bruner (2002).118 Meares (2001).

… these stories actually shape our lives, constitute our lives … they “embrace” our lives.’109 The underlying drive of narrative therapy is to re-examine self-stories in a therapeutic setting, and to recover personal stories that may have been filtered, distorted, interpreted and embodied in terms of unrecognised social and cultural influences. The discovery and telling of recovered personal knowledge can enlarge personal ‘sense of the possibilities of life, facilitate the overcoming of problems’ and allow the redefinition of identities.110

Narrative therapy has been called the social construction of preferred realities. It attempts to sidestep objective diagnoses of mental health based on the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders of the American Psychiatric Association, and instead takes on the basic tenets of postmodernism concerning the construction of realities, their constitution through language and maintenance by narrative, and the position that there are no absolute truths.111 This field of work relies heavily on the assumption that self and personal narratives are inextricably reliant on one another, and therefore form an interdependent system. This idea is supported by the fact that

selfhood (subjectivity) virtually disappears when dysnarrativia (severely impaired ability in telling or understanding stories) is present in neurological diseases such as Alzheimer’s disease or Korsakov’s syndrome.112, 113 However, Neisser and Fivush find it important to clarify the role of narrative in identity. They see narrative as ‘a basis of identity, not the basis of identity … self-knowledge depends upon perception, conceptualisation, and private experience as well as narrative.’ They connect the remembering self to the narrative self, and query the believability of self-narrative because of the influence of the social and individual influences on the processes of remembering and forgetting.114 Presumably the textual and visual considerations of autobiography fit into their category of conceptualisation, although they are not mentioned speficically.

Craig Barclay develops Neisser’s ideas further by suggesting that narrative selves are formed in at least four ways: by ‘affective-practical activity [an activity with a feeling component], instantiation of cultural models, the use of metaphor and the use of canonical narrative forms.’ He believes that remembered selves are constructed within strands of ‘narrative truth’. They are affected by personal motives, intentions, beliefs and attitudes: they may be improvised within referents such as metaphors, conversations, feelings and images of particular events.115

Jerome Bruner divides human understanding and creation of self into two modes. The ‘paradigmatic mode’ seeks experience in logical proof, reasoned analyses and empirical observation. The ‘narrative mode’ is more human-centred, focussing on intentions, wants and needs.116 Bruner believes that a balance between these two modes, between pragmatism and imagination, is essential to a healthy self-narrative and therefore identity,117 and in narrative psychology uses the telling and re-telling of personal narrative as a healing tool. This idea echoes psychologist Russell

Meares’ conversational model of identity where a Jamesian dualistic self holds incessant internal conversations between two streams of thought: one rational and pragmatic, and the other non-linear and diffuse (the whole process is not unlike some forms of ficto-criticism). In this school of psychology, the subtleties of conversation may be utilised to effect healing through intervention with a guided narrative that intrudes upon the incessant, internal, habitual conversational construction of self.118

The articulation of memory in rewriting a life may work in a similar way, as a conversation between the pragmatic and imaginative selves, and become an intervention that changes perceptions of self-identity in the autobiographer.These theories of the self and of identity

have in common the notion of a fragile self entwined with and determined by

37

119 Eakin (1999) p. 100.120 Bakhtin (1984) p. 6.121 Bakhtin (1981) p. 264.122 Smith and Watson (2001).123 Ibid.124 Damasio (2000) p. 145.125 Hospital (2002).

narrative. Th eories of identity formation, therefore, overlap with autobiographical theory, and the eff ects of such writing on the autobiographer. In the creation of my autobiographical work, I have certainly been operating within processes of remembering and forgetting, perception, conceptualisation, metaphor, narrative and aff ective-practical activity. I have tried to avoid overt ‘narrative

truth’ by using bricolage. Nevertheless, each patch inevitably has a narrative thread running through it, particularly the Kenya stories and the ‘Moonrakers, Creepers and Centipedes’ narrative poem about my smuggler ancestor. Th e ‘Homeless Bones’ poem also has a strong narrative thread. Narrative is diffi cult to avoid, try though

one will: even Barthes left some narrative streams in his autobiography. John Paul Eakin sees autobiography as a

process of ‘narratively constituted identity’ that fi ts easily within theories of narrative psychology, where such an identity is incessantly recreated in a narrative stream depending upon recalled memories, textual considerations and relatedness to the culture around us. He writes, ‘… narrative is not merely an appropriate form for the expression of identity; it is an identity content.’119

Th is fl exibility of the subject recalls Mikhail Bakhtin’s comment that a person is ‘a plurality of independent and unmerged voices and consciousnesses, a genuine polyphony of fully valid voices … with equal rights and each with its own world.’120 He also writes that internal stratifi cation of language and social heteroglossia that contains many individual voices is a prerequisite for ‘authentic novelistic prose.’121

According to Smith and Watson, some autobiographers represent themselves

to their readers through the creation of single, limited identities or alter egos, or they can present several models of identity to show the development of the writer.122

In my artist’s book I wanted to avoid a single voice, a single narrative: bricolage by its nature assists in presenting multiple and disconnected voices. For example, in the beginning of the book, in the India section that represents my youngest years, I have represented diff erent voices through using nursery rhymes in Hindi or Urdu (my earliest languages) superimposed on images of the fabrics of my childhood. My account of travelling to England as a seven-year-old on the Monarch of Bermuda is in the third person to represent myself looking back at that time, to write myself into the feelings of that young girl. Smith and Watson also see identities as

intersectional – by this they mean that there can be no separation between the

positions from which we write, no universal ‘man’ or ‘woman.’ Th ey cite Michael Ondaatje’s description of his own multiple identities and positions as a ‘frozen opera.’123 According to their schema, I could describe my multiply positioned identity as a britishwomanafricanaustralianetcetc. I fi nd

this idea quite inadequate: perhaps I could follow Ondaatje’s lead and call myself a multifaceted gemstone, refl ecting and refracting diff erent coloured beams as light is shone from diff ering directions. I know diff erent facets of my self appear socially as well as in my writing. In Damasio’s words, I am ‘a bodily edifi ce

always on the brink of partial collapse’124 – a conglomeration of neural circuits, cultural inputs and narrative fi ction. As I wrangle my ideas, feelings and memories into words and pictures, my ‘true’ story alters through my choices of what to

‘Who we are is less a fi xed entity than a convocation of selves in constant fl ux, selves which are changed by migration, … who we are becomes someone else: a hybridised being with double or multiple vision. Every thought has an echo, an undercurrent, a countertone.’ Janette Turner Hospital125

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126 Stein (1937)127 Radstone (2005) p. 134.128 Ibid. pp. 134-135.129 Williams (1976).

include, the inadequacies of language, the power of narrative and the slipperiness of memory, time and space. Th ese in turn aff ect my body and brain within the incessant feedback loop of my identity construction.

Pentimento, palindrome

When I began this project, I thought pentimento and palindrome would be suitable metaphors for the operation of memory. But memory is complex, and pentimento’s Freudian and archaeological overtones of scraping off layers of time to reveal the past do not echo current memory theories such as those of Damasio and other neuroscientists. Th e metaphor

of a palindrome doesn’t apply to memory, either. We don’t just retrace our lives back and forth, back and forth through our memories to a point in time, an event, a place or a person and then track back to the present along the same path. Memories fl oat and shimmer like mirages, changing shape as they are recalled and articulated, but past events can never be caught. Always just out of reach, they are fragile butterfl ies oddly shattered yet re-formed in the catcher’s net as memories. Current theories of memory (such

as Damasio’s) hold that we constantly re-create our past (and therefore our present, and therefore the subtleties of our identities) in every moment. Memory is diff erent from its articulation

in memoirs and testimonies. Memory is not the same as the past. It is impossible to revisit the past through memory. As memories are recalled, they are mediated by the present. Even within the mind, but particularly in articulating memories, the process of mediation aff ects and alters our memories.127

Raymond Williams describes the process of mediation as ‘an active process in which the form of the mediation … alters the things mediated.’129 Mediation is not neutral. It is a process that is necessary between diff erent forms of activity and consciousness. When the past is mediated by articulation, the form of the articulation and subsequent discourse draw attention to the diff erences between memory and ‘the past.’

‘And identity is funny being yourself is funny as you are never yourself to yourself except as you remember yourself and then of course you do not believe yourself. That is the trouble with an autobiography you do not of course you do not believe yourself why should you, you know so very well that it is not yourself, it could not be yourself because you cannot remember right and if you do remember right it does not sound right and of course it does not sound right because it is not right. You are of course never yourself.’ Gertrude Stein126

Palindrome: a word, phrase or passage that reads the same backwards as forwards; a segment of DNA in which the nucleotide sequence in one strand reads the same from one end as the complementary strand read from the opposite end.

Pentimento: removal of the top layer of paint to reveal a painting that has been painted over.

‘The terms mediation and articulation militate against any analysis of memory as refl ective or determined by the past, and against any notion that a text – a memoir, for instance – constitutes an unproblematic refl ection of memory … texts and practices are completely related to the broader social formations within which their meanings are forged.’ Susannah Radstone 128

Plate 4: The magical power of the eye/I

Inspired by Chris Marker (1983). Digitised print of a gouache painting.

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130 Radstone (2005) p. 135.131 Egan (1999) p. 1.132 Ibid. p. 2.

Further, Susannah Radstone suggests that the notion of memory as an inner representation of the past is too simplistic, because memory itself is always mediated. ‘[The] apparently natural and

uncontrollable ebbings and flowings of personal memory are complex constructions in which present experience melds with images that are associated with past experience, as well as with … the fantasies that shape our inner worlds,’ Radstone writes.130 Because memories are essentially reconstructive, they can be expanded or generalised in the moment of recall.We experience most of our memories

silently. Sometimes, through conversation, they may be articulated in speech, but it is through the process of articulating a memory into a memoir, a poem, a film, a drawing that the process of mediation becomes more open to examination. And it should be understood that none of the forms in which memory is articulated comprise ‘memory’ itself. There is a distinction. Texts articulated from memories are texts, while memory is memory, existing only in the imagination. For these reasons, pentimento and palindrome are inappropriate metaphors or terms for the description or articulation of memory.

PeriautographyThe dictionary definition of

autobiography, ‘an account of somebody’s life, written by that person,’ is too simplistic, because in writing about one’s life it is impossible to omit even at the most faint level, the biographies of others. While ‘autobiography’ admits the pre-eminence of the writer’s life, it is nevertheless an inadequate term. Also, covertly, texts other than writing appear to be omitted from this dictionary definition. Susanna Egan suggests that autobiography is inescapably mixed with biography: this I found to be the case in my book, because my story is wound with the stories of my previous generations. Because of this, and because of the gaps there were in family

history, I wanted to investigate and place aspects of myself in terms of my ancestors. Egan also makes the point that because

the author, narrator and protagonist are one and the same person, a double act of imagination occurs in the writing of autobiographical material: the internal is affected by the external manifestation of telling one’s story – imagining oneself, and at the same time attempting to convince a reader of a veracity that is known only to the writer. It is simultaneously looking through the personal internal eye at memories and through an imagined external eye of a reader, imagining how the expression of that memory will look. This is what she calls the paradox of alterity.131 Egan cites Stephen Spender to support

this idea of alterity: ‘An autobiographer is really writing the story of two lives: his life as it appears to himself, from his own position, when he looks out at the world from behind his eye-sockets; and his life as it appears from the outside in the minds of others; a view which tends to become in part his own view of himself also, since he is influenced by the opinion of those others.’132 Even though I support Spender’s idea of

alterity, my own experience has not felt dual in this way, and if it had, how could I imagine the reactions of others to my work? I agree with the idea of the writer being concerned with the views of others, but in the end all that can be done is to frame the life story in the ways in which we would like to be viewed, and this is guesswork. My imperative was to present my

material in ways that felt authentic to me and conformed to my personal aesthetic. On the few occasions I have shown parts of my artist’s book to others, their conception of what I have been trying to do has been so far from my own that I have thought we were talking about different texts. In no way could I have imagined such reactions: I think as a writer and artist I must give complete autonomy to the reader of my texts; my

42

133 Egan (1999) p. 3.134 Kuhn (2000) p. 170.135 Ibid. p. 172, 173.136 Ibid. p. 174.137 Ibid. p. 175.138 Ibid. p. 177.139 Hirsch (1997).

control is imaginary. However, I admit to a certain duality in the articulation of my memories: there is the part of me that remembers, then another part that grasps a memory and contemplates the artistic potential in the articulation of that memory. Is it best as text? Does it lend itself to a visual manifestation? What satisfies my internal critic? But then, is my critic merely the internal reflection of an external, historical, culturally determined potential audience?According to Egan, the genre of

autobiography recognises the problems of accuracy in memory, gives it a limited and particular perspective and sees it as a literary or illocutionary act, embedded with an accepted element of the fictive.133 This view brings into focus the process of autobiography, rather than the product: it is in this spirit that this exegetical work focuses on the process of making my artist’s book. The process of producing an

autobiography affects the qualities of both the writer and the finished product. For example, Annette Kuhn calls her autobiographical work a variant of ‘normal’ autobiography, a ‘revisionist autobiography.’134 Revisionist autobiographies combine notions of the ephemeral and multiple self with the acknowledged vagaries of memory, and are insistent on definition of the spaces that exist between the ‘I’ that writes and the ‘I’ that is written about. They also tease out notions of the self and its history within relevant theoretical frames.135 Judged by these criteria, my artist’s book is a revisionist autobiographical work because it acknowledges multiple selfhood, acknowledges the fickleness of memory, allows spaces for the re-framing of memory and has this exegesis of formal knowledge upon which to draw. Kuhn is also concerned with the

authenticity and role of images, the conventions under which they are produced and the embodiment of coded references that assist in the deconstruction

and/or construction of realities.136 For her, photographs may speak of gaps and absences as much as they do of presences and help to organise our memories.137 Kuhn’s definition of memory work involves the active articulation of memory, a questioning of the past and its re-construction through memory while questioning what is remembered, and uses the fruits of memory as material for interpretation.138 By this definition my artist’s book has been memory work. I have questioned the reliability of memory and its boundaries. For example, in the Kenya section, I question the boundaries between my memories and those of others. Which are my memories and which have I picked up from books and films (e.g., Out of Africa, The Flame Trees of Thika), travel books or posters? Are my experiences a form of Marianne Hirsch’s ‘postmemory’?139 Postmemory is characterised by an

inability to separate one’s own memories from those of others: postmemories may come about through the iteration of family stories and/or family myths connected with photographs. This particular kind of memory is an indirect connection to the past. Hirsch suggests that postmemory is experienced particularly by children of Holocaust survivors, where the previous generation’s dominant narratives of past traumatic events replace their own stories. Yet, though I am not the daughter of a Holocaust survivor, I can see that my direct memories are constantly mediated by phenomena in my everyday world. For example, the opening scenes in Out of Africa were rich in punctum for me, affecting me strongly: there was the old train puffing through the familiar Kenya countryside – it was just like the one in which I used to travel to school. Yet those images were taking part in a different story, the autobiographical fiction of Isak Dinesen. Where did my memories stop, and where did elements from Dinesen’s story become woven into my own memory? Strong traumatic events may well elicit postmemories in second

43

140 Smith (1987) cited by Adams (2000) p. 81.141 Gilmore (1995) pp. 20-21, 35.142 Silko (1981).143 Castro (2003).144 Sornig (2004).

generation Holocaust survivors, yet surely we are all subject to connecting with and ingesting the phenomena and memories of others, eventually incorporating them into our own memories? And what are the implications of this slippage for autobiography?Smith defines autobiography in this

way: ‘Autobiography becomes both the process and product of assigning meaning to a series of experiences, after they have taken place, by means of emphasis, juxtaposition, commentary, omission.’140

Leigh Gilmore recognises the elasticity of the boundaries of the autobiography genre. The idea of the written narrative as the primary mode of expression has been challenged by modes of self-expression not previously legitimated

by (apparently) autobiographical works that stretch previous purely narrative boundaries, using both words and images to tell the story, and creating intermezzi as opportunities for the reader’s engagement.141 Two such works are Leslie Marmon Silko’s Storyteller142 and Brian Castro’s Shanghai Dancing.143 Silko uses old family photographs and

traditional stories to articulate her own story indirectly, through poetry and the articulation of the traditional stories of the Laguna people. The form of the book comprises her story: it is interwoven with stories of her people. The photographs are without captions or explanatory text, but assumptions about whom or what they portray can be made through their juxtaposition with the poems or stories. The images are subordinate to the text, yet inextricably woven into it. The autobiography is a bricolage of images and stories, and its indirect nature creates rich intermezzi for the reader to explore.In Castro’s imaginary unstable family

story – he insists that all the characters are figments of his imagination, that the book is a work of fiction – there is a family tree drawn out, the members of which are referred to in the text, and shown and named in some of the apparently

authentic photographs. But his name (Brian) is not there; the book appears to have been written by an Antonio. The photographs appear authentic but are without captions, sometimes seemingly referred to through juxtaposition of text, sometimes apparently arbitrarily selected. Once we begin to examine the book in detail, we are unsure what to believe.Is Castro referring merely to the fictive nature of autobiography? Is the book his effort at remembering and articulating his story, or are the people in his text completely or partially the products of his imagination? As in Silko’s book, Castro’s images are

subordinate to the text. Yet on close examination these, too, are uncertain in the ways they are reflected in the text. Are they really what they purport to be? Are they really his family images? As David Sornig writes, ‘what seems at first to be a seemingly literal and unified message (image as simple illustration of text) … appears to be purposely disconnected.’144 Castro’s work is deceptive to the undiscerning eye: it is easy to read the book and assume certain truths within the text. Yet unless the reader discards the preconceptions of autobiography, truth and the need for literal descriptions and explanations, Castro’s book is only half-understood. By engaging with the ambiguities within the text, other meanings can be made, but they still do not form the coherent story of traditional autobiographies. It was this skilful ambiguity that drew me to Shanghai Dancing. Although I have not attempted to emulate his style in my story, I believe I have cultivated ambiguity through the juxtapositions of text and image that I have chosen. Both Castro’s and Silko’s texts stretch

previously accepted boundaries of autobiographical writing by using indirect personal stories and photographs that are not clearly described, and are lacking their own captions. In both, the images

44

145 Egan (1999).146 Olney (1998).147 Egan (1999).148 Anderson (2001) p. 14.149 Lejeune (1982) p. 193.150 Ibid. p. 193.

are subordinate to the text: yet they are not merely illustrations, because they are integral to the textual material, but neither do they completely stand alone within the story because they are not explained precisely. Neither of these authors (nor any others that I have investigated) have used images in the same way and to the same extent that I have used them in my autobiographical work – interpolating many of them with text, making them equal in narrative strength to the textual sections. They are not necessarily illustrative; they tell their own story.Egan accepts that the urge to write

autobiographically is often precipitated by a caesura, a trauma, crisis, conflict or unresolved tension.145 This has not been the case (as far as I am overtly aware – who knows what lurks in my unconscious?) in the production of my autobiographical book: it was precipitated by my thoughts on the finite nature of my life, perhaps a wish to leave a personal mark in the world, to finish some unfinished business in both my academic and artistic careers. Part of it, too, was curiosity about my antecedents, particularly the blank in my family history where my mother’s information should have resided. In this way, perhaps it has been a response to the long-ago trauma of my mother’s death and the way in which family waters appeared to close over her memory so that not even a ripple remained, except in my mind. Perhaps it has been some kind of daughterly loyalty that has surfaced. Non-traumatic motives are hard to explicate, and are woven into a fabric where it is impossible to unravel and examine individual threads. The making and writing of my artist’s book and this exegesis has been in the main a thoughtful, contemplative and enjoyable journey, undertaken by my physical and mental selves while another less easily defined self supervised and coordinated the process. I choose to describe my autobiographical

work as ‘periautography’, a word James Olney found in an Italian translation of the life of Giambattista Vico. Olney

defines periautography as ‘writing about or around the self.’ It is a term more or less synonymous with ‘life-writing,’ full of indecision, with a loose fit and adaptability that suits a slippery ‘genre’ where authors use mutually reflective acts of memory and narrative.146 (Also, the word begins with the letter ‘p.’)Susanna Egan thinks the generic

term ‘autobiography’ is sufficiently comprehensive, flexible, and admits many variations in form. She suggests that many of the new terms coined as substitutes for the term autobiography (e.g. autography, autogynography, autobiographics, biomythography, autoportrait) can be used to reshape the field, to become features in an evolving new landscape of autobiography – used as an umbrella term: she sees no reason to quarrel with the generic term autobiography.147 In its simplest form, autobiography may be thought of as ‘public exposure of the private self,’148 yet even this description presupposes a private self. Phillipe Lejeune’s definition of

autobiography is:‘A retrospective prose narrative produced by

a real person concerning his own existence, focusing on his individual life, in particular on the development of his personality.’ 149 Lejeune attempted to draw clearly defined boundaries between autobiographical and other writings. He stated that, for classification as autobiography, there must be one absolute condition: ‘identity between the author, the narrator and the protagonist.’150

Lejeune’s aim was to provide a clear distinction between fiction and non-fiction. However, both identity and truth are slippery concepts that have occupied much thought and deconstruction in recent years. Lejeune’s definition and its connection

with the historical notion of the development of the self can also be invoked in the naming of autobiographical works: a work can be considered an autobiography if there is a great deal

45

151 Egan (1999).152 de Man cited by Anderson (2001) p. 14.153 Anderson (2001) p. 14.154 Ibid. p. 17.155 Eakin (1999) p. 2.156 Ibid. p. 4.157 Abbott (2003).158 Ibid p. 39.159 Ibid.160 Baudrillard (1983).

of self-reflection, and a memoir (a lesser term) where there is less self-reflection, or where there is a capacity for commodification of the self, as in the memoirs of some celebrities.151

Linda Anderson cites Paul de Man’s deconstruction of the Romantic notion of self and his description of a self that is fatally divided, and threatened by representation.152 As she writes of this turning point in notions of the self, the self is ‘undermined by metaphor, dissolved into words.’153 The resulting debate about autobiography and the self presented both as illusions, while the subject and object of autobiography were no longer divisible.154

John Paul Eakin, too, questions the basis of Lejeune’s definition, arguing that he used a textual approach to define a ‘real person’ – the author’s proper name on the first page giving an aura of ‘truth’ to the work. However, more than the name of the ‘real person’ (e.g., personality) is not verifiable, so the idea of autobiographical ‘truth’ is purely referential.155

Eakin also refers to Sprinker’s commitment to the fictiveness of the autobiographical subject, and the impasse that then confronts theorists of autobiography. He comments on the survival of the autobiographical act in the face of deconstruction by many philosophers, and resistance to demystification. For Eakin, the duality implicit in autobiography (experiential accounts versus ‘I’ as illusion) means that illusion must be accepted within human consciousness as reality. Eakin settles for a cultural anthropologist’s approach, examining auto/biographical texts for their ability to shed light on the way an ‘I’ experiences personal identity within a given cultural frame.156 Life narration is often structured with

a strong narrative drive, meaning that ‘genuine’ self-depiction will inevitably be subverted or occluded by the culturally dominant notions implicit within narrative conventions.

Porter Abbott suggests it is hard to write an autobiography without displacing yourself by a fictional type that may be more honest, more heroic or more pathetic than you know yourself to be.157 Another narrative quicksand is that of causality: because one event follows another, it may fit the narrative imperative to suggest a causal relationship, even though this may be an illusion. Barthes described this illusion as ‘the mainspring of narrative … the confusion of consecution and consequence.’158 A life narrator may lean on this fallacy unwittingly through past indoctrination with Newtonian notions of cause and effect that create consequential connections between events following one another in linear time. Also, conflict between narrative type/

stereotype and reality can direct the choice of material to included or excluded from autobiographical work.159 For example, Cardinal Newman famously typed himself as a cleric and wrote less than one page to depict the 72 years of his life in the Church (an adaptation of which appears at the beginning of Tissue). Yet without self-typing, narrative detail can swell beyond reasonable limits. Tristram Shandy’s fictional autobiographer took three and a half volumes for the first day of his life. Jean Baudrillard, writing on simulations,

recalls Borges’ tale where cartographers drew a map so detailed that it took up the space of the area being mapped.160 An autobiography could end up the same way, and indeed would never be completed: how could one write one’s own death? To write a life is to write it to some kind of scale, probably somewhere between those of Cardinal Newman and Tristram Shandy. The scale is unlikely to be linear, where so many pages equate to so many years, because the points of importance that determine an autobiographical scale are often traumas or caesurae. Also, there is the strange significance of the first twenty or so years of life which can demand extra attention. Daily life is often monotonous, and often disappears from memory. It can also make a boring autobiography.

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161 Ricoeur (2004) p. 261.162 Smith and Watson (2001) p. 6.163 Abbott (2003) p. 48.164 Bruner (2002) pp. 22-24.165 Derrida (1980).166 Barthes (1977b).167 Barthes (1977b) p. 1.168 Ibid. p. 56.

In considering the task of life-writing, choices must be made about what to omit. Events will be chosen or omitted for many reasons: in recall, certain events appear more seminal and carry more emotional weight than others; some images are more culturally acceptable or prestigious than others, some have been reiterated many times as part of family mythology and are therefore more easily recalled, while other happenings are forgotten – either voluntarily, or involuntarily due to temporary or indefinite erasure of particular memories.161

But every part of a life narrative, included or excluded, will contribute to its rhetorical effect, and ‘the inevitable intersection of memories with rhetorical acts such as assertion, justification, judgement, conviction and assessment will attempt to convince the reader of a particular version of reality.’162

Decisions concerning inclusion or exclusion of material are part of the construction of an autobiography, and both colour the way in which we see the narrator.163 The ending of a life story also may be mortgaged to an ontological or political end. As Bruner asks, do stories imitate life, or does life copy stories? Where do stories (fiction or non-fiction) come from? Can fiction be entirely imaginary? Can non-fiction be entirely ‘true’? Either way, the writer is looking for verisimilitude, and adhering to the rules of narrative may intensify this, because story form is so ingrained in us. And, Bruner asks, ‘are perception and memory yardsticks of the real, or are they artificers in the employ of convention?’ The intent, the illocutionary force, of a story will also colour its content.164 So, following these lines of thought, by calling my story an autobiography, I am linking it to a genre that is widely perceived as providing ‘true’ stories of people’s lives (even though, as I explain in this exegesis, the notions of truth and genre in autobiography are fraught with questions). Just by calling my story an autobiography, I am endowing it

(and myself ) with a level of verisimilitude that was not present when I began writing. This endowment has flowed on to the way in which I see myself: I now feel more ‘real’ than I did before. If there is an autobiographical genre, it

is fraught with difficulty. Jacques Derrida writes of the law of genre: once the word ‘genre’ is heard, limits are drawn: a genre must be constituted in terms of ‘norms and interdictions’, and these then logically imply the possibility of anomalies and transgressions.165 The notion of genre, then, belongs in a positivist paradigm where rules are clearly set out. If autobiography is to echo in some way a life story, then it is not only difficult but may be ridiculous to put ‘autobiography’ into a genre. Humans do not live in positivist paradigms: lives are lived in naturalistic ways that resist positivist laws. However truthful it may appear, no

autobiography is immune from questions about perspective, illocutionary force, literary devices to enhance coherence, and the balance between what was and what might have been.Roland Barthes wrote his auto-

biographical text Roland Barthes166

‘against’ previously accepted ideas of the autobiographical genre. He wrote, ‘It must all be considered as if spoken by a character in a novel,’167 thus positioning the fictional aspects of his text more overtly than does Castro. He used multiple-subject positionings by changing from first-person singular to the third person and writing fragments under seemingly random sub-headings. The captions for his photographs recall the history of places; make comments about love; question power structures, class and gender, and comment on the foibles of the subjects. The subjects are not given names in the traditional manner. He writes, ‘Do I not know that, in the

field of the subject, there is no referent? … I myself am my own symbol, I am the story that happens to me: freewheeling in language, I have nothing to compare myself to.’168

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169 Barthes (1977b) p. 87.170 Ibid. p. 152.171 Ibid. p. 152.172 Ibid. p. 94.173 Ibid. p. 142.174 Ibid. p. 94.175 Ibid. p. 94.

In this way Barthes shifts from imitation (description) to nomination. Through his language and images he creates a bricolage – made by a bricoleur who denies agency, who is constructed simultaneously with and by his bricolage. I do not deny my agency in this way, but feel as though I also have been constructed with and by my bricolage.Aspects of my autobiographical artist’s

book are responses to Roland Barthes. For example, there are two voices in my writing; I have used images and photographs with and without text or captions; I have attempted to both rewrite myself and distance myself from that re-writing by using ambiguous texts, and by describing the people around me rather than myself. I have put in only four small childhood

photographs of myself, including one in the guise of a cat (Barthes has several photographs of himself ) because I want the reader to construct my image, or rather work out something about me by what I have created. I, too, have exposed parts of my image-system and imaginary life and feel vulnerable because they confront how I think the norms of society are described, the doxa. Parts of my work are more descriptive

than Barthes’; he first finds dreaming insipid and boring while enjoying fantasy,169 but later writes that our dreams ‘seize the words which pass under their nose and make them into a story,’170 a poetic use of language. I have drawn and described several dreams because I find them strong and interesting, endowed with poetic and visual possibilities, numinous in their effect upon me, although they are probably not immune to Barthes’ law of the signified. Barthes suggests that in ‘any discourse where the words lead the idea … you exclude yourself from the law of the signified.’ 171 I interpret this to mean that articulating a dream into words involves the words leading the ideas. Yet words merely lead to other words. In articulating both dreams

and memories, the creation of words or images subtly alters the ideas in the mind and a synergistic process can take place. In both dreams and memories, such mediation of the raw material into words may take its articulation far from the original set of ideas.Barthes describes his fragments as

‘immediate delight … a fantasy of discourse’172 that can strike at any time, be written down, and be available for further contemplation and writing. This sounds like a similar process to mine, although mine has probably been more ordered and more embedded in the theory of others, as I am not a theorist as was Barthes. He describes his fragments as stones on the perimeter of a circle – and at the centre, what? I see my work more like the patchwork he mentions,173 stitched squares that he spreads over the written work, a ‘rhapsodic quilt’ that keeps meaning on the surface and far from its core: it is for the readers of his work to find the core. My work could form a more literal patchwork: if all my pages were spread out in any order, each piece would relate to each of the four that surround it in a different way. Each central patch would hold four meanings, the ‘gaping of desire’ of which he writes.174 If my patches were shuffled and spread

out again, a different picture would be formed, and new sets of meanings would present themselves to the reader. Book form has constrained both Barthes’

work and mine: his is A5 portrait, in black-and-white, published widely. Mine is A4 landscape, in colour, and is a limited edition. Both rely on the imagination of the reader to provide the links between the pieces or fragments, to imagine what they will into the gaps. Barthes likens this space for imagination to the intermezzi that Robert Schumann composed between the longer elements of his song cycles.175 For Barthes, the reader must produce each intermezzo.Barthes’ fragments serve as beginnings

because he resists endings. Yet his book must come to some kind of an end – he

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176 Anderson (2001) p. 71.177 Ibid. p. 72.178 Barthes (1977b) p. 121.179 Ibid. pp. 96-97.180 Ibid. p. 114.181 Ibid. p. 95.182 See Palinode for discussion of image/objects.183 Ibid. p. 109.184 Ibid. p. 118.

chooses to finish his fragments with one dated August 6th, the date upon which he started the book. Following that is a poem, an image of the human body, a biography, a list of illustrations, some doodles and an ‘afterward’ [sic]. I found an ending to my book to be

necessary even though it risked entering a rhetorical closure. I wanted to end with Soen’s words because they summed up the changes I have felt in my self through completing this study. Of course, human life being what it is, and human identity being what it seems to be, I will be fortunate indeed to live the rest of my life in an invincible summer. But right now I am experiencing a feeling of fulfilment, of centredness, that feels fundamental to my sense of self.My acceptance of the transient nature of

feeling and self, acknowledging it now, in the present, is in concurrence with Linda Anderson’s interpretation of Barthes’ idea – that the subject can never create a future that is outside the construction of his/her own discourse.176

Anderson asserts that Barthes avoids using the past as a privileged source of meaning.177 For example, Barthes asks ‘What right does my present have to speak of my past?’178 He appears to reject the linear notion of time through various devices in his text, for example, using the beginning date at the end, and the form of the fragments that avoid or minimise linear narrative construction. Yet in his comments on the images in the frontispiece, he writes that only the images of his youth fascinate him, and it is more complex than simply nostalgia for happier times. It appears, then, that it is more difficult than it seems to remove the past from autobiographical writing. Barthes’ ordering of his fragments is

non-linear and appears to be deliberately random, although he closes his book with an overt timeline of his life that is not apparently connected with his textual fragments. Images of Barthes at different ages appear to be randomly distributed

throughout the book. My fragments and photographs are ordered either by what I imagine to be the temporal considerations of my life story (without an overt timeline) or by the need to juxtapose certain elements in an attempt to direct what the reader makes of the text. He writes of the appearance of words

(scraps of code) through the use of the typewriter.179 I have used a code-like font (Monotype Sorts) in the artist’s book to overlay the section I have quoted from Roland Barthes, about the ship Argo, and the way it was renewed by its builder during the voyage. He saw this renewal as an image-system where the same word, the same sign, is constantly renewed while never signified, existing purely as nomination in the end forming a meaning that is apart from language.180 I suspect Roland Barthes would have

revelled in the coding possibilities of a word processor. I have not made an overt code for my work, but have created words and images, scraps of codes about my life, through digital means with camera, computer and printer.Barthes describes his fragments as

illusory, becoming imaginary.181 My photographs/text/images of family objects are also illusory: they become virtual or imaginary objects.182

Barthes seems to believe that it is possible to recall (anamnesis: recollection of past events) memories without magnifying or sentimentalising them, to keep them empty so they escape the image system.183

Current memory theorists such as Radstone and Damasio would argue that this is not possible, proposing as they do that memories are both reconstructed and mediated in the present. Some of my text/images and poems have

what he describes as ‘drifting availability’, made possible through their ability to receive meaning (assisted by ambiguity, word forms, images), ‘substituting the validity of form for the truth.’184 When an idea, a dream or a memory

is put on paper in some way, as words,

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must take its own course, using Rilke’s words, to create ‘outer standstill and inner movement.’187 Gaston Bachelard believes that childhood

is a time of reverie: as a child, there is suffi cient time, space and solitude for reverie and daydreaming. Later in life we again draw upon reverie and recognise that ‘childhood is the well of being.’188

Frederico Garcia Lorca, the poet of limits, writes that humans, through the loss of innocence and the acquisition of self-consciousness, are alienated from the natural and unconscious rhythms of the universe, and at the same time are unable to fi nd peace merely through reason. We are therefore condemned to an eternal search for something that actually may not exist, or we may already possess it without realising. As captive birds are unable to follow the wind, reason and memory form a cage that prevents a poet from following the imaginary wind within his soul. As well as poetic words, Lorca used drawings as poetry, as mental imagery. He felt caged by the limitations of humans and their preoccupations with logos and reason, with the strictures of language, with memory’s tricks, turns and omissions, with trying to turn imaginative thoughts into something poetic on the page.189 I too grappled with such limitations. My

solutions, however partial, were dual: fi rst, I engaged in meditative practice for at least 20 minutes a day with a notebook nearby, to allow thoughts and images to emerge from ‘beneath’ the day-to-day chatter of my mind. Th is process formed part of my journaling: the other part was, from time to time, to note some of my conscious thoughts and memories. In this way the two processes informed each other, without either becoming particularly dominant in the process of making the artist’s book, although I gave more time to the meditative practice. Second, I used the words, drawings and paintings that came out of my contemplations and developed them in a more reasoned way, to make poetry and poetic images.

185 Ibid. p. 121.186 Lorca cited by Hirsch (1999) p. 244.187 Rilke cited by Hirsch (1999) p. 253. 188 Bachelard (1960) p. 114.189 Loughran (1978).

lines, shapes and/or colours, it cannot be more than a vague representation of the ‘truth’ – in this case, ‘truth’ is a mental construction of a past event or the process of putting form or language to a thought. Th e idea, dream or memory will always be re-constructed as it is created because there is no ‘true’ link between it and its representation on paper, there is no ‘true’ language with which it can be made visible. Barthes describes his book as the book

of the Self, not the book of his ideas but the book of his resistance to his own ideas. In my case, I have used the book to make visible, to write/articulate my memories or ideas, to examine them and perhaps/probably change them as they are produced: what is the raw material in my bricoleur’s basket? How is it to be portrayed? Which form of mediation will best display my personal punctum (ideas and memories are selected for the book on the strength of their punctum) held within each idea or memory? I don’t ask, as he does, ‘What right has my present to speak of my past?’185 It is as though Barthes sees the past as distinct from the present, but I assume that my present has the right to write of my past because without my memories I am nothing, and articulating and mediating them is an integral part of my everyday life.

Poetics/reverie/imagination

Poetry, reverie, daydreaming, memory, imagination: they are defi ned diff erently, but all have in common the need for a degree of silence and solitude, both in their recall or creation or when attempting to understand the poetry of others. It must be a singular time, uninterrupted, that

‘To understand poetry, we need four white walls and a silence where the poet’s voice can weep and sing.’

Frederico Garcia Lorca 186

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Silence and solitude were an important part of this process. One reason for the Rumi quotes at the start of this exegesis is to emphasise the importance of silence. A central simplicity and solitude are needed for poetry to come ‘out of a silence and return us – restore us – to that silence.’190

Poetry can be the language of grief; it can give form to emotions. Poetry can ‘transform oceanic depths of feeling into the faithful nuances of art.’191 In a reverse process, fi nding a somewhat

trite, commonplace poem adjacent to my mother’s grave in Calcutta (‘Do not stand at my grave and weep’) became an important articulation of feelings that had remained unexpressed since I was a small child. Th is poem, placed in 1960 on a tombstone by unknown people to assuage their own grief at a death, was also part of my healing for a death that had occurred nearly twenty years earlier. Recall of memories is inevitably mixed

with contemplation, ‘what if?’ scenarios, possible alternate realities, connections through the imagined corridors of time. Habitual everyday language is insuffi cient for me to express such thoughts: the words may be diff use, ill defi ned, a good fi t to the limited language of the banal, thoughtless words I generally use. In a creative project words must be selected with thought and care, to make as accurate fi t as possible with what is to be portrayed. Poetic language or images may be used

to express mixed memories, reveries, and daydreams. Th e articulation of these ideas can lead to further inner dialogues of reveries, dreams, poetry, and images. Th e creation of a poem or poetic image

may also be the beginning of a dialogue with others.

Reverie, word dreaming, is a common human activity, but is so commonplace that it is barely noticed or particularly valued in many Western cultures. Also, certain of the languages in which reverie is communicated (English, for example) are not necessarily well-suited to the communication of non-empirical thought patterns and dreams.Reverie involves a dialectic between ‘facts

and values, realities and dreams, memories and legends, projects and chimeras.’193 According to Gaston Bachelard, ‘Th e poetic image sheds light on consciousness in such a way that it is pointless to look for the sub-conscious antecedents of the image.’194 Bachelard notes that in the French

language the words reverie, daydreams and remembrance are feminine, while memories and dreams are masculine. He uses this linguistic basis to suggest diff erences between the qualities of these activities: the feminine gender, he suggests, gives a soft defi nition, a nuance to reverie, daydreams and remembrance that dissolves the solidity of words that have become habitual to us in our daylight life.195 Assigning stereotyped gender qualities on the basis of language may have been appropriate within French cultural thought when Bachelard was writing in 1960, but it is not acceptable now. Yet I can accept that there may be the diff erences in quality between reverie, daydreams and remembrance on the one hand, and memories and dreams on the other, that he suggests. If we are alone and daydreaming, ‘several child faces come to meet us,’ but reverie can rid us of our history, it can return us to our original childhood solitude where we can ‘relax our aches.’196 Bachelard also recognises ‘within the

human soul the permanence of a nucleus of childhood, an immobile but ever living childhood, outside history, hidden from others, disguised in history when it is recounted, but which has real being only in instants of illumination, which is the

190 Hirsch (1999) p. 24.191 Ibid. p. 81.192 Celan cited by Hirsch (1999) p. 1.193 Bachelard (1960) p. 104.194 Ibid.195 Ibid. p.3.196 Ibid. p. 99.

‘A poem, as a manifestation of language and thus essentially dialogue, can be a message in a bottle, sent out in the – not always greatly hopeful – belief that somewhere and sometime it could wash up on land, on heartland, perhaps.’ Paul Celan192

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same as saying, in the moments of poetic existence. … An excess of childhood is the germ of a poem.’ 197 For him, these are the images of solitude. He acknowledges the idealisation of childhood memories and our personal interest in them, and suggests that there is an increase in reverie as one grows older, an eff ort to bring the reveries of childhood back to life.Bachelard ties together reverie,

imagination, memory and poetics. Perhaps this entwining is part of the reason there is the urge to write autobiographically as we grow older. Perhaps the idealisation of childhood becomes stronger as we become older, and we have more courage to write poetically: there is less to lose, and there is more time for reverie. Perhaps also there may now be some-

thing worth writing about, a document for future generations, a record of one’s time on the planet, an awareness of approaching death. Are they all based in childhood reveries? Bachelard also recognises the role of the

imagination in creativity: it is involved in recalling memories and imagining possible new futures. It is also involved in imagining the world around us: the reality of everyday life that we take so much for granted is, after all, merely perceptual pictures in the head and feelings in the hands, feet and body. It even takes an act of imagination to

accept that we do indeed imagine our daily world – it seems normal, real, but is actually highly mediated and based merely on the perceptions of our sense organs and the ability of our body/mind to create our own imaginary/normal/personal world. Our hold on the material world is imaginary, tenuous indeed. We create inner pictures of the world

out there, and Bachelard suggests that the fi rst step in this creative process is our internal division of matter into ‘hard’ and ‘soft’, later adding the subtleties of intermediate categories. Hard and soft represent the resistance of matter in our experiential awareness. He translates this

division into a dialectic of invitation and exclusion, ‘yes’ and ‘no.’ Th is dialectic then transposes itself into internal metaphors, the psychological topology that we use to make sense of our perceptions. It is through working with the internal language of hard and soft that our strengths are revealed to us, and we are connected to the material world. Matter is the mirror of our internal energies, the mysterious threshold between subject/object.198 It is this threshold that I have attempted to explore in my text/images.199

Paradoxes

1. Time, memory and self

Memory has unexplained qualities of both fl exibility and stability. Th ese qualities also apply to the notion of consciousness, identity and subjectivity. As we move forward in time, as we live our lives, we feel as though we are unchanging, despite the fact that we change both physically and mentally as time goes by. Antonio Damasio explains this paradox by suggesting that we have two kinds of self: the core self and the autobiographical self. Th e core self is transient, ceaselessly and fl exibly recreating itself in reaction to every object with which we interact. Stability is explained by the presence of the autobiographical self, a ‘non-transient collection of unique facts and ways of being which characterise a person.’200 Th e sense of staying the same is provided by the autobiographical self. Yet the autobiographic self itself is altered subtly via feedback from the core self. Th us it seems we change incessantly, yet, as incessantly, we feel unchanged.

197 Bachelard (1960) p. 100.198 Bachelard (1969).199 See Palinode section.200 Damasio (2000).

Paradox: statements, propositions or situations that seem to be absurd or contradictory but in fact may be true.

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2. Time and human consciousness

Bahktin’s division of time-sequences into historical, quotidian, biological, biographical or maturational seems particularly suited to autobiographical writing,201 yet while the events of a life may be measured by clock and calendar, the concept of time as linear is a strange characteristic of humans in the modern world. Our human sense of temporal distinction separates us from all other living creatures.202 The cyclical nature of events brings a sense of past, present and future. Yet we feel as though we live in a continual present, occasionally time-travelling internally to the past. As Nicola King writes, ‘memory problematises the idea of any simple chronological relation between past and present in human experience … while the unconscious is timeless.’203 The notion of linear time dominates our waking hours: it is entwined with narrative convention and narrative construction of the self. Yet time is mysterious and ill-defined. Perhaps this is why we cling to the illusion that it is purely linear.3. Time and identity

Rapid cultural changes (including two world wars, improved literacy, fading colonialism, the mass media and the Internet) have destroyed the perceived stability of the external environment. Poststructural and postmodern theories that see identity as dependent on the external environment also see identity as fractured, fragile and problematic, transforming to fit shifting racial, class and gender boundaries. Postmodern identities are multiple and impermanent. If we feel unified, it is because we have constructed an internal narrative to comfort ourselves.204, 205 Peter Middleton and Tim Woods suggest that in postmodernism ‘where memory was, there is now an unstable discourse divided by temporality, fragmented in space and lost for words’.206 In Dan McAdams’ schema, where we

construct our identities through personal

myths, he suggests that the complexities of our lives override any comfortable dependence on a single main character. Thus we draw on our internalised imagoes to provide us with a number of protagonists who may even provide narrative tension and conflict in their opposing roles.207

Yet as we travel in time throughout our lives, we may feel unified, a single identity, most of the time. It is a comforting illusion. If, indeed, it is an illusion.4. Time and the writer

Memory and notions of time are interwoven, but is there such a thing as absolute time? Gottfried Leibniz, Isaac Newton’s contemporary, argued that ‘moments are merely abstract concepts, being classes or sets of simultaneous events.’208 Newtonian time derives from the reversible laws of motion, i.e., ‘time forwards’ is not distinguishable from ‘time backwards’. The arrow of time can point backwards or forwards. Yet most physical processes are time-asymmetric, irreversible. An egg cannot be unbroken,209 coffee cannot be unstirred from a café latte, and 90-year-olds cannot become babies. The irreversible arrow of time belongs to concepts of the relativity of space and time210 and operates within lives, yet in life narration it is reversed. We use memory to go ‘back’ in time, but actually re-visit those memories in the present. Autobiography lives within the theory

of relativity. To write a life story is to reconstruct both memory and identity through the use of language and narrative, reversing in the mind the irreversible arrow of spacetime. Bakhtin used the term chronotope to

express the inseparability of space and time in literature. He suggests that in literature, ‘Time thickens, takes on flesh, becomes artistically visible; likewise space becomes charged and responsive to the movements of time, plot and history.’211 Nicola King writes ‘“remembering the

self ” is a not a case of restoring an original

201 Bahktin (1981) p. 91.202 Whitrow (2003).203 King (2000) p. 12-13.204 Hall (1992).205 Gergen (1991).206 Middleton and Woods (2000) p. 83.207 McAdams (1996) p. 37.208 Leibniz cited by Davies (1995) p. 12.209 Ibid. p. 14.210 Middleton and Woods (2000) p. 83.211 Bahktin (1981) p. 84.

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identity, but a continuous process of “re-membering”, of putting together moment by moment, of provisional and partial reconstruction.’212

Mark Freeman suggests that in using literary art to defi ne our messy lives, we imagine our personal stories into classic narrative templates such as the Bildungsroman.213 McAdams suggests that myths are essential to the narrative creation of self, to the extent that it is our social responsibility to engage in making our personal myths ‘because our world can no longer tell us who we are and how we should live, we must fi gure it out on our own.’214 Th e imaginative dimension of the self is poetic, characterised by poesis215 – the creation of meaning – so imagination must contribute to the narrative construction of identity.Perhaps paradoxes are in fact the norm

of human lives, rather than ideas and concepts that sit somewhat indignantly and uneasily side by side. Life itself is a paradox: ‘life’ emerges from inanimate chemicals. Time is a metaphorical concept used by human consciousness to make sense of the world, along with the concepts of memory, self, identity, and autobiography. Th e concept of time has been expanded since Albert Einstein to include spacetime and cyclical time, yet we fi rmly remain caught in the notion of linear time: we are used to it, it suits the ways in which we live our lives. Paradoxes are merely concepts bumping

up against each other. It is a question of selecting useful concepts and metaphors to utilise in particular situations.

Photographs/presences/absencesPenelope Lively writes of a photograph,

prints of which are available from the Victoria and Albert Museum. It depicts an empty street in the village of Th etford, photographed in 1868. Th e exposure of the photo was so long that the image of the street with a stationary cart, shops and a spreading tree appears empty of people, yet during the hour-long exposure, apparently, people went into the shops, and dogs, geese, shoppers and men on horseback passed through the area covered by the camera. Yet they are not recorded; they leave no trace.217 In my book there are only four small

photographs of me: one taken in Kenya when I was about 12, one with my mother on my fi rst birthday, one when I was about four with my mother just before she died. Th e fourth shows me as Dick Whittington’s cat. Th e exposure time of my life has been so long and slow that I feel as though I have left no imprint on the fi lm. However, I am there in the fruits of my actions. It isn’t necessary to see my face. And what is my face like? I will never know. I will never see what others see. I see a laterally inverted image in the mirror, one that I recognise, although it looks diff erent from the way I inwardly perceive my face, but a photograph shows a face I don’t recognise. It shows the face the photographer sees through the lens, on that particular day and time, under those circumstances. Is this the face I have owned all my life? I think not, and I won’t be tied to that one image. Roland Barthes omitted the Winter

Garden photograph of his mother from Camera Lucida218 because he felt that readers would misinterpret it: to them it would be just another photograph, while to him it was the precious essence of his deceased mother. A similar reason for omitting current images of myself is that I don’t wish to be stereotyped. Many (to me) deleterious assumptions are made about older women in our society. I would rather that judgements about

my work be made without being coloured

212 King (2000) p. 175213 Freeman (2001).214 McAdams (1997) p. 35.215 Freeman (2001).216 Eliot (1983) p. 26.217 Lively (2001).218 Barthes (1980).

‘And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shapes the memory As a madman shakes a dead

geranium.’ TS Eliot Rhapsody on a windy night 216

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by those assumptions. I want to reject for my work the kind of double consciousness that W. E. B. Dubois writes about, except he related this feeling to the ‘shadow’ of his skin colour rather than the ageist preoccupations that aff ect me.Dubois felt he could have no true self-

consciousness: he looked at the world through a veil and could see himself only through the eyes of those who projected their uncertainties about black people onto him, yet he felt the ‘twoness’, the double consciousness and inner war of being both black and American. 219 I, too, feel a ‘twoness’: seeing myself one way, while imagining that others see me in terms of my age.In Image Music Text, Barthes suggests

that photographs evoke feelings of having-been-there. Photographs form a strange bridge between past and present; they create a new space-time category of spatial immediacy combined with temporal anteriority.220 Barthes in Camera Lucida particularly associates photography with loss. Photographs can move us back through time, bring the ‘return of the dead,’ of desire, of mourning. Photographs, untrue though they may be, can still capture past times, essences, perhaps more than any other memorial objects.221

In these ways, photographs can be particularly important for migrants: photographs can be a bridge between past country and present country, whether for nostalgic purposes, for reminders of a terrible past, or for memories of lost families and friends. Th ey can mark the caesura of transplantation from one home to another. Photographs can be used for the

strengthening of identity: I was fortunate indeed to be able to take photos at the Kenya farm from roughly the same positions that I remembered from my

childhood photos. Somehow, putting the before and after photographs together gave me a clearer idea of the passage of time than I had felt before. Th at I could see the same bent pole holding up the verandah in both photos of the building where we used to live; that I could now picture in a photograph the disastrous roof that my father had built: somehow these gave me simultaneously a feeling of rootedness in the past and a conviction that my childhood really had happened.I consider that just seeing those things

would have had a lesser eff ect on me than having the photographs to make the comparisons. Of course we can return time and again to photos to fortify what is in our mind’s eye, and that strengthens the memories, however inaccurate they may be. In turn, sense of self is altered through the activation of Damasio’s autobiographical self involved in a re-writing of who we think we are. Barthes writes that the referent

always adheres to a photograph, that the level of the literal message relates to the recording rather than transformation, it is never experienced as illusion. In 1980, when he wrote Camera Lucida, this

was probably true, although he did also describe photography as an uncertain art. In Image Music Text, Barthes foresaw potential consequences for digital manipulation: ‘the more technology develops the diff usion of information (and notably of images), the more it provides the means of masking the constructed meaning under the appearance of the given meaning.’222

Now, in 2006, meaning is even more uncertain, because digital technology and applications such as Adobe Photoshop can be used to manipulate images, to change their colour, shape, texture and content. Images can be blended together,

219 Dubois (1989).220 Barthes (1977a) p. 44.221 Barthes (1980). 222 Barthes (1977a) p. 47.223 Ibid. p. 13.

‘In front of the lens, I am at the same time: the one I think I am, the one I want others to think I am, the one the photographer thinks I am, and the one he makes use of to exhibit his art.’Barthes Image Music Text223

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representation of that past (complete with the fl avour of the present). Th ey are photographs: they are objects. Th ey sidestep linear time by containing both past and present.In Camera Lucida, Barthes writes: ‘a

photograph is always invisible: it is not it that we see.’229 What we see is the referent that adheres to the image. Th e human eye has an amazing ability to assign the referent to an image that has been converted into electronic impulses, stored in a computer, whose pixels have

been adjusted and rearranged in a program (in their colour, shape, size, proportion), placed in a certain way on electronic ‘paper’ (the computer screen), then re-converted into electronic pulses that inform an inkjet printer to lay out dots of various colours. Th e dots of colour are placed on

a substrate of paper or fabric that can also alter the potential aff ect of the image. And still, through the eyes, the human

brain can endow such a mediated image with memory, history and emotion.

223 Barthes (1977a) p. 13.224 Lacan (1977) p. 106.225 Ibid. p. 105-107.226 Damasio (2000) p. 161.227 Tagg cited by Duxbury (2005) p. 46.228 Baudrillard (1983). 229 Barthes (1980) p. 6.

elements added and subtracted. Truth in photography has always suff ered from framing, choice of subject and similar choices that photographers can make. Now, with digital manipulation, the photograph can hardly be believed at all. Th e referent, Barthes’ ‘necessarily real thing,’223 has almost been abandoned. It is merely a starting point, almost dissolved. Jacques Lacan writes of the kind of

double consciousness that can happen when confronted with a representation, when light is embodied: we can know it is a representation, we can know the ‘thing itself ’ behind the representation.224

Yet we know that we respond to the image, to its aura, its noumenon (something beyond the tangible world, that exists independently of intellectual or sensory perception) as though it were real.225 Damasio may throw light on this,

because he suggests that we store in the mind a set of ‘dispositional records’ (colour, shape, etc.) related to an object, and when these records are recalled, both sensory data and emotional data are recalled. ‘Memorised objects engender core consciousness in the same way that actually perceived objects do.’226

Th e image of an object therefore activates the halo of sensory information related to that object, to give it mental properties of the real thing. John Tagg suggests that photographs can exist independently from pre-existing realities: they do not necessarily evoke the past and its memories; they are objects in their own right.227 Manipulated photographs, such as

the images in my book, fl oat between representations of the past (complete with their halos of nostalgia) and a re-worked

‘The real is produced from miniaturised units, from matrices, memory banks and command modules - and with these it can be reproduced an indefi nite number of times. It no longer has to be rational, since it is no longer measured against some ideal instance. It is nothing more than operational.’ Jean Baudrillard Simulations 228

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Palinode

A palinode is a place of revisiting, of meeting oneself coming back from the future, of the future self meeting the past self in the present. A place of change, a palinode can be a clear mountain top where new articulations of personal reality can be seen down there in the wooded valley of the self. To experience a palinode it is necessary to mix two ingredients, a stimulus and the imagination. Marx wrote, ‘Th e

products of the human brain appear as autonomous fi gures endowed with a life of their own, which enter into relations with each other and with the human race.’231

Gaston Bachelard believes that ‘imagination is primal, fundamental, and that we perceive the world through our imaginations’ spectacles.’232 While Damasio mentions only one kind of imagination,233 Bachelard suggests there are two: one is creative, the other is used in the recall of past perceptions.234

It is the creative imagination that becomes activated in the work of a palinode. Do we need to dream a new life before we can live it? When I started the project, I wanted to

use a steamer trunk as a metaphor for my multiple migrations, and was going to build a textual memoir around the idea of family objects within the trunk being triggers for memory and autobiographical stories. However this approach became impractical. Th e objects demanded their own voices. Perhaps these voices are externalised echoes of Bachelard’s dialectic between hard and soft, between matter and imagination.Many frames have been developed

to understand how humans relate to the material world, but they all have in common the notion that we project memories and feelings onto objects, while the diff ering qualities of human

interaction colour the forms of these projections and interactions. Figure 2 summarises some schools of thought concerning human/object interaction. Within the school of

psychoanalytic thought, Sigmund Freud wrote about the choices children make, and their early relations with their care-givers who they regard as

objects. Th is concept was later developed into object relations theory by Melanie Klein, to distinguish between the stages of physical and psychological birth, the fi rst three years of human life. Karl Marx saw objects as commodities,

made by productive labour and tied into all that labour and production meant politically.

230 Marx (1976).231 Ibid.232 Bachelard (1960) p. 36.233 See Figure 1.234 Bachelard (1969) p. xiii..

Palinode: a poem in which a poet retracts something previously written; a knot, knob, lump or swelling that protrudes; a place in a standing wave that has no amplitude; the place on a plant stem where the leaf is or has been attached; a place on a curve where it crosses itself; a point where lines meet or intersect in a diagram or graph; either of two points where an orbit (e.g., of a planet) crosses the elliptic plane; a terminal or other point in a computer network where a message can be created, received or repeated.

‘[T]he table [is] wood, an ordinary, sensuous thing. But as soon as it emerges as a commodity, it changes into a thing that transcends sensuousness. It not only stands with its feet on the ground, but, in relation to all other commodities, it stands on its head, and evolves out of its wooden brain grotesque ideas, far more wonderful than if it were to begin dancing of its own free will.’ Karl Marx230

Figure 2. Touch is the threshold between self and other.

See the separate file accompanying this one.

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However, Marx also saw that objects could become fetishes when endowed with mystical properties by humans235and acknowledged the power of the senses in embodying memories.236

Arjun Appadurai endows objects with a social life: value is placed on an object’s exchangeability within a particular culture.237 Georges Perec’s notion of Choisme sees human life in terms of the acquisition, use and disposal of objects, rather than in terms of a stream of consciousness or a sequence of life events.238 Jean Baudrillard’s writings on marginal objects endows them with emotional, historic and symbolic authenticity.239

Th ese theorisations of human/object interactions show some of the many ways we can endow objects with projected human qualities, or use them in our complex social dealings with the world. My focus is on the role of objects in migration and in life-writing, particularly where re-working the relationship to iconic objects can provide a revisionist opportunity to re-visit the past and change attitudes in the present. Mihalyi Csikszentmihalyi and Eugene

Rochberg-Halton surveyed a number of people to determine their attitudes to objects of personal value in their homes. Th ey concluded that objects acquire layers of diff erent meanings as time passes. Th e objects hold memories, and can represent a lost past, a lost person, or link people to their family roots. Most people attribute value to objects on a personal rather than a monetary basis: such precious objects are, for example, gifts from a loved one, souvenirs of happy holidays, reminders of dead parents. Objects can evoke emotion, they can acquire mystical identifi cation with a departed loved one, as my mother’s pearl necklace does for me.

Csikszentmihalyi and Rochberg-Halton found that as people aged, the past experiences that had defi ned their younger

selves could be evoked by the contemplation of precious objects from the past.240 Such objects, then, can become a focus for the sorting and articulation processes needed for autobiographical work. For some of

those reasons, migrants can select certain iconic autobiographical objects to travel with them. More than souvenirs, these objects can become integrating loci, sites of family history and mythology endowed with personal projections, functioning both as analogues to living memory and as memory triggers (like Marcel Proust’s material memories) of past homes, landscapes, of family living or buried in far countries. Stephen Feuchtwang has described the

importance of traumatic events or other caesurae in the marking of life-changing memories.242 An object can mark such a caesura, a particular moment that demarcates the creation of a relative past, and after which everything changes. In migration, a caesura could be the mythical moment of leaving the old country, or of setting foot on new soil. Such autobiographical objects, tied in

with memory, have shifting multiple associative meanings,243 yet they can function as anchors, off setting some of the need for a stable home set within defi ned geographic features. Marius Kwint suggests that, in the Western tradition, objects serve memory in three ways: fi rst, they become part of our mental debris as we grow from children to adults; second, they serve as memory triggers and bring back mental images or thoughts of the past; and, fi nally, they become records, ‘storing information beyond individual experience.’ Th e second and third ways in which objects connect to memories

235 Marx (1976).236 Stewart (1999).237 Appadurai (1986).238 Perec cited by Csikszentmihalyi and Rochberg-Halton (1981) p. 99.239 Baudrillard (1968).240 Csikszentmihalyi and Rochberg-Halton (1981).241 Mack (2003) p. 20.242 Feuchtwang (2005).243 Smith and Watson (2001).

‘As memory itself is constantly on the move, so are the narratives in which the meaning of the objects is embedded, forever evolving, reshaped in order to make our sense of the present lead forward to a desired future.’ John Mack241 John Mack241 John Mack

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demand that internal imaginary dialogues be set up between person and object: this is where the imagination comes into play to construct meaning.244 It is these kinds of

dialogue that I have utilised and made overt in my image/texts as part of my revisionist autobiography.245 Th e emotions of the past can be relived because memories are embodied, embedded in emotion, and as they are reactivated in dialogue with important autobiographical objects, there is potential for change in the present. Memories are altered as they are recalled

in the present. I suggest that where a conscious eff ort is made to articulate the memories attached to objects, the memories are voluntarily or involuntarily altered. In this way, subtle changes in the emotional body (and therefore notions of personal identity) may be activated. Further, Susan Stewart asks whether, in talking of an object’s qualities, we actually form those qualities.246 Th e boundary between subject and object can become temporarily blurred in this kind of dialogue that wanders around the core of subjectivity. It could also be regarded as taking some kind of licence with the facts, creating panels of embroidery added to the fabric of life. But because memory is in itself so slippery, and ‘facts’ are seldom ‘hard’, who is to argue with such changes? As Stewart suggests, ‘the senses themselves are shaped and modifi ed by experience and the body bears a somatic memory of what is outside it.’247 As object and person continue in a constant dialectic, so life narratives can be reshaped to make sense of the present and lead towards the future.248

In Barthes’ sense, most personal objects are coded, but are not true signifi ers because they are unrelated to the information/emotion they carry. In migration, in the fragile state of living

244 Kwint (1999) p. 2.245 See Pictures section.246 Stewart (1999) p. 18.247 Ibid. p. 19.248 Kwint (1999).249 Marker (1983).250 Benjamin (1969).

between cultures and countries, these codes can become important. I listened to my objects, began looking

at them with new eyes, photographed them, manipulated the photos to include what they were telling me. I was rubbing Aladdin’s lamp: ‘New lamps for old!’ I used a similar process for my drawings, paintings and dreams, putting together various elements to make

my punctum more apparent, and in the process perhaps less singularly personal. My genie/genius (in the sense of the

guardian/prevailing spirit between my inner and outer worlds) assisted me in creating new objects by suggesting words and arrangements of words that could explicate my punctum, what was implicit for me in the objects and dreams. Digital manipulations of this kind are extremely fl exible (once programs are mastered), and allow expressions that are otherwise impossible. As Chris Marker says, electronic text is

the only one that can deal with memory and imagination. It can be used to change images of the past so that the images of the present are more acceptable. He suggests a world where each memory can create its own poem or song.249

My new objects are fragile and thin: they are made from tiny dots and are just the height of a layer of ink on a piece of A4 paper (paper chosen to bear these millions of dots and to augment/refl ect the intrinsic qualities I wanted to portray). However, a compensation for the fragility is that, because they are digitally stored, they are infi nitely reproducible. I used the printer as a paintbrush to create ink-thin objects on skins of papers or fabrics.Walter Benjamin addresses this kind

of reproducibility in his well-known essay, ‘Th e work of art in the age of mechanical reproduction.’250 Works of art have always been reproducible, originally through manual copying, then via woodcuts, etching and lithography.

‘The magical power of the eye is at the centre of everything … The code is the message.’Chris Marker Sans Soleil249

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When Benjamin was writing in the 1930s, in pre-computer days, it was the development of photography that drew his attention. Around 1900, he wrote, ‘technical reproduction had reached a standard that not only permitted it to reproduce all works of art … it had also captured a place of its own among the artistic processes.’ 251 Benjamin discusses the reproduction of art works that may have some level of fame or notoriety, and the ways in which reproductive processes remove the presence of the original from elements of time and space. Th is presence is what he defi nes as the sensitive nucleus of authenticity, the element that cannot be reproduced, and without which the quality of presence is depreciated. Th e process of reproduction, he writes, jeopardises the authority of the object. He places the original object (the one to be reproduced) at a higher level of value than that of the reproduction. Th is hierarchy is not present in my work: the objects and dreams belong to one set of categories, the images to another, and all are of equal, though diff erent, value. As Benjamin writes, photographic (and more so current digital) processes of reproduction can bring elements not normally attainable to the eye. Such process include enlargement, and, in my case, the addition of text. Benjamin also discusses the notion of aura, the uniqueness of the original object. In my work, explicating the punctum makes visible a personal aura. Th is aura has its basis in my feelings and imagination, but may be suffi ciently universalist to resonate with others. I thought that my patches, the pages

of my artist’s book, would be easily handled because they are all electronic images and therefore easily reproduced. Yet in the process of its preparation and proofreading, I gave an early copy of the book to the members of my panel for their comment. To my surprise, all were unwilling to touch it or write suggested changes on the pages. Th e pages appeared to have gained some kind of an aura, a pre-Benjamin authenticity, despite their reproducible electronic nature.

Oddly, I can look at the images of my objects and be instantly renewed. I can return to the old place recalled by the object and its trail of memories, but it has changed: it is linked to a new place that has been created in my memory, in the present. It is not that the old memory disappears, it is that it has lost its potency. It stands behind a new place of memory and the trails have changed colour.

Picture

Descartes, at the beginning of his Discourse on Method and the Meditations, stated his wish to ‘present his life as in a picture’ because it is impossible to present it in three dimensions. He writes of dream images and their similarity to paintings, ‘the likeness of something real.’252 Gaston Bachelard writes of re-examining

his ‘faithfully beloved images which are so solidly fi xed in my memory that I no longer know whether I am remembering them or imagining them.’253

For Barthes, an image of an object is not reality, it is an analogon, without a code. It is aff ected by the imagination of the beholder.254

I argue that the image, or picture, of an iconic autobiographical object can, when digitally manipulated and treated/translated with text, become a new coded object in itself, functioning as a site for the location of a reworked personal history, a palinode.

Picture: a noun or a verb. Picture: a noun or a verb. Picture:A shape or set of shapes and lines

drawn, painted or printed on paper, canvas or other fl at surface, especially shapes that represent a recognisable form or object; a photograph; a vivid image in the mind of how something or somebody looks; a description or representation of something in writing, fi lm, music or other art form; a situation regarded as a scene being observed; to imagine or have an image of something in mind.

251 Benjamin (1969) p. 219.252 Descartes (1968).253 Bachelard (1960) p. 16.254 Barthes (1977a).

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Barthes’ notion of photography providing ineffable nostalgia and the lost trope of the ‘authentic’255 is no longer consistent with such manipulated images. Instead, as Gen Doy suggests, through contestation and re-cognition, the results of this kind of re-working can replace notions of loss through a re-engagement with the past, bringing renewal and empowerment in the present.256

Jo Spence, in her ‘political, personal and photographic autobiography,’257 made a revisionist autobiographical work using photography. In one chapter jointly authored by Rosy Martin and Jo Spence, the protagonists photograph each other in a semi-therapeutic, reframing scenario, displaying new ‘visual’ selves for each other and for the camera.258 They deliberately look for memories that have constrained them in some way and work to reverse or otherwise change their inbuilt programming. They also aim to make overt some of their many fragmented selves that might remain hidden from view despite striving for conscious recognition. They want to reinvent, reconstruct themselves rather than live their lives through the definitions of others and they use photography to do this. They suggest that the intersection of image production and personal memory creates a one-way disruption, after which we will always see ourselves differently. This breaking of frames – the re-

construction self-image through the making of fictional revisionist texts such as Martin and Spence’s and my own images, that entails the relationship between the fictive and the real, the blurring and traversing of boundaries (past and present, truth and fiction, image and text) – echoes the metaleptic transgression of boundaries within narrative levels that Debra Malina exposes. In such work, Shlomith Rimmon-Kenan suggests, ‘narration is always at a higher level than the story it narrates.’259 Malina proposes that in such work metalepsis can have both rhetorical and transformative effects on the subjectivity of the writer.260

I use colour in my manipulated images. The use of colour, far from Barthes’ idea of a coating applied to black-and-white photos,261 can through emotional affect provide a further opportunity for the re-working of the feelings and memories projected onto such objects. This idea is more concrete than Barthes’ interest in colours (word-colours): he buys them ‘by the mere sight of their names … (Indian Yellow, Persian Red, Celadon) … the name is a promise of pleasure.’262 Wassily Kandinsky writes of colour: ‘The eye is strongly attracted by light, clear colours, and still more by those which are warm as well as clear: vermilion has the charm of a flame, which has always attracted human beings. Keen lemon-yellow hurts the eye in time as a prolonged and shrill trumpet note the ear, and the gazer turns away to seek relief in blue or green.’263 Kandinsky believed in a psychic effect of colour that could either be direct, to the ‘soul’, or could be the effect of association. He writes that a warm red is exciting because of its association with flame. Delacroix also said that red suggests joy and plenty.264 I have used a warm red in various ways

throughout my artist’s book because of its exciting qualities, because it appealed to me aesthetically and because it stood out from black text. It has also contributed to form, where I have used red for headings at various levels, and for lines, threads and arrows. This use of red in headings throughout, for example, gently but strongly sews the disparate elements, the patches of the artist’s book together. It also connects the artist’s book and the exegesis.Colours are also used in nationalistic

practices, for example in the colours of national flags. I have used such colours for the chequerboards that introduce sections for each country: green, red and orange for India; black, red and green for Kenya; red, white and blue for England: green and gold for Australia. Oddly, the official Australian colours are red, white and blue (the Southern Cross flag that

255 Barthes (1980).256 Doy (2005).257 Spence (1986).258 Martin and Spence (1986).259 Rimmon-Kenan (1983) p. 92.260 Malina (2002) p. 9.261 Barthes (1977a).262 Barthes (1977 b) p. 129.263 Kandinsky (1977) p. 24.264 Ibid. p. 25.

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Throughout the book I have chosen fonts and their colours so that they enhance the content of the words they portray (see ‘Adrift’, ‘Phantome’ and ‘Riding notes’). I have consistently used Adobe Garamond Pro for large blocks of text within Tissue, and for this exegesis, to tie the two parts together. I have also used Gill Sans in red for headings throughout.In Joyce’s diary I used a typewriter-like

font for Churchill’s ‘speech’ and her diary to give the feeling of 1946. In working with fonts, colours and other visual elements throughout both books I have followed four basic design principles suggested by Robin Williams.266 These principles concern contrast (avoid similarity, go for difference); repetition (repeat visual elements such as shapes, colour and line thicknesses throughout); alignment (have visual connections between all the elements on a page), and proximity (put related items close to each other to help them appear as one unit rather than several). There is another category of images

where I have overlaid text onto the image itself to produce a multi-dimensional image/text. Image and text have metamorphosed

separately since the Sumerians used cuneiform lettering, and since medieval artists illuminated their holy texts. Through still and moving photography and digital technology, images have become virtual reality, while the letters that make alphabets remain abstract, connected only to the spoken word through language. Yet they remain intertwined as they each rely on the other for meaning: words can evoke images, and images can be described and interpreted by words.267

Researchers at the University of British Columbia have been investigating a particular form of arts-based qualitative research that they call a/r/tography. Rita Irwin describes it thus: ‘To be engaged in the process of a/r/tography means to inquire in the world through an ongoing process of art making in any artform

incorporates the Union Jack), yet green and gold uniforms and the green and gold boxing kangaroo flag are consistently used at sporting events. The first chequerboard is black-and-

white, night-and-day, echoing the stanza by the Persian poet Omar Khayyam. Many of the images in my book are plain

photographic records that are illustrative of text close by. These images (such as those in the second Kenya section that denotes my early life there) might be found in any family album. They serve as a record of the past and may invoke responses such as nostalgia or curiosity, and may or may not have captions or comments. They are added to the text to give an explanation or a visual aspect that makes the narrative more open to connection with the reader. The pages that show the ‘before and after’ Kenya photographs belong to this category also, but are separate from the narrative. Barthes wrote that ‘the text is a linguistic

message acting as a technique intended to fix the floating signifiers in such a way as to counter the terror of uncertain signs.’265 While I agree that text may help to fix floating signifiers (many of which are personal in autobiographical texts and therefore may be difficult for a reader to interpret), I think the notion of ‘terror’ is far fetched: I suspect many readers probably merely disconnect from the text if it is not intelligible to them.Other images use text only to create

an image: examples are the ‘Adrift’ and ‘Sunflower pollen’ pages. In the tree poem I have used the poetic form of a phantoum and manipulated the lines so that the shape of the words echoes that of a tree. The poem is then overlaid on a photo that superimposes an image of a young gum tree that I planted here in Canberra with the photograph of one of the gum trees I planted as a child in Kenya. The poetic text in content and form both echoes tree form and ties the old and young trees in the image together. It simultaneously ties past and present together.

265 Barthes (1977a) p. 39.266 Williams (1994).267 Sornig (2004).

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and writing not separate or illustrative of each other but interconnected and woven through each other to create additional and/or enhanced meanings.’ 268 Irwin suggests that ar/t/ography is a

place where knowing, doing and making merge; it is a language of metonyms, of borderlands, that can also be called métissage (from the French, métis, originally used to describe a person of mixed blood).269 It is also a place where integration of, and flow between, intellect, feeling and practice can take place through re-creating, re-searching and re-learning ways of understanding the world and our experiences and memories.270 The space of métissage lies between modernist and postmodernist ideas: it is a place of relationship and metonym where dialogical thinking and metaphor replace dualisms, and where aesthetics are used to convey meaning rather than facts.271 Stephanie Springgay, Rita Irwin and

Sylvia Kind describe a/r/tography as a way of rendering self through living inquiry with art and text. It is research that gives more than a single meaning to our experience; its foundations are in losses, shifts and ruptures that allow new meanings to emerge. They continue the definition of a/r/tography as a ‘process of double meaning that includes the creation of art and words. They are not discourses laid on top of each other in the hopes of transferring meaning from one textual realm to another; rather they are interconnections that speak in conversations with, in and through art and text such that the encounters are constitutive rather than descriptive.’272 It seems that I have unwittingly been

engaged in the process of a/r/tography. I have manipulated my photographic images (for example, to give them oddly shaped shadows or to enhance/change their colours); I have added text that is constitutive rather than descriptive; I have engaged in living inquiry.

My use of text and digital manipulation to create such transformed images mediates the referent. If the original object, the referent, in the photograph or scanned image represents Barthes’ studium, a general interest, my added text and treatment reveal my personal punctum, using Baudrillard’s notion of letting objects speak for themselves, but through my voice. Other migrants perhaps may recognise

my attitude towards the objects, as a mixture of the doxa (accepted, ‘natural’) and the personal, with poesis being used to reveal some common truths in the vein of Heidegger’s ‘Being’ and ‘Truth’.273 In creating the digital objects that are

part of my bricolage, I print the images onto various ‘skins’ – fabrics and different kinds of paper, adding varying amounts of text and other enhancements such as thread. Sometimes image dominates, sometimes the text. As Jay Prosser writes of the body, the skin is the interface between the self and the world: it can incorporate identity and is a literalisation of body narratives.274 I chose the skins of my objects to flesh

out, to enhance both my punctum and a cutaneous-feeling quality. The transformed image becomes a new object, replete with Lacan’s ‘Tuché’, a fragile representation projected onto a skin, yet owning its own trail of thoughts and memories, and its own powers of evocation. I create what Susan Stewart describes as ‘a trompe l’oeil on the skin of a painting.’275 Each seems sufficient to engage the magical power of my eye/I. I have also chosen the skins to enhance

the touchability of the images. Stewart writes of the temporal aspect of touching: it is the pressure of our own bodily existence. Touch’s pressure brings change to both the toucher and the touched, although the spatial immediacy of touch may take more time to permeate the senses compared with the temporal immediacy of visual perception.

268 Irwin (2006) a/r/tography website.269 Irwin (2004) p. 28.270 Ibid. p. 29.271 Ibid. p. 35.272 Springgay et al. (2005) p. 899.273 Heidegger (1996) pp. 126-127.274 Prosser (2005).275 Stewart (1999) p. 24.

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Stewart writes of the mythology of attention and touch for awaking the dead in the stories of the Sleeping Beauty, Pygmalion and Pinocchio. She cites Rousseau: when ‘Galatea the statue awakens and touches herself. “C’est moi,” she says and turning to touch a nearby block of marble, “Ce n’est plus moi.” But when she touches her creator Pygmalion, she finds only more of herself, “Ah, encore moi!”’276

IV Articulation I will briefly discuss six of my text/

images. Three of the images are based on photographs of objects that have travelled with me and members of my family through five migrations. The fourth is based on a drawing, an emotional response to a recent dream when I unexpectedly regained some family history and for the first time a sense of homeland. The two remaining images are photographs that I have taken relatively recently and used to depict my emotional states in the past. These images are autobiographical, part of the contradictory, shifting configuration of my personhood, an opportunity to revise and reinvent myself. Image 1. Precious

This image privileges evocation (look, taste, lustre). The gendered objects in this triptych carry my autobiographical memory, the disruption of my life, and, as personal reference points, bring to my life both nostalgia and stability. They are signifiers of the five journeys, of a colonial past, of the loss of father, mother, grandmother. They carry the touch of people now dead, they bring the dead back to life through touch, creating a doubling of experience. They carry hallowed/ halo’d memories.In the left-hand picture, my

grandmother’s locket, bracelet and watch lie on her own initials that she embroidered onto a linen tablecloth. In the other corners of the cloth are the initials of my grandfather, father and uncle. In the right-hand image, my

mother’s crystal and silver dressing table ornaments, her watch and pearls, lie on my christening dress. She made the dress from her bridal veil, embroidering it with lilies of the valley, pink and blue rosebuds. I may have been the fourth baby to have been christened in it. In the central image, an old brass Tibetan box contains a battered soapstone Buddha and a traditional Tibetan silk scarf. My father brought these back as a souvenirs from an adventurous visit to Tibet in 1923, and carried the Buddha with him throughout his war service in Burma, as a talisman.The photographs are suffused with gold:

this creates a gloss of noumenon, an obtuse meaning, and connects the objects, making them a set, a family. The poetic text underneath is a reflection on objects as relics of death. It can be read both horizontally and vertically.Image 2. Dispatch box Burma 1942

The image is based on a photograph of my military father’s dispatch box. It too has travelled with me, but before that it travelled from England all over India and into Burma with my father during the war. To me, it contains the time my mother died in Calcutta while he was fighting in Burma. The text is relay text, making a created or synthetic memory from my father’s stories amalgamated with other people’s stories of the time. The box functions to hold and shape the text as it shapes and holds memory.Image 3. Tibetan bowl

The bowl is my grail, speaking to me of travel, the exotic, a reminder of my birth in the foothills of the Himalayas. It is quite upsetting to have had my birthplace destroyed by the earthquake before I could revisit it. The bowl mediates possible future

adventures with my present discontent with suburbia. Its genesis in my family was as a souvenir from pre-invasion Tibet, when my father and his brother Harry travelled to Tibet in the 1920s with Sherpa Tenzing (of later fame as the Sherpa who

276 Stewart (1999) p. 34.

65

climbed with Edmund Hillary in the first ascent of Everest in the 1950s). I don’t know its previous history. Perhaps it lived with monks in Tibetan monasteries echoing with Aum Mane Padme Hung. Perhaps it journeyed the Silk Road? It has been well-used, because some of its coral and turquoise decorations are missing. It travelled around India with the army and my father, and later accompanied us from India to England to Africa to England to Australia. It has been extracted from its possible

backgrounds (a Tibetan home or market place; a table in a British military compound near the Khyber Pass; a Kenyan window sill; a storage shed in Sussex; a kitchen shelf in suburban Canberra). An unusual shadow has attached itself to the image, and both image and shadow are overlaid with text.The text functions as anchorage rather

than relay; it is both foreground and background. It is constructed from word associations, with the words repeated and arranged in alphabetical order – imposing order on the personal and political events that have seen both me and this object travel the globe.Image 4. Bird dream

I discovered my mother’s family through an odd coincidence. When I was in England in 1999 visiting my half-sister’s son, his wife told me that there was a Castleman-Smith (maternal) family tree at a place called Chettle House in Dorset. I never dreamed there would be relatives at Chettle, so when I returned to Australia I wrote to the curator of Chettle House asking whether I could be placed on the family tree along with my children and grandchildren. In return I received a letter that began ‘Dear Cousin Sally …’. In 2003, I visited Chettle and my cousins for a few weeks, and obtained a copy of my mother’s family tree that goes back 800 years. It includes my smuggler ancestor Isaac Gulliver whose ill-gotten gains have sustained his descendants since the early 1800s. My maternal grandfather and

extravagant grandmother spent their share very quickly, so I have not inherited in the same way my cousins have. They are one of only six families in England that own complete villages, and they take their duty of care extremely seriously.This important dream occurred on

the first night I slept in Chettle village, in my cousin’s house. It is a dream of rebirth, of transformation. The drawing is my response to the dream: unformed, ephemeral, undefined and unfinished, text and drawing have become an object floating on a skin of paper.Image 5. Grounded

This is based on a photograph I took at a dance theatre event at Mirramu on the shores of Lake George, as part of the Lake George Festival in 1998. The theatre piece was commenting on the impossibility of early European settlement trying to tame this natural feature, a dry lake. The composition and content of the photo echoed the feelings I had when I first came to Australia, separated from all that was familiar and left to bring up three children with little help or money. My ship, it seemed, was small, leaky, and could travel no further. I intensified the colours to make them hard, dazzling and grainy. My feelings were summarised in the word ‘grounded’. I had never previously articulated my memories of the affect of that time, and when I first produced that image I couldn’t stop looking at it because of its numinous feel.Image 6. Bleeding

This image originated in an ephemeral painting I created at a beach by putting red oxide powder on a rock and photographing the effects of the waves as they painted the oxide down the beach. The connections between red oxide and blood are obvious, but when I created the new image it was the first time I had tried to articulate in visual form the pain I had felt during my divorce. Journaling in words does not have the same intense effect for me.

66

V Anlage

Making an autobiography disrupts the commonplace, the everyday, and allows room for a change in self-understanding. Th e creation of my pictures, manipulated images from autobiographical objects, photographs, drawings and dreams, imbricates textuality, selfhood, subjectivity and agency, and provides a site for personal empowerment. Th e making of such images and writing

revisionist autobiographical texts are two processes that I believe tie into Damasio’s model of the self: when the core self interacts with an autobiographical text or object, it reacts. If aspects of an image of an autobiographical object are thoughtfully and deliberately changed, the altered image drops down and connects into the autobiographical self, eff ecting a subtle change in identity in the same way that writing an autobiographical text may use altered memories and alter aspects of selfhood.Th e processes I have been engaged with

– of turning my eyes inwards; looking for ‘the Moon that cannot be seen’; listening for the ‘whispers of the heart’; being the face, the mirror and the wide-view mirror; of moving backwards and forwards through imagined internal time, articulating new versions of the past – have altered the memories upon which my sense of self depends. So the process has now become one of change, of discovery, of anlage.

I dissolve in a blue fi re

consumed transformed

(trans)migrated

Anlage: a primordial place of Anlage: a primordial place of Anlage:beginnings; pertaining to the very beginning; a fi rst recognisable stage in the development of an organism.

Aubade: a song, poem, or piece of Aubade: a song, poem, or piece of Aubade:instrumental music celebrating or greeting the dawn.

V Aubade

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revealing concealing revealing concealing

my story uses words that haven’t been invented yet so how can i write it if i use the words my story uses words that haven’t been invented yet so how can i write it if i use the words that have been invented some aren’t approved of in academia words like emotion beauty that have been invented some aren’t approved of in academia words like emotion beauty spirit and words like subjectivity locus epistomology critique are popular and approved spirit and words like subjectivity locus epistomology critique are popular and approved of so i must censor the words that are invented and i am permitted to use so they are of so i must censor the words that are invented and i am permitted to use so they are

approved so my story is convoluted to fi t into academic expectations why did i choose to approved so my story is convoluted to fi t into academic expectations why did i choose to do this i wonder but it’s my story my life one day i’ll rewrite it to put in the other words do this i wonder but it’s my story my life one day i’ll rewrite it to put in the other words

but now some days no words come at all other days the academic words fl ow but the but now some days no words come at all other days the academic words fl ow but the creative ones won’t yet there’s a timetable i must fi nish in three years that means just a creative ones won’t yet there’s a timetable i must fi nish in three years that means just a

few more months to go yet my life is a lot longer than that so much must be left out even few more months to go yet my life is a lot longer than that so much must be left out even more than is forgotten the fi lters are strong what will sound right look right what fi ts in more than is forgotten the fi lters are strong what will sound right look right what fi ts in with academic thought on autobiography memory identity time text image what are the with academic thought on autobiography memory identity time text image what are the events thoughts feelings that will contribute to a strong piece of creative work yet i am events thoughts feelings that will contribute to a strong piece of creative work yet i am rewriting my life and the lives of others who have been important to me the events the rewriting my life and the lives of others who have been important to me the events the

places the stories the world events and politics the cultures that aff ected me that make me places the stories the world events and politics the cultures that aff ected me that make me choose the words i use and the wish to turn some of them into images all go through the choose the words i use and the wish to turn some of them into images all go through the prism of words and through the prism of images to be shaped and formed also they go prism of words and through the prism of images to be shaped and formed also they go

through small-holed fi lters that keep the big emotions and spiritual thoughts out they are through small-holed fi lters that keep the big emotions and spiritual thoughts out they are all left in the strainer what will happen to them i wonder when this is all over and three all left in the strainer what will happen to them i wonder when this is all over and three strangers perhaps in another land and culture have read some of the intimate thoughts strangers perhaps in another land and culture have read some of the intimate thoughts and expressions of my brain and hands and give it a mark a b c d that indicates how and expressions of my brain and hands and give it a mark a b c d that indicates how successful i have been yet how is that success measured is it the accuracy the mimetic successful i have been yet how is that success measured is it the accuracy the mimetic

quality of my writing the poetic quality of my work or is it the aesthetic representations quality of my writing the poetic quality of my work or is it the aesthetic representations of my past realities and present representations of those realities that will win me an a of my past realities and present representations of those realities that will win me an a b c d and if its the mimetic quality how do they measure the gaps between what I have b c d and if its the mimetic quality how do they measure the gaps between what I have written and what actually happened is there a special caliper that does this or is all just written and what actually happened is there a special caliper that does this or is all just

a smokescreen so it all seems founded in reality it sounds and looks real and if its the a smokescreen so it all seems founded in reality it sounds and looks real and if its the aesthetics they are sure to have diff erent aesthetic indices from mine so just what are they aesthetics they are sure to have diff erent aesthetic indices from mine so just what are they

measuring in order to get that a b c d and if i get a d that means i have failed so does measuring in order to get that a b c d and if i get a d that means i have failed so does that mean my life has failed too or is it just the idea of the academic award and in this that mean my life has failed too or is it just the idea of the academic award and in this all i reveal conceal reveal conceal yet what i reveal is not necessarily true even with the all i reveal conceal reveal conceal yet what i reveal is not necessarily true even with the best of intentions my memory fl oats and shimmers as a desert mirage reveals camels and best of intentions my memory fl oats and shimmers as a desert mirage reveals camels and oases that are miles maybe even years away and lead mad people stranded in the desert oases that are miles maybe even years away and lead mad people stranded in the desert

to their doom and i may be going astray in the desert too because all this writing my life to their doom and i may be going astray in the desert too because all this writing my life changes how i see myself more than that it feels like it changes who i am so perhaps the changes how i see myself more than that it feels like it changes who i am so perhaps the madness is mine if madness is the distance between how i see life and what’s actuallly madness is mine if madness is the distance between how i see life and what’s actuallly happening yet the more i read the more i discover that there seems to be little objective happening yet the more i read the more i discover that there seems to be little objective

reality at all and the vivid quality of memories or dreams seems to have little to do with reality at all and the vivid quality of memories or dreams seems to have little to do with their accuracy or importance so writing a life and examining what i have written seems their accuracy or importance so writing a life and examining what i have written seems to be just another little loop in the game of time putting it put there on paper yet it seems to be just another little loop in the game of time putting it put there on paper yet it seems

important and something impels me to complete this and I can feel myself changing important and something impels me to complete this and I can feel myself changing as i do it yet we are told in postmodernism there is no self no teleology of the self yet it as i do it yet we are told in postmodernism there is no self no teleology of the self yet it

certainly feels like it i will emerge from this experience a diff erent person how diff erent i certainly feels like it i will emerge from this experience a diff erent person how diff erent i don’t know and then i have to live with the a b c d that my life’s work is awarded i will don’t know and then i have to live with the a b c d that my life’s work is awarded i will be pleased with an a and disappointed with a d but what can i do except conceal reveal be pleased with an a and disappointed with a d but what can i do except conceal reveal

conceal reveal conceal reveal use what words and images i can use what words and images i can

revealing concealing revealing concealing

V1 Afterwords

ProtoselvesNeural patterns, wordless images reconstructed anew at each moment: represents current state. Core self

Core consciousness:transient, ephemeral, ceaselesslessly changing. Present for one moment, here and now.

Qualia

CORTEX OF THE BRAIN

‘Self ’Life narrative*

Mind, intellect

Sense of identity Repertoire of patterned responses, socially and culturally determined and varying with the intrinsic qualities provided by the core and autobiographical selves.

Consciousness and biology: the making of self and identity (after Damasio 2000)

Th e world of imagination and possible futures

*Narrative construction of the self: see, for example:Bruner (2002), Neissser and Fivush (1994), King (2000), Olney (1998), McAdams (1996), Ricoeur (1995).

Autobiographical self Extended consciousnessconstantly recreated through interaction with objects, people, environment and aff ected by inherited biology. Emotional. Conceptual sense of past, present, future. Grows, based on experience plus permanent but partially modifi able records. Gives stability and sense of unity.

The meaning of objects

Psychoanalytic: Object relations (Klein, Lacan)

Semiotics:Signs and signifiers (Barthes)

Neurophysiology:We recreate ourselves through our interactions with objects (Damasio)

Biography of objects:Objects and memory are in a continual dialectic; they can unlock the personal (Kwint)

Commodities: The fetishism of the object (Marx)

Touch is the threshold between self and otherPhenomenology:Objects, with reverie and poetry, allow articulation of the imagination (Bachelard)

Choisme:‘To be is to have’ (Gusdorf)

Marginal objects:Historical, symbolic, authenticity, emotional investment (Baudrillard)

Objects:The politics of value (Appadurai)

TissueAlice Castleman

Sally Berridge wrote this as she was sitting in the back of a Fordson Van travelling on Dusty Roads from Mombasa to Nairobi, on Sunday October 16th 1948, having travelled as a Child by Ships from India to England, then to Africa, when it only wanted another day’s Travelling, thinking of the Time when she might have a Home and when looking at this shall recollect when she did it.

At yet another new school now, in Nairobi. Thursday January 20th 1950.And now at Reading University to study Agriculture where she never hoped or expected

to be, being Lately Come from Africa by Aeroplane – how quickly Time passes and how ignorant we are of Futurity. Monday September 11th 1956.

And now a Wife and Mother of three Children but with far Diff erent Feelings – let the date speak. Thursday September 7th 1965.

And now in Tasmania, Australia, having travelled here by Ship enduring much Tribulation and Hardship as a ‘Ten-Pound Pom’. Wednesday January 16th 1966.

And now in my room at Hawkesbury, a Mother, a Scientist, and a Public Servant, having suff ered much, slowly advancing to a better Salary, and led on by Financial Necessity, Blindly, not knowing whither the Public Service is taking me. Even so, O Lord. Wednesday September 25th 1976.

And now a Grandmother in Canberra, released Mercifully from the Public Service, and expecting soon to be a Freelance Editor and Writer. Monday February 28th 1997.

And now a Creative Student, hoping soon to receive the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy from the Chancellor. Sunday March 12th, 2006.

After Cardinal Newman’s Autobiography in Miniature. Started in1812 when he was 11, completed in 1884 when he was 83. Newman, J. H. (Cardinal). 1956. Autobiographical Writings. H. Tristram (ed.). London, Sheed & Ward, p.5.

In my magpie collections nestle my old words my old music my old times

… alphabets of stone… the sharp bite of lemons

… red feathers from birds in flight … golden dozing cocoons

… blue lilies roses hibiscus daffodils … dreams, dried and pressed

within the soft album of my mind,the wetness of my blood.

Some dreams crinkle and fade some live on for years

softly quietly invisibly and one spring day spring into leaf life.

‘Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days

Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:

Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,

And one by one back in the Closet lays.

Th e Rubaiyyat of Omar Khayyam. Done into English by Edward FitzGerald. London, Leopold B. Hill. No date. Stanza XLIX.

Omar Khayyam, the Persian astronomer, poet and tent-maker lived in the latter half of our eleventh century. A Rubaiyyat is a group of independent stanzas consisting of four lines of equal, though varied, prosody, sometimes all rhyming, often with the third line suspending the cadence and falling over the fourth like a wave. P. 63.

… Red thread …

harbinger of change: rejecting the comm

onplace: dwelling outsid

e lan

guag

e: bri

nging new visions of life and self: opening new understandings …

Family trees

Harold Henry ‘Harry’ BERRIDGE Basil ‘Bill’ BERRIDGE m (1st) Gwendolin Patricia DODGSON BERRY

The Berridge Family

Harold Edward William ‘Ted’ BERRIDGE Alice Margaret ‘Sally’ BERRIDGE

Jesse BERRIDGE Harold BERRIDGE m (1st) Alice Harriet LYE

Henry BERRIDGE m Maud TIMPERLEY, W. H TIMPERLEY

m (2nd) Joyce Evelyn RUSCOE

William TIMPERLEY m Elizabeth BRADNEY EVANS

William Henry COBB LYE m Georgina Inglis JAMESON

Alice Harriet LYE

m (2nd) Phyllis ?

(God-daughter of Sir Robert Peel)

Unknown to me until 2003

The Castleman-Smith Family

Lillian Edith CASTLEMAN-SMITH (deceased as a baby)Gwendolin Patricia CASTLEMAN-SMITH m (1st) Donald DODGSON BERRY

Melanie Patricia BERRYJocelyn Mary BERRY

m (2nd) Basil BERRIDGE

Harold Edward William ‘Ted’ BERRIDGEAlice Margaret ‘Sally’ BERRIDGE

Edward CASTLEMAN-SMITHEdith CASTLEMAN-SMITHElla CASTLEMAN-SMITHDouglas Edwin SMITH m Mary Patricia STEERS PEEL divorced 1917

Edwin SMITH m Ann CASTLEMAN

Edward CASTLEMAN m Ann FRYER

William FRYER m Elizabeth GULLIVER

Isaac GULLIVER m Elizabeth BEALE

Frank STEERS PEEL m Fanny Louisa WHITE

Mary Patricia STEERS PEEL

William PEEL m Ann Jane STEERS(Sir Robert Peel’s cousin)

Jonathan PEEL m Esther BOLTON

Robert PEEL m Elizabeth HAWORTH

Unknown to me until 2003

Short biographies

Who are they anyway?

Douglas Edwin Smith

What happened to Lillian?

Pat PeelDate and place of birth1876 Motueka New Zealand. Daughter of Frank Steers Peel from Canada (occupation: gentleman).Training/occupation Probably none, talked of having been an ‘actress’. Very short.Date and place of death1960 Worthing, Sussex.CommentsHad reputation of being extremely extravagant, probably spent all Douglas’ (and my) share of Gulliver’s money. Edward’s sister wrote from India (1903): ‘I hear Pat Smith is by no means a success – she is so extravagant I feel so sorry for Douglas. Ted has now got him into something else as I believe as the first venture did not bring in enough to please Mrs Douglas.’Divorce papers (1909), Pat’s letter to Douglas: ‘I am perfectly willing to live simply and in as small a house as you like if you will only return to me.’ Divorce was virulent: Pat was not allowed to see Gwen again (sent to live with her aunts Edie and Ella at Charlton Manor while Douglas was in Mesopotamia). Ended her life living in Worthing in small flat with budgie and plenty of gin. In 1958 thought Sally was Gwen. Said she was a relative of Victorian British PM Sir Robert Peel. 2006 – I discovered that her grandfather was indeed Sir Robert’s cousin.

Grandparents I

Date and place of birth1872 Pimperne Dorset. No birth certificate found.Training: Solicitor. Occupation(s) Solicitor – 1901 census, England (living with widowed mother-in-law), also 1909. Livery – the care, feeding and stabling of horses (Canada 1902).Retired planter (India 1934).Army service? Yes. Rank: Captain.Appointed to 13 Duke of Connaught’s Lancers (Watson’s Horse) 31 July 1915-1918. Operational service in British Expeditionary Force, Mesopotamia.India – member of the Cavalry Reserve1919-1922.Date and place of death (?) 29 October 1944 Karen Kenya. No death certificate found.Comments Had no time for hyphenated surnames – documents refer to him as plain Smith. Lost arm and eye pig-sticking in India. Wrote home to sisters, sending glass eye (blue), requesting more copies to be made in London; Indian copies not reliable.Final divorce in 1917: Pat’s infidelity with young man later killed in France. Counter accusations of his infidelity with a ‘Mrs Smith’. Was given custody of Gwen. Not known why or when he went to Kenya from India.

Damn that pig, by George! That just wasn’t cricket!

Married 1900 Bobbington, England.Divorced 1917 Calcutta, India.

Grandparents IIHarold Berridge Alice LyeDate and place of birth1872 EnglandTrainingCivil engineer. Awarded CIE and OBE.Occupations (some)1893-1896 – Resident engineer Poole Harbour; 1902-1903 – Asst. Superintendent, New York approaches to Hudson Tunnel; 1907-1908 – engineer to North London Railway; 1904-1924 – Chief Engineer Aden Port Trust .Army service? Yes1917-1918 Major and Commandant Aden Volunteers and Aden Rifl es IDF. 1918-1920 Garrison Engineer Aden Field Force (twice mentioned in dispatches). Date and place of death1948 Sutton England.CommentsLived in large dark damp gloomy house in Sutton, Surrey in 1946. Deaf in left ear. Kind to grandchildren Ted and Sally, apparently wanted to adopt them. Didn’t like Basil, thought he was dishonest and particularly bad with money. Told stories of a long sea voyage with his father when he was a young lad and had to tap ship’s biscuits to remove weevils. 2005 – ship found to be the Walmer Castle which voyaged to Melbourne. 2003 – Phyllis still lives with the family silver – and delusions of grandeur – in a small fl at in Sutton.

Married Alice 1896 Kensington. After Alice’s death Harold married the nurse Phyllis, 30 years his junior. She called him ‘Daddy’, still does. She’s 90-something. Date and place of birth

1870 KensingtonTraining Probably none.OccupationProbably ‘wife’. Excellent embroiderer.Date and place of death1934 Sutton. Heart failure, myocarditis and chronic asthma. Gloomy house probably didn’t help.CommentsNone. Never met her. Th ough I have her beautifully embroidered tablecloth.

Harold’s parents, Maud and Henry Berridge. Maud’s brother W. H. Timperley CIE came to Australia as a young man, entered the police and became the Superintendent of Rottnest Island Aboriginal Prison. He was a writer then a magistrate in Bunbury. Henry was a sea captain and sailed to Melbourne with his young sons in the ‘Walmer Castle.’ I wouldn’t have sailed with him: look at his eyes.

Harold, brother Jesse and mother Maud after Henry’s death.

Photos: 2004. Internet search of W. H. Timperley (author’s name from fl yleaf of my inherited book ‘Bush Luck’) revealed several Timperley cousins alive and well in Queensland, Melbourne and Perth. One cousin had inherited these Berridge family photos that had remained in an album in Melbourne for 100 years. She scanned them in and sent them to me by email. She scanned them in and sent them to me by email.

Parents I (mother)Gwendolin Patricia BerridgeDate and place of birth1902 Huntsville, Muskoka, Canada. At a young age sent to live with aunts in Charlton Manor, Dorset, during parents’ divorce. Went to India after the first war, to join her father, or perhaps to find a husband? If so, succeeded.TrainingNone known. Loved to sing and gave concerts to build a health centre for women and children in Kohat.OccupationMilitary wife. Older sister to Lillian who died before the age of five. I cannot find where Lillian was born, or where (or why) she died.Date and place of death1942 Calcutta, India from typhoid. She volunteered to nurse in St John’s Ambulance Brigade, and was sent to the typhoid ward. Apparently wasn’t inoculated.CommentsNot many, since there are few records or memories, but Iris, her friend, loved her very much for many years. There are some photos of her with a young American soldier not long before her death. Did they have an affair? Could he be my biological father? A clairvoyant told me that he was. Her first marriage was to Donald Dodgson Berry (descendant of Charles Dodgson aka Lewis Carroll), and they had two daughters, Melanie and Jocelyn. During their parents’ divorce, they went to live with their great-aunts at Charlton Manor where she had spent her childhood. She loved dogs, especially white German Shepherds.

My first birthday party with Buruf (Ice) the white Alsatian.

I have those golden pearls.

Gwen, Melanie and Jocelyn.

Mum and me 1941.

Parents II (father)Basil (Bill) BerridgeDate and place of birth1902 Sunderland County Durham England. TrainingImperial Service College and Royal Military Academy Sandhurst. Excelled in boxing, riding and rowing.Occupation(s)1921-1948 army officer in Turkey, Egypt, Kenya and India (Highland Light Infantry; King’s African Rifles; Royal Indian Army Service Corps); controller of oil purchases in Calcutta for army in Imphal, Burma 1943. After partition of India was sent to Pakistan to close NW frontier posts and bring Indians to the south. Saw too many massacres. Farmer 1948-1960 Kenya.Army service? Yes.Eventually reached rank of Lieutenant Colonel 1946.Date and place of deathKitale, Kenya 1960 six weeks before the birth of his first grandson, Simon. Apparently had a stroke or heart attack while playing polo, and fell to the ground from his horse, dead.CommentsMembers of his family have been in the army since before the Indian Mutiny and the Peninsular War. Went to Tibet in the 20s with Sherpa Tenzing as guide. Knew the NW Frontier from Kashmir to the Arabian Sea, and the India-Burma border from North Assam to the Arakhan. Unfortunately wanted to talk about these travels at every possible opportunity. Comments on his verbosity permeate his army records. Oddly, he wrote poetry. Cruel sense of humour. Army took over his financial affairs at one stage. Favourite book was The Rubaiyyat of Omar Khayyam.

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

1. India General Service Medal 1908-1945, Northwest Frontier 1930-1931. George VII.2. India General Service Medal 1936-1939, Northwest Frontier 1936-1937. Mention in dispatches (oak leaf emblem). George VII.3. 1939-1945 Star (service during the Second World war). 4.Burma Star (service in Burma, Bengal and Assam). 5. War Medal 1939-1945 (full-time personnel of the British Commonwealth). 6. India Service Medal 1939-1945 (three years’ non-operational service).

RIASC officers.

HLI officers with local dignitaries. Note solar topee on knee – to ward off midday sun and madness.

Married Gwen Castleman-Smith 1934, Calcutta. Married Joyce Ruscoe 1946, Madras.

Parents III (stepmother)Joyce RuscoeDate and place of birth 1908 London. Parents were cousins.TrainingCentral School of Speech and Drama London. Voice and physical stance never recovered.Occupation(s)Actor Maddermarket Theatre Norwich; ambulance driver London Blitz 1940-1941; Organising Secretary Norfolk War Charities 1941-1945; volunteer Women’s Voluntary Service 1945-1946; pioneer farmer’s wife 1948-1963; Executive Officer Kitale Primary School 1961-1967; PA to Regional Coordinator East African Cooperative Maize Improvement Program 1967-1969. Actor and Director Kitale Theatre Club 1948-1970.Date and place of death1986: heart attack on the London tube (not sure which line or station) after an East Africa Women’s League annual meeting.CommentsFiercely patriotic. Hero-worshipped Winston Churchill, King George and Queen Elizabeth. Met despondent Bill Berridge on troopship Georgic en route to India and Far East (Malaya), to repatriate soldiers for the WVS after the war. Engaged to him within one week. Very efficient. Unused to children but apparently adaptable to countries other than England. Lived in Kenya tent for 12 months. Made stepchildren plant eucalyptus trees. Tried to learn riding. Took many jobs after Bill died. At 84 ran Poppy Day for West Sussex and bullied ‘lazy’ nursing home residents into buying poppies.

These three photos from Joyce’s archives 1986. Do WSC and BB look a little alike?

Above: Greek dancing (presumably). Above right: photo given to BB when they parted in Bombay 1948. Further right and other photos: during the Blitz 1940-1941. Exercise with a strongly dramatic edge; the ambulance, Joyce and friend Molly; Joyce geared up with a gas mask.

Photos from Joyce’s archives 1986.

Private

My family

my two sons

my daughter

my four grand-

daughters

my two grand-sons

Eter nity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle

The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic ag

e Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle Th

e Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siec

le The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages A

tomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetim

e All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetim

e All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle Th

e Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Fac

t

Georgic (II) Built Belfast 1931Tonnage: 27 759 grtLength: 683’ 7”Beam: 82’ 5”

1931 Started the Atlantic run, Southampton – New York.1939 Requisitioned for British trooping duties. 1940 Converted to a trooping vessel. Evacuated British troops from Norway and France. Carried Canadian troops across the Atlantic to the Middle East via the round Africa route.1941 Sailed in a convoy that left the Clyde. Convoy hunted and sank the Bismarck. Reached the Gulf of Suez in July. While at anchor was bombed twice by German aircraft. Ship’s stern was set afire, fuel exploded. Evacuated and left half-submerged to burn out. In October was raised and salvaged. Towed stem first to Port Sudan.1942 Sailed to Bombay for repairs.1943 Arrived in March at Liverpool for a complete refit. 1944 In December the refit was complete.1945 Brought troops from the Far East to Liverpool, including General Sir William Slim.1946 Repatriated 5 000 Italian prisoners of war.1945-1948 Troopship to Italy, the Middle East and India.1949 Sailed from Liverpool on the Australia and New Zealand immigrant service.1956 Broken up in Scotland for Shipbreaking Industries Ltd.

THIS IS THE BBC HOME SERVICE. TODAY OUR PRIME MINISTER HAS AN IMPORTANT REQUEST FOR THE WOMEN OF BRITAIN. MAY 3RD 1945.1

Men and women of Britain. In our darkest hours we have fought the enemy and now we have prevailed.

We have suffered immeasurably, but in that suffering we have saved the world from the peril of evil in the hands of madmen determined to dominate our blessed, scept’rd isle, to destroy our long, brave history and all the values that we hold so dear, and, ultimately, to turn us into slaves.

There is no need for me to thank you because I know that you are all too aware of the terror of the conflict we have fought, you know of the bravery of those we have lost, and you know the gift we now give to the world.

Yet I have more to ask of you. You know that the war with Japan is coming to a close. Our allies in the United States are preparing to draw that conflict to a dreadful final conclusion. I cannot tell you more at this time, but we do know that when hostilities cease there is still much to be done for our brothers and sisters in the Far East.

The men and women of our Army, Navy and Air Force have spent many testing years far from their homes and families, and they still may need to remain in the Far East for an indefinite period, even after an armistice is signed. Our forces cannot in all conscience leave the Far East until many and difficult tasks are completed.

We must ensure that the terms of surrender are carried out fairly and properly.

We must deal with pockets of resistance in the remote areas. We must carry out cleaning up operations, and there is in general much work to be done to restore normality to a huge and complex area, Singapore and Burma in particular. Especially, we must repatriate those who were prisoners of war.

Our British brothers and sisters have been cruelly confined by our enemies, against the laws of the Geneva Convention. They are in dire need of our help to regain their health and come home to the Britain for which they have so gallantly fought.

I call on you women of Britain to show your compassion. British women, you have shown us your strength. Against the odds, you have fought bravely alongside our men. You have worked tirelessly in factories to produce vital munitions. You have tilled the land to grow and harvest vital food while our seas have been blockaded by the enemy.

Now I ask you to take on one more task to help restore humanity to our people.

I ask you, British women, to commit yourselves for two years, to go out to the Far East and assist our brave men and women who so badly need your aid and your compassion. I cannot promise you a salary, but I can offer you travelling expenses, uniforms, and board and lodging.

I ask you to donate a mere two years of your life to show your gratitude to those who have given us so much.2

I have called on the Women’s Voluntary Service to assist us in this task, and they are cooperating with the South Eastern Area Command to set up what is needed.

Women of England, we rely on you!

Notes

1. Joyce wrote about hearing this speech, but neither the BBC nor the Churchill Archives in Cambridge can trace this speech or find a recording or a transcript. The speech as written here is therefore imaginary, compiled from Joyce’s notes. Churchill must have made a similar speech, because it precipitated her to leave England with the WVS for the ‘Far East.’

2. Churchill seems to have assumed that the women were willing to work voluntarily without formal pay. No such offer was made to the men. However, many ex-army men fell on hard times while England was rebuilt. Churchill was voted out of office in the election following the war.

1946: When Bill met Joyce

Photo of Winston Churchill from Joyce’s archives.

May 19453

Joyce pauses at the end of Winston’s speech and puts away the clean clothes she has been ironing. Yet again he has pulled at her heartstrings. Driving the ambulance in the blitz

in London, raising War Charities in Norfolk, and now this. She ponders on the alternatives

for her now the war is over, then talks it over with her friend Molly4 when she gets home that night. They think they could manage for a couple of years without pay and decide to volunteer together.5 There is a long period of waiting.

They are accepted and pass the necessary medical examinations. Meanwhile there is a general

election, atom bombs are dropped on Nagasaki and Hiroshima, and war with Japan is finally ended. There is an ecstatic VJ parade in London.

January 1946 Molly and Joyce are told to get

their cholera, typhoid, smallpox and tuberculosis injections, and they stand by to embark on the SS Georgic for Japan. Joyce says goodbye to her family.5

20th MarchIn the morning they arrive early at

Euston Station, ready for the journey to Liverpool.

At the station there is a problem: there are no travel or baggage warrants for them. After a great deal of phoning to HQ, their third class tickets take them to two reserved compartments. When the guard comes to collect tickets, there is an acrimonious interchange: they refuse to pay extra – the War Office has made the mistake. The guard eventually melts under

Molly’s persuasive manner, and they settle down to a comfortable trip complete with sandwiches, ice cream and offers of brandy and cigars from some officers.The train arrives at Liverpool only

five minutes late. They are met by a charming Scots RTO who has everything taped (well-organised) and sends them on an army truck to Princes Dock. Liverpool looks grand under a

lowering sky. After immigration and Customs formalities they are taken to the quay. Then the baggage arrives intact and they climb the steep gang plank to embark at 6.45 pm. The cabins are austerity,6 but the

bunks are comfortable. It is very hot because the air conditioners are pouring out heated air. According to the passenger lists,

as well as the WVS women, there are 52 officers on board, one VIP, 100 British troops and 5,000 Italians, ex-prisoners of war being repatriated.

3. This text is compiled from a detailed diary Joyce wrote at the time. It came into my possession after her death in 1986. She gave me the cameo the last time I saw her, three months before she died. The archival material is a historical record of the time, but it is also very personal. I have therefore made a précis to maintain Joyce’s descriptions and the language of the time, at the same time being careful not to overstep the boundaries of her privacy.

4. Joyce and Molly (not her sister Molly or her sister-in-law Mollie) remained friends for the rest of their lives.

5. Joyce was the first of her family to venture out of Britain. She went to Austria for holidays in the 1930s, eventually persuading her sister Molly to accompany her. Her family were middle-class Londoners who kept their daughters close under their wings. Yet the years of the blitz and the war changed attitudes. Women had of necessity been granted unprecedented responsibility and personal freedom during the war. Joyce’s sisters Maudie and Molly never escaped from those parental wings because both of their fiances were killed in the war. Even in their 80s, they were still known as ‘the girls.’

6. Austerity was a wartime term used to describe the bare basics. Goods were stamped with the ‘austerity’ mark to show that no excess resources had been used in their production, and the word slipped into normal usage.

That evening they have an excellent dinner, much bigger than they are used to with rationing,7 then receive wires and write letters for the next morning’s post-bag. They unpack and journey to the bowels of the ship to retrieve stuff (Joyce’s term) from the baggage room, before early bed and a bad night’s sleep.

21st MarchThey are awoken at 5.45 am. The

ship’s loudspeaker is calling the Italians: ‘Attenzione, attenzione.’ Joyce and Molly feel as though they have been in a dryer all night, they are bursting for air. They are up early and on deck for a breather. It’s a glamour day, warm, with brilliant sunshine. After a generous breakfast of

bacon and eggs they explore the ship, finding out that there are no baths, and that they are calling at Gibraltar, Naples and Port Said. There are preparations for sailing,

including boat drill. It means sitting around in the sun for ages because it takes so long to check all the Italians.Molly goes to see the officer

commanding the troops to find out what jobs they should be doing. It seems they are responsible for entertainment. They sit in the sun on the boat deck and watch Wales disappear to port. Some satisfactory fraternisation begins with the many officers who are returning to India.

They manage to get tea without sugar, and draw a week’s cigarette ration – 200 for 7/8d. After dinner there is a movie

(Tarzan), and some women settle down to mending the officers’ clothes,8 also part of their responsibilities. They play bridge, Joyce reads her book Behind the Japanese Mask and goes to bed early to a sleep a little better, although the portholes are closed and the ship is rolling. Routines develop in the next

few days as they organise the entertainment, sorting out a library for the other ranks (i.e., not the officers), finding someone to play the piano and retrieving music from the trunk in the baggage room. Joyce and Molly spend much time

with the officers, playing dice and poker, and they are asked to sit at the officers’ table for meals. They begin to play shuffleboard on deck, and this, with ping-pong and bridge, proves good entertainment for the rest of the voyage. They find a piano, but it has 15 notes missing. The atmosphere with the officers warms up. The weather worsens as they sail

into the Bay of Biscay. They see Cape Finisterre pass on the port side through grey squalls of rain and a rising head wind. The ship begins to roll heavily, and many of them succumb to seasickness, though Joyce is rocked to sleep by a good roll.

7. Food rationing continued in England for several years after the end of the war. Bread, butter and meat were still rationed in 1947, according to my memories. I remember the ‘top of the milk’ being collected in a jar (milk wasn’t widely homogenised then). When there was enough I had to shake the jar until the butter came. Butter rations were a small amount of about 100 grams a week. It was hard to decide whether to enjoy it all at once on a slice of toast or eke it out for the week. Bread and even penny buns at the Wheathampstead bakery needed coupons.

8. ‘Make do and mend’ was another war time slogan used to encourage everyone to minimise their purchases so all resources could go into the war effort. It seems mending at the time was left exclusively to the women.

The hot water is intermittent and this uncertainty makes everyone short-tempered. Joyce guesses that down in the hold

the Italians are having a hard time with seasickness because she can smell them in the baggage room.

22nd MarchThey sit on deck in the sun and

watch Cape St Vincent and Cape Trafalgar pass by. The Italians crowd their lower deck

and the women listen to an impromptu band of fiddle, saxophone, accordion and guitar. Joyce and Molly do domestic tasks,

such as mending stockings and writing letters to post at Gibraltar. As they come into the Straits, they

see the misty African coast, while the Spanish coast is clear until the Levantine breeze comes up from the east bringing with it a slight haze to ruffle the mill pond surface of the sea. Joyce sees the Rock as a little bit

of England – such a tiny bit sitting between two continents. The Rock looks small at first sight,

but as they turn towards the harbour it becomes impressive, hard and impregnable, with the town clinging to the side. They sail into an outer harbour and drop anchor. After dinner they sit on deck and watch troops and officers disembark.

24th March Joyce first meets my father Bill –

Major ‘Poonah’9 she calls him – he has followed Joyce and Molly about since lunchtime. She describes him as very large and flabby, looking frightful in shorts,10 but not giving a damn and cheery to a degree. The next day they can do their

washing because there is plenty of hot water, and they sort gramophone records for a dance that evening. Another chat to Poonah, more letters

and watching the sunset on deck. They change into civvies and prepare with difficulty for the dance – no amplifier or French polish, but they have two gramophones and in the end all is OK after a sticky start. That evening Poonah produces drinks

and they have a long chat. She likes him, although another officer appears to have fallen for her and rushes around carrying things.Cooler weather comes with the

mistral blowing, but Joyce sits up on deck writing letters to post at Naples. She plays shuffleboard and chats to Poonah again. Then she starts to feel weary and develops a sore throat.

9. My father had many stories to tell about his experiences in India and other places, and little would stop him telling them. On his service record comments from his senior officers complain about his verbosity. In particular he often started his stories with ‘When I was in Poona …’ No doubt that’s why she called him Poonah at first, then changed to calling him Pooh as an endearment.

10. The shorts she refers to are probably the ‘Bombay bloomers’ that he often wore. The photo was taken a few years earlier when he was thinner, and shows him in Highland Light Infantry uniform with colleagues, all wearing their Bombay bloomers.

25th MarchAt 6.15 am a Tannoy announcement

lets them know that the Isle of Capri is directly ahead.Joyce and Molly dress hastily and

shoot up on deck to find a fine misty morning with Capri rising dreamlike out of the sea with Ischia beyond and only the cone of Vesuvius visible. Pooh joins them and shows Joyce

another side of himself – a great love of beauty. She finds him an extraordinary person whose wide experiences have left him simple at heart despite a veneer of cynicism and a running commentary of rudery.11

It remains misty. Gradually land appears, then trees and the details of the buildings. It is colourless at first, but then the sun’s rays give everything a pinkish hue. A chilly wind doesn’t deter them from staying on deck until breakfast. They see many ruins and demolitions in the harbour. Everything looks grey-brown instead of the bright pinks, reds, greens, blues and whites that Joyce remembers from her pre-war holidays on Capri. There are still large numbers of

ships sunk or half-submerged in the harbours, some of which had been converted into quays as they lay. The waterfront has suffered a lot, but the hills and San Martino look intact although rather shabby.They come alongside an improvised

quay of concrete connected to a more permanent quay by three gangways.

On shore are a shabby-looking band, a few officials, one or two cars and a convoy of lorries, as well as the usual dockside hangers-on. As they tie up the band bravely

strikes up a welcome to their fellow countrymen, then the job of disembarking the Italians12 starts and continues until lunchtime. Girls hand oranges to the men as they file to their lorries. ‘It will be a long time before they

look as well-fed and well-clothed as they do now,’ says the Captain.They hope to have shore leave, but

are refused. Bill, as an officer, is able to go ashore. He buys a cameo (shown on these pages).Joyce and Molly sit on deck

sewing while they watch all that is happening on shore, as well as farewelling some friends who are disembarking. Joyce’s sore throat gets worse, so

she sleeps late the next day, misses breakfast and then spends the day in the warm sun. They sail at 5.30 pm, watching

the harbour and bay in the sinking sun. Vesuvius looks wonderful, there are snow-capped mountains to the northeast near Monte Cassino. During shuffleboard they pause to watch the Isle of Capri pass to starboard and Sorrento to port.

11. I suppose she means his cruel sense of humour. I never knew about his love of beauty.

12. As soon as Italy declared war on Britain (10 June 1940), Churchill’s order was to ‘Collar the lot!’ Many innocent British Italians (e.g., 25% of Manchester’s Italians) were therefore interned, mostly in Northern Ireland, on Orkney and the Isle of Man. Italians in Britain at that time were mostly known for peddling and selling ice-creams on the street. Many Italians were taken prisoner in North Africa after the defeat of the Afrika Korps. They were taken to England by barge, held in ‘Command Cages’ built on racecourses and football grounds while they were deloused and processed. They were then sent to one of about 600 camps around the country. If they were not fervent fascists they worked on the land, or repaired houses and roads damaged by bombs. In 1943 there were about 75 000 Italian PoWs in Britain. Some were deported to Canada or the US to reduce the food burden on England. However U-boats were active and ships were lost (e.g., the Anadora Star was torpedoed – 486 Italians of 800 total prisoners lost) so this didn’t continue. With the continuing food shortage, it was expedient to repatriate these Italians as soon as possible. While it sounds quaint for them to have been given oranges, it would have been a major treat since oranges had not been available in Britain for some years. I remember that, even in 1946, processed orange juice was given only to children and pregnant women.

A beautiful sunset, the mountains like chiselled lava. Vesuvius is soft and green, capped with a biscuit-coloured crown. They see white and red houses, a long valley running inland past a mound with a building on top of it, just above Pompeii. A tiny sailing boat is tossing in the waves. In the intense blue the cross on San Michele and Naples fades into the distance. Back to reality after dinner when

they are darning officers’ socks again, and are too tired to stay up to see Stromboli pass in the night.

26th MarchThe next day is something of an

anticlimax, although the morning is blue and gold. They pass through the Straits of Messina in the early morning. Now there is only rippling sea, blue

sky and gulls following the ship. Joyce’s sore throat is worse, but

she and Molly still iron and mend clothes for the officers, then she wins 4/- at tombola. She has a long talk with Poonah before bed.

27th MarchEarly the next morning she watches

Crete to port, a long stretch of land rising and falling as far as the eye can see. It is misty in the sunrise with banks of cloud poised over headlands and nestling in the valleys.

Snow-capped mountains rise from the mist, pinkish-blue or gleaming white as the sun catches their peaks. A low, lonely island looks like the west coast of Scotland. Sheer cliffs shelve down to sandy

beaches. There are houses towards the mainland, opal-coloured on an indigo sea. Despite her sore throat Joyce plays

shuffleboard with Poonah, later doing more sewing and writing letters to post at Port Said. She walks the deck after dinner with

Poonah, talking about life in general and his own troubles in particular,13 and goes to bed late.

28th MarchShe has a bad night with the cold

and sore throat, then goes on deck to see the approach to Port Said, at the northern end of the Suez Canal. The ship steers towards a long

breakwater made of cement blocks thrown together. They pass small grey fishing boats with dirty white sails, steered by biblical turbaned figures, and there are larger dhows with the fresh breeze billowing in the canvas. The building of the port looks like

a cream cake with brittle artificial icing of pink, orange, white and green. Date palms line the roads, their leathery fronds rattling in the wind.

13. Presumably he didn’t tell her that he had just been rejected by his brother Harry’s wife Betty. He had asked her to leave Harry and return to India with him. Harry and Bill had a long-standing rivalry about many areas of their lives, for example Betty, and professional jealousy with Harry’s elevation to the rank of Brigadier while he remained a temporary Lieut. Colonel. I suppose money, Ted and I must have been amongst his troubles.

Dark-skinned Egyptians move indolently, with little obvious activity, though there are many boats chugging about, crowded to the bows unless they are official, in which case they are ostentatious and have sirens wailing like air raid warnings. The US consulate is a charming

white house, and the British Naval Headquarters are impressive with submarines and cruisers lying at the quay.They sail past the town and anchor

at the fuelling station where officials and the pilot comes on board. They take on stores as well as fuel from a pipeline. Then the bum-boats arrive.14 They

are colourful, orange and blue, with dark-skinned villainous-looking occupants who spread their wares and yell up at them. Do they want Turkish Delight? They spend the rest of the morning haggling, and Poonah is an expert.They buy oranges, bananas and

Turkish Delight which they haul up in baskets over the side of the ship. That afternoon they sit in the sun and chat, while Joyce sews again. They watch ships coming up the Canal after dark, with brilliant search lights. The Canal Pilots are on board, as well as their ruffianly assistants who sleep in ragged heaps in odd corners, startling Joyce so much that she locks everything up as securely as she can.15

29th MarchThey leave Port Said at 1.45 am, so

Joyce wakes to the sight of the Canal at Ismailia, nearly half-way along. In spite of all their precautions,

their friend Mercia’s clothes are pinched through the port hole. Because the ship is travelling

slowly through the aquamarine water and sandy banks, they have time to watch the continuous colourful changes on shore, as well as their first exciting sight of the Sahara desert.16 The two sides are so different: on one side the golden desert, on the other, patches of green, trees, a road and a railway. There are small ‘Canal Sections’ with red-roofed houses and camels in the compounds. There is bright green herbage in the Defence memorial for the last war. There are camels and storage dumps. Dark-skinned children play on the sand.Then the end of the Canal appears

in the afternoon. Port Suez looks modern and clean from the ship, with a NAAFI (Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes) club. The ship anchors in the Red Sea as the Pilot leaves, and they watch sunset over the hills with a gorgeous golden sky. After dinner she walks and sits on deck in the starlit night. Bill is very loving and falling for her rapidly.

14. The bum-boats were still functioning in Port Said in 1966 when we emigrated to Australia on the Castel Felice. At the time we were warned against buying toy leather camels because they had been stuffed with used hospital dressings.

15. Also deja vu for 1966. Many of these men sold watches, and would materialise from the nooks and crannies of the ship and show an armful of watches, hoping you would buy one.

16. In 1966 too, the appearance of the people and houses along the canal banks appeared to have been taken straight out of an illustrated Bible.

30th MarchIt is is clear and hot, with a

slight breeze. Fortunately this seems to have been the best Red Sea voyage ever, as it is normally extremely hot and unbearably humid. Even so, it is very hot during boat drill. Joyce and Bill watch the sea from

the bows – indigo to aquamarine and gleaming white, with a molten golden pathway to the sun. Bronze and purple shadows, like gold lame backed with blue. A metallic pale sky, hard and unyielding. Everyone is lying around in the heat

in various stages of undress. After lunch, while she sews in the shade, odd specimens of half-naked humanity appear. Joyce comments dryly that few are fit to strip. After ironing clothes until tea

time, they pass Daedalus Island, a lonely lighthouse on a coral reef. That evening Bill and Joyce talk again. She finds him sweet and extraordinarily simple under his worldly and mocking veneer.

3rd AprilThe heat intensifies and Joyce’s

throat is still troubling her. They begin preparations for landing in India by filling out baggage forms.After another day spent sewing, this

time shortening the sleeves of the doctor’s vest, Joyce has a shampoo and set in the barber’s shop.

There is another dance in the evening, and afterwards, up on deck in the starlight, Bill tells her he is serious, and she believes him. She is pleased that he is coming out of his black hole,17 and finds that he can be very gentle for such a huge man.

4th AprilAnother day of sewing, chatting with

Bill and other officers and playing shuffleboard in the heat.They pass arid volcanic islands of

forbidding shades of yellow-brown and green. The sea is purple, edged with Cambridge blue and flashing white. Then into the Indian Ocean, everything is hot and dry. After dinner Bill and Joyce wander

around the boat-deck, having trouble in finding a private place that isn’t too tight.18 She thinks he is a darling, perhaps

they can make a go of it together. She thinks of meeting and caring for his children, Sally and Teddy, because he adores them.19 She thinks him to be afraid

of himself and shrinking from responsibility,20 but he looks like a different man from a fortnight ago.By now Joyce is in love with him,

and enjoys being kissed.

17. He had a nasty fungal skin condition after his time in Burma, according to his service record. He never spoke of his experiences there but presumably they affected him deeply. He was homeless, he was not being promoted as he hoped, he had left two children in England with no one to care for them. But Joyce never found any problem that she couldn’t overcome. No doubt he was added to her list. Probably he gratefully allowed her to organise him.

18. No wonder, as he weighed about 20 stone at the time.

19. He may well have told her he adored us, but it didn’t feel like it. I believe he would have abandoned us in England if he hadn’t met Joyce.

They gave each other these photos when they parted in Bombay.

April 5thOnly 11 days after they first meet,

Bill asks Joyce to marry him. Bill dresses up for dinner, and they again go on deck after dinner, when he proposes. He gives her his signet ring as an engagement ring, and they go to bed very late in a mist of mutual adoration and with great hopes for the future. Early the next morning Molly takes

photos of them together, and before boat drill Bill and Joyce talk about business matters. He earnestly shows her his pay book, and allowance rates.21 At this stage she sees their future

in Norfolk, growing apples.Over the next few days they behave

like excited children.

April 6thOn the Sunday Joyce plays the piano

for the morning service while Bill sings lustily. After that they sit together while Bill writes sweet things about Joyce in letters to his family,22 and she is anxious whether they will like her. She hopes to be married in six

months time, but is uncertain whether the WVS will release her until the whole two years is up – more than 17 months away. That evening they go to dinner

together, and receive presents and congratulations from their friends.

They dance together on the boat deck with the stars, moon and a slight breeze while Bill says the most wonderful, unexpected things to her. They are so much in love.

April 7thThe next day brings preparations for

disembarkation in India. Joyce has her second cholera injection; they repack and cord their trunks down in the furnace of the baggage room; they collect money for exchange and for tips. Bill has a haircut, and looks very spruce. They have a heavenly evening on

deck after dinner, despite the lack of privacy, and Joyce wants to be married very soon.

9th April Joyce has her first sight of India, a

grey hill rising from a grey sea full of tiny boats borne by the breeze. They sail into Bombay harbour while

Bill points out Colaba beach, the Taj Hotel and the Gateway of India. In the intense heat they anchor in midstream. The rest of the morning is spent

finishing the sewing and writing letters home. In the afternoon the WVS representatives, the ESO and other officers come on board, and they sail on to tie up at Alexander Dock.

20. Shirking responsibility was never one of Joyce’s faults. Six months after they were engaged she arranged for me leave The Birches school where I had been spending both term and holiday time. I went to live with a couple she had repatriated from Singapore. They had been interned in Changi, so they weren’t in the best shape. They lived in an Old Maltings (now the Golden Elephant Thai restaurant) in a small Hertfordshire village famous for being the home of George Bernard Shaw – Wheathampstead – and were very kind to me.

21. This was a wise move. He had the reputation of having been extravagant and bad with money since he was a child. His stepmother told me he used to write begging letters often, and his mother always sent him money. In 1940 his army record shows that his finances were managed so badly that the army took them over until they improved. At that time, I note, my mother was living in a hotel rather than the army cantonment.

22. However, he must have forgotten to write to Ted and me, because we only heard of the engagement through an announcement in The Times (6 May 1946) that Ted somehow got hold of, and in the school holidays he told me we were to have a stepmother.

From the deck Joyce sees coloured flowering trees, tongas with skinny horses, pariah dogs and busy Indians wearing all the colours of the rainbow, with pink and orange the dominant colours. Joyce talks to the WVS women and

tells them of her news. They advise her to transfer to SEAC. The WVS seems to be in a muddle about what to do with these women. Molly and Mercia leave the cabin

to allow Bill and Joyce time to themselves, and in amongst Bill finding out that Joyce is ticklish, they spend at least some of the time packing.

10th AprilThey are to disembark at 9.00 am

so they are up early for their first breakfast together. Then there is the pain of saying

goodbye, and Joyce travels by lorry to the Victoria Terminus in the city. She is thankful she doesn’t see much of Bombay as the sweepers are on strike and the stinking streets are full of garbage.

The diary ends as Joyce is about to embark from Bombay for the Far East.

After staying at various quasi-military camps, Joyce did eventually sail to Singapore and Malaya and presumably organised many soldiers and ex-POWs so they could return home. A newspaper cutting from her archives (undated and unattributed but probably a local Norfolk paper) states that Joyce – formerly Organising Secretary of the Norfolk War Charities Committee and organiser of the WVS canteen at Elm Hill – had visited war graves of soldiers from the Royal Norfolk Regiment. The article mentions her engagement, and that Bill is stationed at Bangalore. It also quotes Joyce, commenting on an award to another WVS woman: ‘Miss Grey is undaunted by anybody or anything. If she wants something done, it’s just got to be done regardless of difficulties or obstructions, and things do get done in the most amazing way.’ Perhaps Miss Grey became a role model for Joyce, because these words could have described Joyce herself, as I knew her. Bill and Joyce were married in Madras on 24 July 1946, some three months after they met. He was 44, she was 39. They had been married 14 years when he suddenly died, falling off his horse during a game of polo (possible heart attack or stroke). She always seemed to adore him and thought very highly of him. Until the time she died she had a small shrine to him (photos, the soapstone Buddha, his medals) on a table in her house in Sussex.

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India

B

orn

in the high Himalayas up near the Khyber Pass. Lapis lazuli, or

ange

jasp

er, g

reen

g

arnet

du

g f

rom hard stony hills

Arm

y boots stamp and shuffle: sergeants yell: brass bu ttons: polished brown leather straps: d

ahl and ric

e: ayah

w

hispe

rs: k

ites

cal

l: sn

ow o

n th

e w

ind

Muchan roti cheen

i

Muchan roti hoghia

Mayrah baba soghiaN

eeni baba neeni

She sang me to sleep …

Hampti Dhampti, chargya chutHampti Dhampti, gyrgya hutNa Raja ki admiNa Rani ki ghoraKhahi nai Hampti Dhampti ke ghora

Hi cheringie hi baliChand ki uppar khudda ghaiChotta cutta hussi gaiDhronda chumta bagi gai

Oranges and lemons (onions) in Urdu

‘English men and women are, as it were, members of one great family, aliens under one sky.’

Maud Diver The Englishwoman in India 1909

‘She will be zealous in guarding her children from promiscuous intimacy with the native servants, whose propensity it is to worship at the shrine of the Baba-log* is unhappily apt to demoralise the small gods and goddesses they serve … The sooner after its fifth year a child can leave India, the better for its future welfare.’ * Baba-log – baby people

Maud Diver The Englishwoman in India 1909

Phantome (ghosts, spirits)

Your fragrance floated (drifted) in the silent air (atmosphere).I saw the empty room the table (the neglected table) left there as it wasThe book in which your thought still lived (quivered, palpitated)The mirror which shone like a piece of the sky (heavens)

So, alone, I leant towards these thingsAnd I devoutly put my closed lipsOn the mirror where your eyes would be (were)

Bill Berridge (undated)

Busy busy important

documents holding the world together while it is at war must

come with me in the cabin passports travel documents dispatches for Eastern command on the muddy

road to Burma must get through petrol and oil essential for the war effort Winston said so all the trucks get stuck in thick

mud the roads are so narrow so many trucks fall off the edge and the poor bloody drivers boys most of them used to the heat of the plains not the

mists and ever-bloody-lasting rain that pours and pours and the mosquitoes in their thousands malaria a constant threat even when we tell them and tell them the mozzies bite them on the bum when they shit this mudʼs like shit sticks to everything then most of these fellows couldnʼt drive a horse-drawn gharry let alone a lorry like this they have to learn under pressure on these bloody twisty mountain roads so many of them go over the edge those that survive have learnt to hang on to the steering wheel as they go over the edge round and round and with luck they land in a big bush or ditch relatively unharmed no hospital no recovery units dysentery cholera who are the bloody generals that put us here we could have camped a mile back there where there were fewer mozzies no wonder this bloody war is dragging on all that keeps me going is having a whisky at sundown praying that the Japs have worse mud and mosquitoes than we do they say an ammunition ship exploded in Bombay harbour and showered the slums with gold bars bloody generals canʼt organise a thing Iʼm itchy that fungus again on my back sleeping near the truck on a stretcher with mosquito net folding table reading Wordsworth

imagining green fields and

daffodils an oil lamp to read by thank God the troops are such

good cooks dhal and rice to keep us going and now

what will I do with the kids without Gwen

bloody typhoid bloody bloody

war Dispatch box Burma 1942

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tomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetim

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Fac

t

Monarch of Bermuda Built Walker-on-Tyne 1930Tonnage: 22 424 grtLength: 579’Beam: 76’

1931-1939 Service from New York to Bermuda. ‘Monarch of Bermuda’ and her sister ship ‘Queen of Bermuda’ were known as the ‘millionaire’s ships’. 1939-1946 Requisitioned as a troopship.1947 Burned out while being refitted for return to passenger service. Declared a total loss but purchased by the Ministry of Transport for conversion to an emigrant ship.1949 Renamed ‘New Australia’.1950 First voyage Southampton-Sydney.1958 Sold to the Greek Line and renamed ‘Arkadia’.Rebuilt and modernised.1958 Passenger service to Montreal.1966 Last voyage. Arrived in Valencia, Spain for scrapping.

She’s only seven, but she knows something’s up. This is not the usual train journey to one place or another as Daddy is transferred. Last time she went to Darjeeling and in his bright-brass-buttoned uniform he held her in the air to see the highest mountain in the world.

No, something else is up. It doesn’t feel good.They keep talking about ‘home’ and England,

whatever that is. Her home is always with nanny and ayah, wherever they may be. She doesn’t want another home. She doesn’t want this England they’re talking about.

Since Mummy went, Nanny and ayah are her home. She asked Teddy about it, because he’s older, but he doesn’t really know either, although he talks of a school ‘at home.’ She doesn’t know what a school is, she’s never been to one, but he went to a school in Darjeeling.

And now here they are down at the dock. A big ship is tied up with long ropes, and crowds of people are organising their suitcases, hugging each other, climbing a railed plank onto the ship.

She doesn’t like it. Wali Mohammed is there with the other

servants. All their big suitcases have gone, only their smaller cases are there in a pile.

She wishes she wasn’t there. She wishes she was still sitting with ayah in the servants quarters at the club, watching the dahl and rice cook. She hangs tightly onto ayah’s hand and switches off her mind, pretending she isn’t here. Really, she isn’t here.

This isn’t happening. She’ll just stay in her quiet world with ayah’s warm dark familiar hand for security. That’s all she wants.

At the edge of the noisy crowd, she sees a thin ragged man squatting on the pavement. He brings out a bulbous pipe from his dirty clothes. He puts it to his mouth and makes a magical, discordant sound. From the small round basket in front of him, a hooded cobra emerges and sways, held magically in mid air, mesmerised by the music. The music stops and the cobra dissolves downwards into its basket. The man slaps a lid over it and catches her watching. He grins and puts out his hand for baksheesh.

‘Sally, come here. Snake charmer, indeed! Don’t watch him, he just wants money.’

Nanny pulls her away to stand closer to Teddy. Daddy is there, but he isn’t paying her any attention. He is looking over the heads of the crowd, searching anxiously for someone. With a grunt he pushes his way past her and into the crowd, returning a few moments later with a tall woman dressed in a brown coat and skirt.

‘This is Miss Ollenbittle. She is going to look after you, Sally, on the ship to England.’

She looks up at this Ollenbittle. The eyes are narrow and red-rimmed, as though she has been crying. Her nose, long and pointy, is also red and looks like a drippy kind of nose. She wears a lumpy brown hat under which her dark hair is coiled in two thin plaits around her head. She tries to smile, but the girl can see smiling doesn’t come easily. Things are getting worse.

The ship hoots.‘Time to get on board. Come along this way.

You can carry this small case.’ Daddy leads them towards the long plank where people are walking up onto the ship. She starts following him, but Nanny and ayah aren’t moving, nor is Wali Mohammed.

She suddenly realises that wherever it is they are going, Nanny, ayah and Wali Mohammed aren’t coming too. They are staying here, they are not going on the boat. She is going ‘home’ with Daddy, Teddy and the Ollenbittle.

She rushes back and hangs onto ayah’s legs, but ayah bends down and whispers to her in Hindi that she must do as her father says. Ayah gives her a gentle push and slips away to disappear into the crowd.

She hangs onto Nanny then, and sees that she too is on the point of tears. But Nanny has already told her that she has known lots of little boys and girls who were sent ‘home,’ she should be a big brave girl. Nanny disentangles herself, gives the girl a prickly kiss and pushes her towards Daddy. The girl is paralysed, mesmerised, like the cobra. What can she do but follow him?

From the gangplank the girl looks down over the clamouring crowd, seeing just the tops of people’s heads. She sees Nanny waving until she turns and stomps away in her brown lace-up shoes. She thinks she sees ayah looking up at her, and she waves, but she’s not sure. She can’t see clearly through her tears.

June 1945: Travelling to England from India

She is sent with the Ollenbittle to a small room – a cabin – where they are to sleep, together with two other women she has never seen before. She is to have an upper bunk, even though she’s scared of the ladder. She eventually gets up there and then is told off because she still has her shoes on.

She just lies there and sobs. The Ollenbittle doesn’t know what to do, and fusses awkwardly while unpacking their clothes and putting them in half of a big cupboard.

‘Come on, let’s go up on deck and say goodbye to India.’

They go up a narrow iron staircase to the crowded deck. The Ollenbittle finds Daddy and Teddy. The girl has to look through people’s legs to see between the rails as they stand together watching the Gateway to India fade into the distance as they set out to sea.

Later, when she’s older, she knows that the ship is the Monarch of Bermuda; it’s a troopship, and the war in Europe has only just ended.

The next day they are further out at sea, and the waves are much bigger than in the smooth lagoon of Bombay’s harbour. The girl wishes the boat would just stay still for just one minute.

They go up on deck after breakfast (even though she couldn’t eat much and again was in trouble from the Ollenbittle) and there they find Daddy.

The girl’s stomach is feeling bad, but she isn’t able to tell him or the Ollenbittle. Ayah would have known without her saying anything.

Daddy seems pleased to see her.‘Hello, hat rack, how are you today? Did you

sleep well? Have you cheered up? Come here and sit on my shoulders.’

This is a rare treat. Because she is so small and skinny, and he is so big and strong, he easily lifts her above his head and she sways on his shoulders, the brass stars of his epaulettes digging into the backs of her legs. Her insides feel even worse up here.

Just then another uniformed man comes by, and it appears that they know each other.

‘Hello old boy, fancy seeing you again! When was the last time … ? Wasn’t it the road to Imphal? You made it safely through, obviously.’

They shake hands and say ‘old boy’ a lot. Then the ship gives a particularly violent lurch. It is the last straw. She can’t help it, she throws up. The wind takes her breakfast all over Daddy’s friend. Lots of apologies, but they both laugh at her. She is sent down with the Ollenbittle to put on clean clothes. The Ollenbittle is tight-lipped. She cleans the girl, then, with a nasty pinch, she opens the door of the big cupboard and pushes her in.

‘Go in there, you dirty little thing. I’ll come and get you when I’m ready.’

She sits in the dark, unsure what to do. This has never happened before, she has always been treated kindly, especially by ayah.

Time passes, it seems like ages, and then the Ollenbittle gets her out of the cupboard and takes her up on deck.

Later, her only other memory of that voyage is seeing flying fish skimming the waves, and the gulli-gulli men at Port Said, when they steam through the Suez Canal. The gulli-gulli men make fluffy yellow chicks magically appear and disappear from sleeves and hats and even, it seems, from her nose.

Eventually the ship pulls into a big port. It is called Tilbury. This is England. Everywhere there are big piles of broken buildings. Daddy says it is because of the war and the Germans who dropped bombs here.

There are no servants to greet them, no ayah here. The sky is grey. A fine cold rain drips off everything. The pavements are black with rain. She has no warm coat and hat. The end of her nose gets red and her black plaits drip rain down her back. Daddy tells her that this is the warm season, summer.

The only bright spot is that the Ollenbittle seems to be leaving them. The girl hears her receding footsteps on the hard pavement, watches her walk away in her thin brown coat and hopes never to see her again.

Later, when she’s older, she wonders who this vegetarian Scandanavian Ollenbittle was and how she came to be in India needing to earn a passage to England by looking after a little girl.

But for now, this cold wet grey place, it seems, is ‘home.’ It doesn’t look like it. It certainly doesn’t feel like it. But it’s all the home there is.

Adrift

Eter nity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle

The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic ag

e Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle Th

e Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siec

le The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages A

tomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetim

e All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetim

e All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle Th

e Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Kenya

Fac

t

Built Glasgow 1925 Tonnage: 10640grtLength: 471’ 1”Beam: 61’ 6’Service speed: 14 knots

1925 Started in the Round Africa service within the Union-Castle Line.September 1940 Conversion to a hospital ship commenced.November 1940 Badly damaged in an air raid.May 1941 Resumed service as a hospital ship with 450 beds and 89 medical staff. Re-named HMS Hospital Ship No. 39. She was the only Union-Castle ship used in this cpacity in WWII.Supported East African campaigns in Abyssinia (Ethiopia) and Eritrea.November 1941 Bomb damage at Suez.April 1942 Involved in exchange of 917 seriously wounded Italians for 129 British. Exchange nearly failed because the Italians apparently wanted a ‘one-for-one’ exchange to preserve their dignity.1943 Ferried along the North African coast between Alexandria-Tobruk-Benghazi.July 1943 As a hospital ship supported Montgomery’s ‘Operation Husky’ assault on Sicily at Syracuse and Augusta.1944 After D-Day and the capture of Cherbourg she sailed in to evacuate casualties.1945 General duties including repatriating Canadian wounded to Halifax, Nova Scotia.Wartime service: Carried 38,000 wounded and steamed 250, 000 miles.May 1947 Resumed Round Africa service.December 1952 Completed last voyage.May 1953 Broken up in Scotland for the British Iron and Steel Co.

Llandovery Castle

trouble for reading English schoolgirl stories in the back of the Fordson.

‘Put that book down. Look out of the car window to see game, or just enjoy the scenery.’

Th ey collect Koko, Joyce’s liver-and-tan dachshund, in Nairobi.

A woman they meet in the Settler’s Offi ce invites them to stay on her farm so that Dad and Joyce can go to the Nanyuki Agricultural Show and fi nd out about Kenyan farming. Th is woman has a dachshund bitch on heat, and Koko is to mate with her dog.

The port of Mombasa is built on a 15sq km island, surrounded The port of Mombasa is built on a 15sq km island, surrounded

by a deep natural harbour, Kilindini. Mombasa has been invaded by a deep natural harbour, Kilindini. Mombasa has been invaded

for hundreds of years by the Arabs, the Portuguese, the ferocious for hundreds of years by the Arabs, the Portuguese, the ferocious

Zimba tribe, the Omanis and the British because of its strategic Zimba tribe, the Omanis and the British because of its strategic

position.position.

Arab traders arrived on the Kenyan coast from the Persian Arab traders arrived on the Kenyan coast from the Persian

Gulf in the 12th century, to export leopard skins, ivory Gulf in the 12th century, to export leopard skins, ivory

and tortoiseshell to China, Persia and India. Towns and tortoiseshell to China, Persia and India. Towns

were established by the end of the 15th century whose were established by the end of the 15th century whose

inhabitants were primarily Arabs, though there was inhabitants were primarily Arabs, though there was

intermarriage with the Africans. As a result, a Persian intermarriage with the Africans. As a result, a Persian

Gulf-style culture developed, and the language of the Gulf-style culture developed, and the language of the

Swahili coastal people, KiSwahili, became the lingua Swahili coastal people, KiSwahili, became the lingua

franca of Kenya as trade went further inland. From the franca of Kenya as trade went further inland. From the

15th to the 17th centuries the Portuguese controlled 15th to the 17th centuries the Portuguese controlled

coastal trading. They built Fort Jesus on the harbour coastal trading. They built Fort Jesus on the harbour

island, a stronghold which lasted for 200 years. In 1698 island, a stronghold which lasted for 200 years. In 1698

the Sultans of Oman united and overcame the Portuguese the Sultans of Oman united and overcame the Portuguese

in Fort Jesus. The Omanis under Seyyid Said then in Fort Jesus. The Omanis under Seyyid Said then

dominated the coast and developed the slave trade. dominated the coast and developed the slave trade.

Slaves were sent to work in the plantations of Zanzibar Slaves were sent to work in the plantations of Zanzibar

until the export of coconuts, cloves, ivory and hides until the export of coconuts, cloves, ivory and hides

became the primary producers of revenue. In the mid-became the primary producers of revenue. In the mid-

1800s Seyyid Said signed a treaty to ban the export of slaves, and 1800s Seyyid Said signed a treaty to ban the export of slaves, and

Mombasa was the base for British exploration inland. Mombasa was the base for British exploration inland.

In 1888 Mombasa became the headquarters of the Imperial In 1888 Mombasa became the headquarters of the Imperial

British East Africa Company, and in 1895 British rule of Mombasa British East Africa Company, and in 1895 British rule of Mombasa

became official when the strip of coastal land was leased from the became official when the strip of coastal land was leased from the

Sultan of Zanzibar. The British East Africa Company took over the Sultan of Zanzibar. The British East Africa Company took over the

administration of the interior while a 10-mile coastal strip remained administration of the interior while a 10-mile coastal strip remained

in the control of the Sultan of Zanzibar. In 1920, this coastal strip in the control of the Sultan of Zanzibar. In 1920, this coastal strip

became a British protectorate while the rest of Kenya became became a British protectorate while the rest of Kenya became

a British colony. In 1901 the British completed a railway from a British colony. In 1901 the British completed a railway from

Mombasa to Uganda, confirming Mombasa’s importance as a port.Mombasa to Uganda, confirming Mombasa’s importance as a port.

As they near Mombasa, dhows sail out to meet the ship. After disembarking from the Llandovery Castle they stay at a hotel while the soon-to-be infamous Fordson van (designed to Dad’s specifi cations in the Ford factory at Dagenham) and their luggage are offl oaded.

She has her fi rst opportunity to practice Swahili:

Jambo, memsahib kidogo.Jambo sana. Habari gani? Mzuri sana. Na kwa wewe?Mzuri sana.Th ey part with smiles and mutual

good wishes.Mombasa is warm and exotic after

cold post-war Britain, and there is so much good food. Th e Arab infl uence in architecture and lifestyle combines with British colonial ways to provide an air of mystery and comfort. Th ere is plentiful food: bananas, mangoes, pawpaws, lamb curries. In England food is still rationed. Th ere are no bananas: orange juice is for infants and women around pregnancy and childbirth.

Dad still calls her ‘hat rack’ because she is so thin and small, so no wonder her diary puts glorious unrationed food high on the list of every day priorities.

All the same, she must have been missing England because while they drive upcountry from the coast to Nairobi she is constantly in

The sea at Mombasa is as blue as a cornfl ower, and, The sea at Mombasa is as blue as a cornfl ower, and, outside the inlet to the harbour, the long breakers of outside the inlet to the harbour, the long breakers of the Indian Ocean draw a thin crooked white line, and the Indian Ocean draw a thin crooked white line, and give out a low thunder even in the calmest weather. give out a low thunder even in the calmest weather. The narrow-streeted town of Mombasa is all built from The narrow-streeted town of Mombasa is all built from coral-rock, in pretty shades of buff, rose and ochre, coral-rock, in pretty shades of buff, rose and ochre, and above the town rises the massive old fortress, with and above the town rises the massive old fortress, with walls and embrasure, where three hundred years ago walls and embrasure, where three hundred years ago the Portuguese and Arabs held out against one other; the Portuguese and Arabs held out against one other; it displays stronger colours than the town, as if it had, it displays stronger colours than the town, as if it had, in the course of the ages, drunk in more than one stormy sunset.

Karen Blixen, Out of Africa

1948: Into Africa

Th e woman’s house is the usual wattle and daub with a thatched roof. One afternoon it rains: the rain pours through holes in the thatch. Th e house servants rush about calling to each other, putting buckets in pre-ordained spots. Th ere is one heavy leak above the armchair that belongs to the woman’s husband. Th e chair must not be moved, so the man wears

his large terai – a stout hat with a double brim, designed to combat the fi erce equatorial sun. When he sits in his chair the raindrops bounce off his hat.

After the Nanyuki Show they travel on upcountry towards a small town, Kitale, in the Trans Nzoia district, of the White Highlands.

Th ey leave tarmac roads behind after Nakuru, and the Fordson van struggles and bounces on the

dirt (murrum) corrugations, conking out with monotonous regularity. Th e problem has been identifi ed in Nairobi – it is to do with the altitude. Although the equator passes through Kenya, the altitude is about 6 000 feet, and this makes the petrol vaporise in the carburettor. As they travel it becomes clear that they merely have to wait a while for the engine to cool: the petrol presumably condenses again, and off they go. During periods of waiting they sit and look for game with the binoculars. Th ey wave at everyone they see on the road.

Abu Bakr sits on the step in the sun. He spits into the dust and drags on his bindi.

When I was a young man we went on the new railway. It took us four days and many derailments to reach Voi, where we camped. We then went one further day to Tsavo, the rail-head. From there we formed a caravan of porters and marched for ten days to Kibwezi in the Ukamba country. There we halted for about a fortnight to recuperate and be well fed after our hard safari with heavy loads and meagre rations. The Wakamba were extremely cooperative and brought us all kinds of provisions and meat. There were few inhabitants between Tsavo and Kibwezi, and those that we had seen had kept away. From Kibwezi it was a 14-day safari to Machakos, we followed the line of railway construction … This country was uninhabited except for the many Indians working on the railway … From Machakos it was a fi ve-day safari to the Nairobi River. The country was empty as far as the Athi River, but there we met Masai again. We camped west of the Nairobi River where later the fi rst race-course was made. There were no Europeans or township there then, but there were Masai on the hill where the Nairobi Club and Government House now stand. There were no Kikuyu there, only Masai, who brought us many head of cattle which were slaughtered for our Company. In 1923 the railway reached Eldoret, and three years later a branch line of the main line to Uganda brought the train to Kitale. The train brought many changes to the Trans Nzoia and started the development of Kitale.

Abu Bakr was the father of the butcher, Jama Noor, in Kitale. As a young man he had been batman to Captain Maddicks of the Uganda Rifl es. In 1897 he travelled with his Company to take issue with the Somalis. From Trans Nzoia notes, East Africa Women’s League 1958.

The Rift Valley separates Kenya on a north-south The Rift Valley separates Kenya on a north-south The Rift Valley separates Kenya on a north-south The Rift Valley separates Kenya on a north-south The Rift Valley separates Kenya on a north-south

axis. It is at its narrowest (about 45 km) just north of axis. It is at its narrowest (about 45 km) just north of axis. It is at its narrowest (about 45 km) just north of axis. It is at its narrowest (about 45 km) just north of axis. It is at its narrowest (about 45 km) just north of

Nairobi, but in some places expands to about 100 km. Nairobi, but in some places expands to about 100 km. Nairobi, but in some places expands to about 100 km. Nairobi, but in some places expands to about 100 km. Nairobi, but in some places expands to about 100 km.

There are some 30 active and semi-active volcanoes There are some 30 active and semi-active volcanoes There are some 30 active and semi-active volcanoes There are some 30 active and semi-active volcanoes There are some 30 active and semi-active volcanoes

in the Rift Valley, as well as many hot springs. While in the Rift Valley, as well as many hot springs. While in the Rift Valley, as well as many hot springs. While in the Rift Valley, as well as many hot springs. While in the Rift Valley, as well as many hot springs. While

some of the lakes have brackish or highly saline water, some of the lakes have brackish or highly saline water, some of the lakes have brackish or highly saline water, some of the lakes have brackish or highly saline water, some of the lakes have brackish or highly saline water,

several alkaline lakes are dotted along the floor of the several alkaline lakes are dotted along the floor of the several alkaline lakes are dotted along the floor of the several alkaline lakes are dotted along the floor of the several alkaline lakes are dotted along the floor of the

Rift Valley. These have water high in sodium carbonate, Rift Valley. These have water high in sodium carbonate, Rift Valley. These have water high in sodium carbonate, Rift Valley. These have water high in sodium carbonate, Rift Valley. These have water high in sodium carbonate,

and are often crusted pinkly on their edges by and are often crusted pinkly on their edges by and are often crusted pinkly on their edges by and are often crusted pinkly on their edges by and are often crusted pinkly on their edges by

countless flamingos. The alkalinity is ideal for algae to countless flamingos. The alkalinity is ideal for algae to countless flamingos. The alkalinity is ideal for algae to countless flamingos. The alkalinity is ideal for algae to countless flamingos. The alkalinity is ideal for algae to

grow, and the abundant algae encourage the growth of grow, and the abundant algae encourage the growth of grow, and the abundant algae encourage the growth of grow, and the abundant algae encourage the growth of grow, and the abundant algae encourage the growth of

several species of fish including tilapia. The fish in their several species of fish including tilapia. The fish in their several species of fish including tilapia. The fish in their several species of fish including tilapia. The fish in their several species of fish including tilapia. The fish in their

turn are a magnet for millions of birds including turn are a magnet for millions of birds including turn are a magnet for millions of birds including turn are a magnet for millions of birds including turn are a magnet for millions of birds including

the flamingoes.the flamingoes.the flamingoes.the flamingoes.the flamingoes.

Some people stop for a chat, to see if all is well, or pass on any gossip, so they have a social time as they wait for the Fordson to cooperate once more. Dad drives on the wrong side of the road, under the impression that the corrugations are less severe. It doesn’t work.

Dad and Joyce have selected the farm on their way home to England, though she didn’t know this at the time. It is virgin bush, about 600 acres, with a small creek, no buildings, no electricity, no phone.

Th e land is on the north-western side of Kitale. Mount Elgon sprawls on the other side, an extinct volcano with a huge footprint–the largest volcano circumference in the world.

Th e Cherangani Hills edge the horizon, with the highest and most distinctive of the hills being Flat Top, where occasionally a Lammergeyer soared.

Th eir farm is on a crossroads with a Public Works Department hut at the corner. Th e land is covered with anthills several feet across and about six feet high, as well as scrubby bush, goat apples, wait-a-bit thorns, orange lantana, red Gloriosa lilies and fl at-topped thorn trees. Th e soil is red and far less fertile than the black volcanic soil on the Elgon side, as they are to fi nd out rather painfully. Monkeys abound, as well as several species of gazelle, Tommies and dik-dik. Evenings resound to the kak-kak-kak of guinea fowl, there is talk of leopards, and watching out for deadly green mambas that can hang in the trees and drop on you.

1920 Travelling to the Trans Nzoia

Our party travelled by train as far as Londiani, then transferred to a wagon, Scotch-cart and 32 oxen for the rest of

our journey. Sixteen oxen pulled each vehicle, and the carts were loaded with tents, trunks, camp kit and groceries. On

the top perched our grey parrot who encouraged every one by calling out ‘Come on! Come on!’ The journey took us

three weeks, averaging about six miles a day on the tracks, with regular stops to shoot game for the pot. Large anthills

occasionally threatened to tip the carts over, but eventually we made it to the small settlement of Eldoret after walking

behind the wagons for a fortnight. Water was of paramount importance on the way, for both people and animals.

At Eldoret we acquired some hens and four milk cows, and eventually found our farm 45 miles away in the Trans

Nzoia. We arrived one evening on the banks of the Nzoia River – all that kept us from our land. However a ford had to be

dug in the dark before our entourage could cross the river. Having chosen the land from plans in England, the reality of

finding the actual spot through survey markers was not easy because of the long grass, the thorn trees and the anthills.

At this time we lived in tents and lived entirely off what we could shoot, apart from a few groceries we had brought out

from England.

Our first house was made from rolled-up balls of clay stuck together with mud. As no spirit levels were used, the

houses leaned with the slopes. The grass roof was supported by thick poles outside the walls that sheltered the mud

walls from rain. There was a wide gap between the top of the walls and the roof where small animals used to shelter at

night. There was a doorway, but no door or windows: when there was a whirlwind all our possessions flew around

the hut.

We grew maize, which then had to be transported by ox-cart to the railhead at Londiani 100 miles away, a three-

week round journey. Mules were used for personal transport.

A trip to Nairobi necessitated a mule cart ride to Eldoret, then a ‘trotting ox-cart’ service run by the local auctioneer

for the rest of the journey. The ox-cart had a sitting-board put across it, and it was driven by two drivers and pulled by

six oxen. Everyone’s bones rattled as the oxen trotted through the night until every six miles they were outspanned, and

both drivers and oxen were changed. The drivers wore long army overcoats, thick felt hats and had their eyes outlined

with ash. At Londiani the train was reached, and the journey was completed in old-fashioned comfort and a social

atmosphere prevailed where meals were served at the stations: fresh eggs, tea, bread and butter and jam.

Marjorie Pharazyn From Trans Nzoia Notes, EAWL

While Dad and Joyce begin turning this unpromising land into some kind of a farm they all stay with their neighbours.

She is packed off to Kitale Primary School as a boarder. As there isn’t enough accommodation at the school she stays with a number of other out-of-town kids at a kid farm, and each day they trundle in to school in the back of a truck.

She sits in the branches of a jacaranda tree, looking at the fl owers and wondering what life is bringing to her. Dad and Joyce tell her as they leave that she can’t go home at weekends because petrol is too expensive for a thirteen-mile journey each way.

It is a hellish time for her. She is called a ‘Pongo’ (a ‘Pom’), and therefore regarded as weird by the local shenzi (wild) kids, and game for torment. Some big boys pull out large lumps of her hair and burn her legs with matches.

1901 Discovery of the Trans Nzoia

Abu Bakr describes the Trans Nzoia when he was travelling with Sir Harry Johnston. Sir Harry was looking for a

section of land on the western slopes of Mount Elgon that was reported to be cool and empty of inhabitants.

From Entebbe we safaried to Mbale, the country being thickly inhabited by Wakedi and Bagishu; from there we went

on to Moroto. The populated area faded out near the Greek River and beyond that it was empty country with very few

trees but very high elephant grass. We camped at Moroto and Sir Harry enquired to whom the land belonged; he was

told that it had belonged to the Oromojo but they had all moved to the North some considerable time ago, when fighting

the Turkana. He was told that the country ahead was low-lying and hot, so he turned back to the western slopes of

Mount Elgon and after a safari of about 10 days we reached the river at Kacheliba, where it was much cooler. From there

we continued in a southerly direction and we camped at the bottom of a line of hills that lay across our path. A report

came in that some elephant had been seen near the top of the hills so I and Mr Archer and Sir Harry’s relation, who

was acting as his secretary, climbed the hill to shoot the elephants. These went on up and over the brow and when we

followed we found that the range of hills was an escarpment leading up to an enormous plain that we now know as the

Trans Nzoia. There were no trees on the plain, but long grass that under the influence of the wind went rippling away into

the distance like the sea.

I immediately returned to the camp and told Sir Harry what I had seen; he came back with me and climbed up with me

to see the land that he had been looking for.

On the next day the whole safari climbed the escarpment and proceeded in a south-easterly direction, having to cross

a stream that was very full of water on what was later Major Keyser’s farm. We went on to the site of Kitale and camped

on the present site of the Mohammedan School. On the way from Moroto we had not seen a single African, it was all

uninhabited country.

We stayed in this camp for about ten days while Sir Harry wrote in his book. There were no trees at all anywhere

and we had to use the droppings of elephant, buffalo, zebra, eland etc. as fuel for our fires, as they abounded on these

plains.

We then continued on towards the south and on the second day we reached the Nzoia River where we camped. When

our porters went down to the river they saw human footprints in the mud; they called out to us and we all followed the

footprints until we lost them. We hunted around to find their continuation, but failed to do so, but Captain Wilson of the

KAR looked up into the trees lining the river, the first trees that we had seen on these plains, and reported some large

birds in the higher branches, but the porters saw that they were men cowering in the branches as high as they could get.

We ordered them to come down, which they eventually did and we took them to Sir Harry for questioning. There was a

woman in our safari who knew both Swahili and Masai and she interpreted.

The men said they were Wandorobo from the

Cherangani; they told him that the river was the Nzoia

and that the other stream flowing in at that point was

the Moiben. As a result of further questioning they

said that although the land was almost uninhabited,

there were only 29 of their clan left, yet formerly it

had been fully inhabited by the Masai who had died

or left the district. Some had died of illness, others

had been killed in inter-tribal wars with the Suk, and

the remainder had mostly gone off in the direction of

Ravine, though some had gone up to Elgon; this had all

happened before these people were born.

Th ere is great kudos for those who can do ‘crossings’ – cross from one jacaranda tree to another in the long line of trees that edge the school’s driveway. She could sit in a tree but couldn’t dare to try a crossing, so again they tease her. Each morning she had to strip off into knickers and vest to do physical exercise. Th is was agony because she had started menstruating. Each Saturday morning the principal takes them to Bowker’s dam, where all the kids have to strip off into the nude and swim in the muddy water while he sits on a chair and watches. She has no choice but to strip off with the others. She can swim only a few strokes, but boasts she can swim much further. She fi nds yourself trying to swim out to a raft in the middle of the dam. Fortunately she makes it, because probably no one would have been willing to rescue her from the murky water.

At the beginning of the next term she is moved into the boarding house for more agony because there were no inhibitions about running around naked in the bathrooms. All this stress, perhaps added to the eff ects of the altitude, means that her nose starts bleeding and won’t stop for three days.

She is isolated in the sick bay and overhears a doctor suggesting she might have typhoid. She knows that is how her mother died. Th ey can’t get hold of Dad and Joyce – they have gone on a safari with some friends – apparently they have enough petrol for that.

She is moved into the hospital and eventually sent home to the neighbours.

In 1950 she was sent as a boarder to the Kenya High School for Girls

in Nairobi for her secondary schooling. The Kenya High School was the

only government school for European girls in East Africa, apart from

the Loreto Convent at Eldoret. The school was run by the University of

Cambridge. New school buildings were partially built in the suburb of

Kileleshwa: they were the first to inhabit them. They lived on a building

site with no trees, the only recreation was roller-skating on the concrete

in front of the buildings. The dining room became the hub of the school

– certainly not because of the food – because that was their unofficial

assembly hall. Here they started each school day with prayers and

heady hymns such as Jerusalem. Here they also sang vespers each

evening before dinner and performed plays from time to time. Eventually

Honour Boards were hung on the walls and her name was painted in gilt

when she passed her School Certificate, Higher School Certificate and

for Head of House.

The curriculum exemplified the anomalies of colonial life. She learnt

domestic science, Latin and French. She studied the Unification of Italy

with emphasis on the feats of Garibaldi, she worked with Wheatstone

Bridges in physics. She used old-fashioned cut-throat razors to cut

sections of plants for examination under the microscope, she dissected

cockroaches in zoology, and learnt how to develop photos. She learnt

nothing of the history of Kenya, and there were no Swahili lessons.

When she did eventually start university, she had nothing to do for the

first year in physics, chemistry, botany and zoology because she had

already covered them at school.

In the first years at the Kenya High, the Heifer Boma (enclosure) as

it was nicknamed, she was again the butt of much bullying, so her first

two years there were difficult. But by the time she got to third form she

suddenly got the hang of what school was all about and started to excel

in tests and exams. So by the time she was in the Lower Sixth, she was

made a prefect and later Head of Huxley House (named after Elspeth

Huxley).

When she returns to school later in the term she gets a sympathy vote from the shenzi boys and the bullying settles down enough for her to pass the Kenya Preliminary Examination at the end of the year. She has only been at school since she was eight, so this is quite an achievement.

By then they are living on the farm. Furniture and other goods and chattels have made their way from the dock at Mombasa to Kitale on trucks lumbering down the dusty gravel roads.

Dad and Joyce have erected a large canvas tent under a thorn tree. In this is a double bed and a mahogany chest of drawers. A large Persian rug makes a fl oor.

Th e kitchen is a small untidily thatched hut. Th e oven is made out of an excavated anthill, out of which the cook miraculously produces British meals.

In the holidays she and Ted sleep under the stars until the rainy season comes, when they graduate to a newly built circular mud and wattle hut, a rondavel: walls and fl oor are fi nished with dried cow dung. Inside, the poles that support the thatch form an uneven pointed mandala, complete with spiders and a family of geckos. Once a lost baby honey badger joins them. It is striped, small enough to fi t in the palm of her hand. It sleeps with her, and she carries it everywhere in her shirt, later releasing it to the bush.

Th eir hut is also the farm shop. Piled up bolts of calico, dusty sacks of maize meal, kerosene drums, smelly dried fi sh and long antiseptic bars of blue and white soap are strange sleeping companions.

As time goes by, brick clay is found down at the creek, and a brickmaker employed to make bricks.

She chose to do science, and did English, physics, chemistry, botany and zoology for her Cambridge Higher

School Certificate.

The girls had a special affinity for the queen, because she was in Kenya in 1953 as Princess Elizabeth when she received

the news of her father’s death and succeeded to the throne.

They all stood to attention by their desks while a forty-gun salute boomed out over Nairobi, with a minute’s interval between

each bang. For the Coronation they put on an Elizabethan night, including a play in the round (in the dining room) and later

had Elizabethan food. She were a peasant of some kind, dressed in a sack.

Another feature of the school was the

drama competition. Each house put on a

scene or part of a play and performed for

the school. Points were given towards Cock

House, along with sporting or academic

achievements. She was in Huxley

House, and they put on Pygmalion, The

Importance of Being Earnest and Bottom’s Importance of Being Earnest and Bottom’s Importance of Being Earnest

play from Midsummer Night’s Dream. She

loved it.

The principal was Miss Stott – ‘Jammy’ as

she was called. With her bulging eyes and

limp, a more terrifying being never roamed

the planet. She was a very good girl so that

Jammy would not haul her over the coals.

The other staff, all female except the poor

Physics master, were an amazing mixture of eccentrics. Particularly she later remembers and thanks Miss Harmsworth, a

talented musician who played the piano for the school. Their choir joined the Prince of Wales boy’s school choir for Handel’s

Creation and Messiah. Miss Venn was the Biology teacher – despite her hairy chin and manipulative ways, she taught well,

and she has to thank her. Later Venn is found living near Chettle. The Physics teacher spotted her for a future physicist, but

what could she do? The women teachers were wonderfully clever (though eccentric) role models. She is later sure that this

helped her throughout most of her career that turned out to be male-dominated.

When it was her turn to decide on a university course, Dad wanted her to do agriculture so that she could return and help

him with the farm. She was keen on drama, and wanted to go on the stage, but was talked out of it by Joyce – her experience

on stage had taught her it is hard to make a living, and besides, according to Joyce, her thighs are too short for her to be a

good actor and make a commanding presence on stage.

Steam puffs and snorts from the train, doors slam. Dad hands her the cage. Argue Steam puffs and snorts from the train, doors slam. Dad hands her the cage. Argue Steam puffs and snorts from the train, doors slam. Dad hands her the cage. Argue Steam puffs and snorts from the train, doors slam. Dad hands her the cage. Argue Steam puffs and snorts from the train, doors slam. Dad hands her the cage. Argue

though she has, he is adamant. though she has, he is adamant. though she has, he is adamant. though she has, he is adamant. though she has, he is adamant.

‘I want you to take these chameleons to the Coryndon Museum.’‘I want you to take these chameleons to the Coryndon Museum.’‘I want you to take these chameleons to the Coryndon Museum.’‘I want you to take these chameleons to the Coryndon Museum.’‘I want you to take these chameleons to the Coryndon Museum.’

She gives up and resigns herself to another burst of teasing as she takes the small She gives up and resigns herself to another burst of teasing as she takes the small She gives up and resigns herself to another burst of teasing as she takes the small She gives up and resigns herself to another burst of teasing as she takes the small She gives up and resigns herself to another burst of teasing as she takes the small

cage with two pop-eyed chameleons hanging and swaying off twigs into the cage with two pop-eyed chameleons hanging and swaying off twigs into the cage with two pop-eyed chameleons hanging and swaying off twigs into the cage with two pop-eyed chameleons hanging and swaying off twigs into the cage with two pop-eyed chameleons hanging and swaying off twigs into the

carriage. As well, there are the food parcels the kindly cook has prepared for her, carriage. As well, there are the food parcels the kindly cook has prepared for her, carriage. As well, there are the food parcels the kindly cook has prepared for her, carriage. As well, there are the food parcels the kindly cook has prepared for her, carriage. As well, there are the food parcels the kindly cook has prepared for her,

including cold chicken (tough and old, from the farm), bread, sardines, condensed including cold chicken (tough and old, from the farm), bread, sardines, condensed including cold chicken (tough and old, from the farm), bread, sardines, condensed including cold chicken (tough and old, from the farm), bread, sardines, condensed including cold chicken (tough and old, from the farm), bread, sardines, condensed

milk (yes, she does eat them together in a sandwich), renowned Kitale Bakery toffee milk (yes, she does eat them together in a sandwich), renowned Kitale Bakery toffee milk (yes, she does eat them together in a sandwich), renowned Kitale Bakery toffee milk (yes, she does eat them together in a sandwich), renowned Kitale Bakery toffee milk (yes, she does eat them together in a sandwich), renowned Kitale Bakery toffee

and fudge – thankfully that might redress the balance with the other girls. They and fudge – thankfully that might redress the balance with the other girls. They and fudge – thankfully that might redress the balance with the other girls. They and fudge – thankfully that might redress the balance with the other girls. They and fudge – thankfully that might redress the balance with the other girls. They

hadn’t forgotten the large wart hog’s skull that Dad had somehow acquired at an hadn’t forgotten the large wart hog’s skull that Dad had somehow acquired at an hadn’t forgotten the large wart hog’s skull that Dad had somehow acquired at an hadn’t forgotten the large wart hog’s skull that Dad had somehow acquired at an hadn’t forgotten the large wart hog’s skull that Dad had somehow acquired at an

auction along with a number of walking sticks. It too had gone with her on the train, auction along with a number of walking sticks. It too had gone with her on the train, auction along with a number of walking sticks. It too had gone with her on the train, auction along with a number of walking sticks. It too had gone with her on the train, auction along with a number of walking sticks. It too had gone with her on the train,

bound for the Museum in Nairobi.bound for the Museum in Nairobi.bound for the Museum in Nairobi.bound for the Museum in Nairobi.bound for the Museum in Nairobi.

Th e fi rst permanent building is the long drop. A deep hole about six feet wide is covered with a wooden seat, mercifully splinter-free. Th en rough red home-made brick walls are built. Th ere is no door, but morning glory on a trellis makes a modesty screen. Th e Reader’s Digest is handy as toilet paper, not too scratchy – and you can improve your word-power at the same time. Th e long drop is such a relief for her. Many wait-a-bit thorn bushes grow nearby that catch on her knickers. Untangling herrself at night is too exciting if leopards are around.

In 1954 the Emergency is on, so the train In 1954 the Emergency is on, so the train

journey to school takes three days: at night journey to school takes three days: at night

their carriage is shunted into a siding under their carriage is shunted into a siding under

armed guards. They have to take enough food armed guards. They have to take enough food

for the journey. Normally it takes 24 hours while for the journey. Normally it takes 24 hours while

the train twists down the hills and crosses the the train twists down the hills and crosses the

equator three times. equator three times.

Yes, she takes the chameleons out and puts Yes, she takes the chameleons out and puts

them on a red jumper to see if they will burst, them on a red jumper to see if they will burst,

as local lore has it. Fortunately they don’t, as local lore has it. Fortunately they don’t,

even though they look rather harrowed and even though they look rather harrowed and

their eyes bulge more than normal. They duly their eyes bulge more than normal. They duly

arrive safely at the Museum. Another time arrive safely at the Museum. Another time

there is a bat’s skeleton that she has carefully there is a bat’s skeleton that she has carefully

assembled from its bones. And the owl’s egg assembled from its bones. And the owl’s egg

she carries around in her bra for weeks until it she carries around in her bra for weeks until it

becomes clear that it will never hatch. becomes clear that it will never hatch.

She has become something of a naturalist She has become something of a naturalist

through osmosis.through osmosis.

Workplace for a domestic god

Th e next building is a workshop that Dad designs as a temporary dwelling until the proper house is built. Th ere is a bedroom for Dad and Joyce, a store and a sitting/dining room. A verandah extends the length of the building, and that’s where most day-to-day activities take place: breakfast, pay day and sick parade for the employees. Th ere’s a terracotta water cooler in the corner of the verandah, and on the wall, the enormous head and antlers of a sambhur stares sightlessly towards the Cheranganis. Two circular fl owerbeds are put in, each encircling a cork tree. Th ese leguminous trees produce red fl owers and bean-like seeds that are red with a distinctive black patch on the side, known as lucky beans. Down at the coast, craftsmen carve tiny ivory elephants that are small enough to fi t into a hollowed-out lucky bean.

Th e verandah wall is just the right height for the kerosene lanterns as they are fi lled and their wicks trimmed in early evening. Eventually they embrace the technology of the time and have a couple of kerosene pressure lanterns that give out a much brighter light.

Large car batteries power the radio – it is used only for the BBC 7 o’clock evening news, and the Queen’s speech at Christmas. For music they have a wind-up gramophone, and if she was left on her own while Dad and Joyce went into town she would haul the gramophone onto the verandah, wind it up and put on Italian tenors singing O Sole Mio and Grenada, singing along with them at the top of her voice.

Later the bathroom is added to one end. A long narrow galvanised iron bath has two taps and, eventually, hot and cold water. On the other side of the wall, 44-gallon drums are cut in half longways, and a fi re is lit when someone needs a bath. Th e washbasin remains a canvas bowl. Th is new arrangement is the acme of civilisation. Until then they have cleaned our teeth in the bushes – Ted always spits the furthest – and to sit in a proper bath is luxury beyond belief.

Dad discovers he is able to dowse. He fi nds an underground spring and puts down a well about half a mile away from the house. A young lad with two bullocks and a small cart ambles down the track, draws water up by bucket and rope to fi ll 44-gallon drums, and ambles back when it feels right. Sometimes this operation takes a whole day, so if they want a hot bath it must be ordered the day before. Th e well isn’t entirely reliable for large quantities of water, and in due course Dad builds a dam down in the riverbed.

Crickets chirp as the enormous sky deepens Crickets chirp as the enormous sky deepens

and fi lls with stars. The gong rings for dinner, and fi lls with stars. The gong rings for dinner,

so she fi nishes combing her hair, straightens so she fi nishes combing her hair, straightens

her dress and sits in her chair. The mahogany her dress and sits in her chair. The mahogany

table is covered in a heavily starched white table is covered in a heavily starched white

damask cloth, with ranks of silver cutlery and damask cloth, with ranks of silver cutlery and

bone-handled knives. The branches of the bone-handled knives. The branches of the

thorn tree move lightly in the breeze. thorn tree move lightly in the breeze.

Dad, Joyce and Ted have changed into Dad, Joyce and Ted have changed into

clean clothes too, and come to sit down. clean clothes too, and come to sit down.

The African servant in his long white robe The African servant in his long white robe

and wide military belt brings a kerosene and wide military belt brings a kerosene

lamp, hangs it on a branch above the table, lamp, hangs it on a branch above the table,

then moves silently amongst us, ladling thick then moves silently amongst us, ladling thick

brown soup into porcelain bowls.brown soup into porcelain bowls.

Then as usual the lamp becomes a magnet, Then as usual the lamp becomes a magnet,

as insects from miles around hail its light. A as insects from miles around hail its light. A

sausage-fl y lands in her soup, struggling for sausage-fl y lands in her soup, struggling for

a while before it sinks. With practised stealth a while before it sinks. With practised stealth

she scoops it out with her soupspoon and she scoops it out with her soupspoon and

catapults it over her shoulder into the bushes. catapults it over her shoulder into the bushes.

And so the three-course meal winds on to And so the three-course meal winds on to

its close, and if she’s lucky, a sip of Grand its close, and if she’s lucky, a sip of Grand

Marnier before bed.Marnier before bed.

Looking back, she admires the incredible Looking back, she admires the incredible

British drive to be socially correct, isolated British drive to be socially correct, isolated

on 600 acres of East African bush – no on 600 acres of East African bush – no

neighbours for ten miles, and yet this dinner neighbours for ten miles, and yet this dinner

ritual was played out in full every evening. ritual was played out in full every evening.

Th e hub of the farm

After that the water supply is assured, although there are no pipes and it still has to be transported in the 44-gallon drums.

Another unusual feature of the ‘house’ is its roof. Dad uses a roofi ng suggestion gleaned from an English building magazine – bitumen. Many layers of tarred brown paper are fastened to the roof and hot bitumen poured on.

Perhaps he uses the wrong bitumen, because it never really sets in the equatorial sun, and insidiously fi nds its way through the brown paper layers in thin unending droplets, so every single item in the house has a brown sticky patch on it somewhere. Th e bitumen is impossible to remove, and even today, so many years later, the tablecloth she eventually inherits from the farm brings a catch to her throat when she sees its inevitable brown mark.

Later there are two other brick buildings: the kitchen and the posho (milled maize) store. Th e kitchen is up a small slope from the house and consists of two rooms.

Th e cork tree – Flat Top in the distance.

Th e larger building houses the oven – a proper cast iron one by this time. Th is is also where butter is made from their cream, and where the cooking goes on.

Th e other part of the kitchen is meshed in – it is a food store kept under lock and key. Th ey still have no electricity, so Dad uses his ingenuity to create a cold store. A framework with shelves is built outside the kitchen. Th e walls are made from chicken wire packed with charcoal, and the roof is a large galvanised tray with tiny holes around its perimeter. Drips of water trickle down through the lumps of charcoal, evaporating slowly and so cooling the walls. It is very eff ective, and keeps milk, butter, cheese and meat cool enough to extend their lives successfully.

Th e other building is a general store, and here they run a small shop for the Africans. All the blue soap bars, dried fi sh and kerosene have been moved from the small rondavel where Ted and she slept, and twice a week the shop is opened in the afternoon.

‘Chunga taratibu! Chunga! Chunga!’

I duck, and a piece of dried sunflower head shoots past me,

missing my eye by an inch. Everyone else begins ducking

and shouting as more pieces go for them, or hit nearby trees.

Smaller pieces shoot into the air, as from a machine gun.

The barrel rotates faster and faster, the whole superstructure

begins to vibrate, then thankfully the belt slips off the power

takeoff and the machine whirls into stillness before we all

burst out laughing.

Dad has been building the machine for months. It is his

major obsession. It is meant to remove sunflower seeds from

the dried flower heads and maize from the dried cobs. If

successful, it will replace the singing women who usually sit

on a large canvas chatting and seeing to their babies while

beating the seeds out with sticks.

He has made a stout wooden framework within which a

long barrel rotates on its axis. The barrel is made from a

cylindrical wooden frame covered with chicken wire. The

tractor power take-off is attached to the axle of the barrel,

and the dry sunflower heads or maize cobs are poured into a

hopper at the top.

This is the first trial. Some of the seeds do fall through

the chicken wire onto the canvas, and for this there is much

appreciation. However, mostly the heads are broken into

smithereens as they fall into the hopper. It is then a time-

consuming and hopeless task to sort out the seeds from

the pieces of broken flower head, and the mixture has to

be fed to the cows. The maize trial is no better, even after

modifications have been made, because the cobs too shoot

out at lethal velocity, and are far more dangerous. Soon the

sunflower machine is abandoned in favour of the old ways, to

everyone’s great relief.

She has been taught to use Joyce’s sewing machine, an elderly Singer driven by hand. Th ey bought bolts of Amerikani (calico) from Kitale, and it is her job to cut it up and sew it into bags. Th ese are useful for putting posho in, or dried fi sh, and can be tied on the back of a bicycle.

Another mud and wattle hut is built for Ted and her. It is large and rectangular and has a bedroom at each end. In the centre is a store enclosed in wire netting where meat is hung – usually a sheep, since that is all the meat they exist on unless Dad or Ted go out to shoot a guinea fowl for the pot.

Th ey have vegetables. Joyce was involved with her family’s London allotment during the war, and is the driving force behind the vegetable garden, though she hasn’t reckoned on the Tommies and dik-dik who enjoyed the lion’s share of their fresh-grown produce.

Dad buys a Massey-Ferguson TD9 bulldozer and sets about fl attening the anthills. Apart from attempting to make the land usable for arable crops, this is a popular move with the Africans who now live on the farm as ‘labour.’ During the dry season, the white ants provide them with a delectable addition to their normal diet. When an anthill is broached by the bulldozer, they bring out pieces of wood, and drum rhythmically and gently to mimic the pattering of rain. Water is poured into the entrances of the anthill to complete the illusion.

After several hours, the winged ants come out in their thousands, ready for migration and nuptials at twilight. They are swept by the armful into baskets and taken home as a delicacy to be cooked over the fire for dinner. It isn’t unusual to eat one or two raw ants during the process – she grasps the wings and bites on the creamy wriggling body and it doesn’t taste too bad.

By this time they have about 50 Africans employed on the farm. Each family is allocated half an acre of land on which they built themselves mud and wattle huts, run a few sheep, goats and chickens, and grow beans and maize. The farm working day is from 8.00 am to midday so that the workers had time to grow crops and look after their animals, unless anyone wants to work ‘double time.’ The employees are paid mostly in ‘posho,’ but are also given small amounts of money.

They also run a clinic for minor health problems. She makes up cough mixture from

Standoff.

a local settler’s recipe, using jaggery (strong caked brown sugar) and something brown and medicinal-smelling called chlorodine. For major problems they take the employees and families into Kitale to the hospital. They put in long drop toilets for the workers and eventually build a small school and employ a teacher for the kids.

At first they have a span of oxen to plough the land: 18 beasts in tandem. Later they have the luxury of a Fordson tractor. Once the land is ploughed, maize or sunflowers are planted in reasonably regular rows: four people hold two long ropes with rag markers on them about a yard apart. One rope is held along each edge of the paddock. A third rope is moved at right angles across the other two. Where the ropes cross, someone comes along with a jembe to make a shallow hole, the next person throws three maize seeds into the hole and a third person comes along with another jembe to fill the hole. It works well with much cheery singing and laughter.

Inevitably their first farm animals are sheep and goats, because they are the currency of Kenya. Kenyan sheep and goats look, smell and taste quite alike, being multicoloured, small in build and hairy, devoid of wool. The main difference between them is that the sheep’s tails go down and the goats’ tails stick up.

Next, they have a small herd of scrubby native cows and purchase a Guernsey bull, Valentine, to upgrade the quality of their calves, and increase the fat content of the milk. They have a cowshed where the cows are milked, and a dairy area where cream is separated from milk in a large red metal separator with a long wooden handle that has to be rotated at a constant speed for the cream to be the right fat content.

The cream is taken by car twice a week in metal cans to Kitale where it is made into butter at the Creamery. During the holidays it is one of her jobs to help with the milking – this is done by hand as they still have no electricity.

By this time there are several more buildings on the farm: a large tractor shed, a posho store, a maize crib and a poultry house.

In no time, it seems, it is 1955 and she has fi nished school. She is accepted for Reading University to do a degree in dairying. Th is means that she has to work on a dairy farm, and Dad arranges for her to work on one of Lord Portsmouth’s farms up on Mount Elgon. Th e manager and his wife are very good to her, and she enjoys helping with the milking and other tasks such as cutting the tails off piglets. He teaches her to drive in an old Land Rover, which is much better than the anxious few times Dad has allowed her at the wheel of their car on the farm.

Th ey now have a Peugeot 208 station wagon, far better than the dodgy old Fordson, but it has only two seats, in the front. So if she travels into Kitale or by some miracle gets a lift back to Kitale at the end of term, she has to sit on the metal fl oor in the back, often with some Africans, perhaps with their chickens or even a small goat or two. It is a very hard fl oor on a long journey.

Th e journey from Kenya to England in 1956 is her fi rst fl ight on a plane. Dad drives Joyce and her over the slopes of Mount Elgon to the airport at Entebbe. Here they board a DC9. Th ey spend a night in a desert hotel at Wadi Halfa in Egypt, the next night inMalta, and on the third day they arrive in England and go to Joyce’s parents house in London. She works on a dairy farm in Surrey until university starts.

Her African days are over.

In 1953 an Emergency was declared In 1953 an Emergency was declared because of the Mau Mau uprising. At because of the Mau Mau uprising. At school a high barbed wire fence was school a high barbed wire fence was erected around the perimeters, and at erected around the perimeters, and at intervals there were tall watchtowers. No intervals there were tall watchtowers. No longer could we sneak down to the valley longer could we sneak down to the valley and smoke cigarettes with the boys from and smoke cigarettes with the boys from the Prince of Wales. We weren’t allowed the Prince of Wales. We weren’t allowed out of the school from one end of the out of the school from one end of the term to the next, not even to go into term to the next, not even to go into Nairobi shopping. The only entertainment Nairobi shopping. The only entertainment we had was keeping an eye on the we had was keeping an eye on the young policemen who patrolled the young policemen who patrolled the school regularly in their cars. school regularly in their cars.

The train journey from Nairobi to Kitale The train journey from Nairobi to Kitale now took three days because we weren’t now took three days because we weren’t allowed to travel at night – we spent the allowed to travel at night – we spent the nights in sidings where we were guarded. nights in sidings where we were guarded. On the up side, the boys were put on the On the up side, the boys were put on the same train, so there was much waving same train, so there was much waving as the train went around curves – but not as the train went around curves – but not much else. much else.

A friend’s mother started a canteen for A friend’s mother started a canteen for British soldiers in Nairobi, and occasionally British soldiers in Nairobi, and occasionally we were allowed to go and assist pouring we were allowed to go and assist pouring tea. tea.

At home on the farm, little changed At home on the farm, little changed except I had to lock my bedroom door except I had to lock my bedroom door at night, and expanded metal was put at night, and expanded metal was put over the windows. Dad and Joyce carried over the windows. Dad and Joyce carried guns, but there didn’t seem to be much guns, but there didn’t seem to be much trouble in the Trans Nzoia.trouble in the Trans Nzoia.

‘Meet you in the Bull and Bicycle,’ said Dad. I groaned. ‘Meet you in the Bull and Bicycle,’ said Dad. I groaned.

The Bull and Bicycle was the old Artificial Insemination The Bull and Bicycle was the old Artificial Insemination

office, recently converted to a bar in the old Majestic office, recently converted to a bar in the old Majestic

Cinema. When a play was on, it was always overcrowded Cinema. When a play was on, it was always overcrowded

and thick with cigarette smoke. The Kitale Theatre Club had and thick with cigarette smoke. The Kitale Theatre Club had

recently redecorated the interior of the old cinema with pale recently redecorated the interior of the old cinema with pale

pink walls, shaded lights, red velvet proscenium curtains and pink walls, shaded lights, red velvet proscenium curtains and

comfortable Dunlopillo seats upholstered in red leather. The comfortable Dunlopillo seats upholstered in red leather. The

Club was putting on Club was putting on Dick WhittingtonDick Whittington, and we were much , and we were much

involved in both writing and performing in the pantomime. involved in both writing and performing in the pantomime.

Joyce was Dick, the principal boy, Dad was both a bailiff and Joyce was Dick, the principal boy, Dad was both a bailiff and

a sultan, and I was the cat, Whiskers. After an orange juice, I a sultan, and I was the cat, Whiskers. After an orange juice, I

was due to practice my solo dance to Dvorak’s was due to practice my solo dance to Dvorak’s HumoresqueHumoresque. .

The costume was hot and heavy and I couldn’t see out of the The costume was hot and heavy and I couldn’t see out of the

mask, but I loved performing all the same.mask, but I loved performing all the same.

Amateur dramatics were important to the Trans Nzoia from Amateur dramatics were important to the Trans Nzoia from

the early days of white settlement, beginning with the Elgon the early days of white settlement, beginning with the Elgon

Players in 1925. After many metamorphoses and venues Players in 1925. After many metamorphoses and venues

including the Kitale Primary School and the Kitale Hotel, the including the Kitale Primary School and the Kitale Hotel, the

Theatre Club had been formed and membership increased to Theatre Club had been formed and membership increased to

654 in 1951 – from about 900 settler families. 654 in 1951 – from about 900 settler families.

Yes, she’s Dick Whittington’s cat.

Floor polish. Melt candle ends, paraffin or kerosene and shredded soap gently together, not over a flame. Sheepskin pieces tied to the feet make excellent buffers for this polish.

Soft soap. Shred two bars of mottled blue soap with one bar of white soap into a gallon of water. Boil the mixture.

Rheumatism. Mix chilli powder with any grease and rub on.

Flit. Add 1lb. Pyrethrum to 1 gallon kerosene or power paraffin.

Bath salts. Magadi soda, coloured with Reckitt’s Blue or cochineal, scent with oil of geranium or oil of lavender.

Earache. Boil an onion and pound it. Put it in the ear while warm.

Furniture reviver. Add half a pint each of turpentine and linseed oil to a quarter pint each of brown vinegar and methylated spirits in a large bottle. Shake well and allow them to form an emulsion before using.

Patent leather shoes. Rub well with a banana skin.

Embrocation.Camphor oil, ammonia, turpentine and linseed oil. Shake well and use.

Linoleum. Clean with skimmed milk.

Rough and chapped hands. Melt wax and mix with paraffin or liquid paraffin. This is really good. My husband always used this and he had very soft hands.

EAST AFRICA WOMEN’S LEAGUE Kitale Branch 20 November, 1958

Handy hints for the pioneer

Baa Baa black sheep

Baa Baa Kondoro nyeusiNyoya eko tu?Ndio Bwana, ndio Bwana,Gunia tatu tu!

Moja kwa BwanaNa Moja kwa MemsahibNa moja kwa kijanaNakaa injiani.

Baa baa kondoro nyeusiNyoya eko tu?Ndio, Bwana, ndio Bwana,Gunnia tatu tu!

Notes on riding

1. See girth and stirrups are correct.

2. Take reins in R hand – adjust stirrup for L foot – foot in stirrup – R hand on saddle – swing R leg over. (Don’t kick mount with L foot, get a clear swing with R leg).

3. Adjust reins ( R hand). R rein between little and ring fingers, then thumb and first finger. Cross L rein over and hold with thumb. (Opposite way for L hand). Practice changing reins from hand to hand while riding. Keep little finger towards saddle, thumb slightly up – hands down and easy. Reins should not be taut, just short enough to give control and feel contact with horse.

4. Adjust stirrups to correct length. Keep feet in stirrup while doing this.

5. Start to walk by exerting steady pressure with calves.

6. Sitting trot – keep poised but easy – don’t hang on the reins – don’t get stiff – keep heels down and calves well in to girth. Knees bent – move arms about every now and then to gain independence – make small circle with rein hand, ditto. When circling L hold reins in R hand. Circling R hold reins in L hand – or hold in both hands. 7. Keep reins easy – only use to check if horse goes too fast.

8. Posting trot – same principles apply as sitting trot – use calves and heels to quicken pace – beware of straightening knees and sticking toes out.

9. Dismounting – take reins in L hand – release feet from stirrups – swing R leg over and slide to ground – (can swing R leg over forwards in which case change reins to R hand during movement).

Joyce – notes to herself.

Two faces of Joyce

sunglowing sunfl owers: m

yriad golden speckles: drifting: face skin arms shoulders: shivering: irresistible: sun: magnetism: drawing close: inexorable: invisible:

sunglowing sunfl owers: myriad golden speckles: drifting: face skin arm

s shoulders: shivering: irresistible: sun: magnetism: drawing close: inexorable: invisible: lifefl ow

sunglowing sunfl owers: m

yriad golden speckles: drifting: face skin arms shoulders: shivering: irresistible: magnetism: drawing close: inexorable: invisible: lifefl ow drifting:

sung lowing sunfl owers: m

yriad golden speckles: drifting: face skin arms shoulders: shivering: irresistible: sun: magnetism: drawing close: inexorable: invisible: lifefl ow drifting:

sunglowing sunfl owers: m

yriad golden speckles: drifting: face skin arms shoulders: shivering: irresistible: sun: magnetism: drawing close: inexorable: invisible: lifefl ow drifting:

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Crystal containersCut-crystal, silver tops edged with flowers: dressing-table ornaments necessary for any well-brought up British lady in the 20s and 30s. Relics of you, my mother who I barely remember. I dream of the life you lived, an officer’s daughter and wife in the British Raj. I read historical novels to create some details for my mind’s eye. A life of important social occasions, it seems. Not enough to do. Gin and tonic, flirtations, polo, tennis, the luxury of servants. It seems the mundane tasks of life – even caring for small children – could be put aside in the pursuit of social excellence. And then you died, and I don’t even know where you were buried. There’s no-one left to ask.

PearlsI love them and wear them now with their golden sheen. They say pearls absorb sweat, so is the golden colour from your sweat? They show in all your portraits. I’m glad Dad didn’t sell them when he needed money for the farm, and eventually gave them to me when I was 21. I have the red glass beads too, and a rope of heavy amber, though I don’t like them so much. The tiny circular seed pearl brooch that Dad gave you when I was born has been lost over the years. And all in all, in retrospect, it didn’t seem much with which to celebrate my birth.

WatchI know it’s yours, it’s in some of the photos. You wore it on your right hand. Were you left-handed? The black cotton band looks quite worn out. The man at the restoration shop told me it’s not the best quality, he can get a new one. But I don’t want it. This one sat on your wrist, day after day. Does the winder bear the memory of your fingers? Did you wear it when you travelled through the dusty plains in a smutty steam train packed to the roof with tired, patient Indians with their babies and bundles? Did you bring it out with you to India when you were eighteen, fragile, beauti-ful, rich and well connected? Did you wear it when your father met you off the boat from ‘home’? Were you shocked to see your handsome father mutilated, with only one eye and half an arm? Did you guess your time here on earth would be cut off so soon?

Motherlines

Baby bookIt’s lost now, probably left in Kenya by Joyce, and, after all, only the fi rst few

pages were fi lled in. I remember seeing the statistics of my birth weight, the age at which I took my fi rst steps.

But you wrote a poem on the fi rst page – was it yours, or did you read it somewhere and think it would be good for me? I study your handwriting again, run my fi ngers over the words, searching for meaning. What did you really want for me? Should I always try to be a very good girl?

St Francis of AssissiYou also wrote the prayer of St Francis in my book for me. I fi rst read it after my

twelfth birthday, when Joyce gave me the baby book. I read it with daring: no-one ever mentioned you in case it hurt Joyce’s feelings or made Dad sad. No one seemed to understand that I thirsted to know more about you.

I snoop around the bookshelves when they are out, looking for books where you’ve written your name in the fl yleaf. I study your handwriting, but it won’t reveal you to me. I touch it as though I might see you, understand you, contact you, love you, the holy person, through your faded script.

Later, much later, I travel to Assissi, as though proximity to Saint Francis might give me more understanding about you, and why you wrote it for me. Was it instructions for my life? Was it instructions for your life?

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.Where there is hatred, let me sow love, Where there is hatred, let me sow love, Where there is injury, pardonWhere there is injury, pardonWhere there is discord, unityWhere there is discord, unityWhere there is doubt, faithWhere there is doubt, faithWhere there is error, truthWhere there is error, truthWhere there is despair, hopeWhere there is despair, hopeWhere there is sadness, joyWhere there is sadness, joyWhere there is darkness, light.Where there is darkness, light.Oh Divine Master, grant that I may not Oh Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek so much seek To be consoled as to consoleTo be consoled as to consoleTo be understood as to understandTo be understood as to understandTo be loved as to love.To be loved as to love.For it is in giving that we receiveFor it is in giving that we receiveIt is in pardoning that we are pardoned,It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,It is in dying that we are born to eternal life.It is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Th ere on the nurse’s lap, a new-born child.Th ere on the nurse’s lap, a new-born child.We saw you weep, while all around you smiled.We saw you weep, while all around you smiled.So live your life, that sinking in your long, So live your life, that sinking in your long, last sleep last sleepYou now may smile while all around you weep.You now may smile while all around you weep.

PhotosA young image: pearls shining softly at your

neck; dark hair in a Marcel wave, nose and jawline like mine. Passive, dreamy. Dad said you sang well and gave concerts to raise money for a much-needed hospital for Indian children. It might have been the Women and Children’s Welfare Centre in Kohat. I have some silver trophies you won for tennis, so you must have been a bit sporty.

An older image, before my birth. Still the Marcel wave, nearly covering one eye. You’re wearing an army greatcoat, looking at the camera. You’re in a group: Dad is next to you in his plus-fours; Ted sits on a donkey. Wali Mohammed, the bearer, is in regimental colours, and holds the leash of the white Alsatian, Buruf. His brother holds Ted’s teddy bear, and an ayah is ready in case he falls. You stand outside a double-storied building with a latticed upstairs verandah and ornate eaves. The ground looks dry and stony. What does this frozen moment tell me about you? My eyes search the photo, wanting a message. Nothing comes.

More photos, this time of us together. I search them for our connection, to see if you loved me. One shows me, only a few days old, in Murree, in the foothills of the Himalayas. Dad sits on a verandah, and I lie small in his big army hands, dreaming of realms now forgotten. So recently from the womb, hands clenched, knees folded. One small fist touches my cheek. Dad gazes at me with that particular look of wonder reserved for the newly born.

You stand behind him, looking at the camera. This time your dark hair looks natural, parted in the centre and tucked behind your ears. I imagine it stranded and sweaty as you strained with the pains of my birth. Your face looks calm, washed of pretence, and you lean your elbow on Dad’s neck. I didn’t know my birth had been recorded: this photo had sat in Joyce’s things for 50 years, and I found it only after she died.

You and I have the common heritage of women, of giving birth, but why weren’t you there to give me your knowledge, strength and wisdom when my daughter was born? What cosmic forces decreed that I should spend all but a few years without your care? You do look beautiful and caring, though I know I am foolishly biased.

The next photo shows you (I don’t know what to call you – Mummy, Mum, Mother?) sitting, holding Ted and me, your arms surround us both tightly, and my little head snuggles into the crook of your arm. You look more mature now, your hair tied back with a silk band.

The last photo, given to me in 2003 by Phyllis, my step-grandmother. You are sitting comfortably in a deckchair with a cup of tea in your hand. I am standing next to you obviously showing off, with a huge smile, and you are watching me with a gentle, kindly exprssion. Your writing on the back of the photo gives the date: December 1941, just three months before you died. I must have been four. Perhaps this is the last physical register of our connection.

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Sunday lunchtime in West Sussex. Joyce’s brother Bill and his wife Mollie had given me a second home while I was at Reading University, and I was there for the Christmas vacation. Cold snow outside, inside a warm sense of righteousness from attending church. The over-long sermon had been enlivened by thoughts of roast beef, potatoes and Yorkshire pudding sizzling in the Aga, awaiting our return. Dad had come ‘home’ from Kenya, ostensibly to visit me, but actually he had spent his time visiting sewage farms. He was investigating the possibility of using methane from sewage and silage as fuel for the tractor back in Kenya. I wondered if this would be as successful as the sunflower machine. He sat stolidly, stomach wedging him to the edge of the dining table, red of face, swathed in jumpers and scarves. Then he appeared to notice me for the first time that day. ‘What’s the story with that young man you introduced me to at Reading?’ he asked. ‘He didn’t like my kind of whisky.’ Mercifully, before I could reply, in bustled Mollie’s Uncle Norman, also ‘home,’ but from Chile, and also wrapped in many woollen garments. Norman settled himself confidently across the table from Dad, his stomach too wedged to the table. Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Bill and Mollie brought in large plates of the roast beef and Yorkshire pud, Brussels sprouts, roast potatoes and rich gravy. For a while there was no conversation, only the sound of munching, heavy breathing and the clatter of cutlery. I watched, silently mesmerised as their plates were emptied. Soon scarves and jumpers were unwound. Chairs were pushed back from the table for extra stomach room. Two foreheads were mopped, and two faces glowed. I knew that Dad disliked my fiance because of the whisky, so to deflect the rest of the inquisition, I began talking to Mollie. ‘We went into Brighton to see a movie last night. It was ridiculous. Stewart Grainger was saving some Indian villagers from a man-eating tiger, and he actually followed the tiger into a cave after it was wounded.’I could have bitten my tongue off the moment the words were out.

Well, y’ know, when I was hunting tiger in India, I did just that. There we were, we’d been on shikari for days, following a huge man-eater, it had killed two men, a woman and a child in the last week. I had been in a hide, up a tree all night, waiting for the tiger to come to the goat we were using as bait. It was dawn, the goat bleated, and as I raised my rifle to get the tiger between the eyes, a dog barked – I hit the tiger in the shoulder, away it ran. We had six men tracking it for days through the jungle until we had it cornered, it went into a deep cave. I loaded my rifle, a Mannlicher of course, had to do it myself, can’t always trust …

In Chile we don’t have man-eating tigers, but once there were six avalanches in three days on the mountain track to the salt-mines.

I couldn’t believe my ears, but indeed it seemed to be true. A gauntlet had been thrown down. Uncle Norman had broken in. Had interrupted my father.

I was caught between two of them, only enough food for three days and no idea how far it was to traverse around the base of the avalanche. We were on foot, travelling north, had been hoping to find a lost tribe up in the mountains. We had heard that they were cannibals, and lived to be at least 150 years old. My men told me that these people knew of treasure left by the Spaniards, and would talk if given tobacco and salt. The secret of longevity, eh? What wouldn’t we give for that? We had set out six weeks before, and were reckoning on getting to one of the villages the next night. Of course, the South American Indians …

Dad responded swiftly. Now it was breath-long rallies across the table.

Y’see, if you’re going to follow a wounded animal into it’s lair, you need to be really sure what you’re doing, just anyone couldn’t do it, takes years of experience and practice. Same goes for men, too, of course. When we were on manoeuvres on the North-West Frontier, I was in charge of a Ghurka battalion. Wonderful chaps, the Ghurkas. Took a while for them to accept you, but, by God, once they did, nothing they wouldn’t do for you. We were on the trail of some Afghan bandits. Of course, there’s been trouble on the border since the Mutiny. Blood-thirsty devils, too, one particular bad hat called …

Winter 1959: Anyone for tennis?

At ten thousand feet it’s really hard to breathe, and if you’re carrying a 150-pound pack it feels like your lungs are bursting. My faithful Indian guide had been hit by a rock from the third avalanche, could hardly walk, so I had to carry him as well, couldn’t leave him behind, he’d been with me for years. Luckily a flock of llamas had also been trapped by the fall. I had my hunting knife, always carried it, of course, and when dusk fell, it falls early in the cold season...

The rallies became shorter and more intense as lung capacity reduced.

Those little Afghan ponies, wonderful fellows, never put a foot wrong even when they’re carrying two people and half a ton of baggage …

Ever eaten llama meat? You should, best part’s the rump. And of course you can use the skin to keep warm. Smells a bit, but you get used to it. Lighting a fire at that attitude, quite difficult, air’s thin, but if the sun’s out you can fry an egg on a rock …

Nothing those Ghurkas don’t know about killing …

Spent three days sending smoke signals …

There he was, Mohammed Ali Khan, a rag tied over his face as a disguise …

Six months it took, walking day and night …

I’d know that devil anywhere, did he think I’d forgotten the raid on the …

I had to tie branches around my feet, shoes had worn out …

Dad brought in more fire-power.

Y’see, if the salt pot represents the Ghurka raiding party, and these pudding spoons the Afghan bandits, the pepper is a mountain range, and don’t forget we were down to our last forty rounds, been living on camel’s milk for days …

Uncle Norman rallied, meeting the challenge.

Almost given up hope of ever getting home, skin and bone we were, and then it happened. Turned out that they had been searching for us all that time. You see, we were here, where I’m sitting, say Bill represents the mound of rubble left by the avalanche, and Mollie’s the rescue party. The lost tribe’s way over there, near the bathroom door. The table’s a deep, fast-running river …

Miraculously, there was a pause, and each mopped his brow. Hair dangled limply from bald pates, and eyes rolled, seeking inspiration. Verbal Wimbledon, world-class story power. My eyes were tired from following the words belting between Tweedledum and Tweedledee, but my heart was glad. Dad had met his match. I thought that the score should be deuce. Mollie thought so too. ‘Anyone for treacle pudding?’ she said.

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Australia

Fac

t

Castel Felice Built Glasgow 1930Tonnage: 12,150 grtLength: 493’Beam: 64’

1930 Built as the ‘Kenya’ for the British India Line. Operated between Indian and African ports carrying passengers (mainly Indian immigrants) and cargo.1940 Requisitioned by the British Government and converted to a armed infantry landing ship. Renamed HMS ‘Hydra’ then HMS ‘Keren’. Participated in landings in Madagascar, Sicily and North Africa.1946 British India refused to take her back after the war. 1947 Purchased by the Ministry of Transport and laid up at Holy Loch in Scotland.1949 Purchased by Vlasov group.1949 Broke moorings and swept ashore in a heavy storm.1950 Transferred to ownership of Alva steamship Compnay and renamed ‘Keren’.1950 Transferred to Sitmar Line.1951 Remodelled and refitted in Genoa.1951 Inaugural Australian voyage to Melbourne. Renamed ‘Castel Felice’.1952 South American immigrant service.1955 Refitted again to include air conditioning and swimming pool.1956 Atlantic service to New York.1958 Permanent service to Australia.1970 Left Sydney to be broken up in Taiwan. All her crockery and linen was forwarded to Cunard liners ‘Fairsea’ and ‘Fairwind’ from Sydney.

It’s summer here in Australia. It’s so hot. The kids are crying, especially our daughter who has developed an infected ear this morning. We are all sick of spaghetti, crowds, no facilities, no deckchairs, the overcrowded pool, separate mealtimes. Four hundred children under the age of ten.

At Port Said a man said if half the passengers didn’t get off, he would. I guess he’s still there. Nearly every night for six weeks I have woken with a start, dreaming that the two older ones are

climbing the rails and falling into the sea. I watch them every moment. They’re little, only five and three. The baby’s only four months old, and skinny as a rake. So much for six weeks at sea. I had thought it would be a holiday, a pleasant interlude before our new life. At least the gulli-gulli men’s descendants were there at Port Sudan to entertain the children with the fluffy yellow chicks. Our washing either got stolen from the hanging rails below deck or got covered in smuts if it was hung on deck. Our cabin was permanently draped in wet washing. A trail of disposable nappies floated behind the ship.

We have disembarked in Melbourne from the Castel Felice to find we can’t fly into Hobart because of the infected ear. We are sweaty and irritable. We have three small children all wanting to be carried, a carry cot for the baby, assorted cabin baggage, a sewing machine, our overcoats from a cold British January, wrapped in brown paper and string. We are migrants.

We, apparently, are ‘ten-pound Poms.’We find the Botanic Gardens and sit in the shade beneath a tree with the children, eating ice creams,

swatting flies and wondering what we are doing here.In the evening we go to the dock and embark on the Trans-Tasman ferry, the Princess of Tasmania.

Fortunately, we all have our sea legs by now and no-one is seasick. In the morning we disembark at Devonport to find reporters and photographers waiting for us. Teachers are in short supply, apparently. A day on the train to reach Hobart. Kids going crazy, baby throwing up on my shoulder. On the platform, as well as the press and photographers, a group of men in smart black suits is there to meet us. The Minister for Immigration, the Minister for Education, the headmaster of the school, other lackeys. We are present in our weariness and grubbiness with all our bags and parcels (and the sewing machine) and with three irritable children.

A taxi takes us to our hotel. It’s down at the docks. We meet up with others from the Castel Felice. They have decided to go back to England. That night I am propositioned on my way to the shower, and we watch a fight from our upstairs window. When the police arrive, all the combatants forget their differences and immediately turn on them, yelling and swinging fists.

We have arrived in Australia.

January 1966: Melbourne

Where’s my baby? I’ve lost my baby. I must care for her. Where

’s my baby?

Where’s my baby? Where’s my baby? I must fe

ed her. Where is she?

Oh m

y baby, my baby, where are you? Where’s my baby?

Perhaps it’s a dream? It must be a dream ...

Pr

icklyWhose is the land?

H

ost

ile

Barren

Dusty

Exile

Distant

Parched

So distant

Impenetrable

Grounded

Ampu tations

i think i’ll be an actress…performing being the centre of attention is a buzz and directing too the whole world of the arts beckons…i’m not much good at drawing reckon i could learn though…what is my background anyway…daughter of an ex-army colonel then an unsuccessful farmer…then i suppose i’ll be a farmer but now he’s dead and the farm’s going to be sold if i don’t take it over…how can i do that with three kids under five and no help from him what can i do but just keep things going so exhausted from broken nights washing dirty nappies by hand cooking cooking cleaning why did i bother with university and it looks as though this’ll continue for many years to come…love them though i do there’s only so much one person can do…time now to learn painting…i’ll just keep going even though they laugh at me…teaching agriculture’s not so bad the kids are interested in dissecting dead sheep and finding baby lambs…at least it has the same hours as the kids’ school and the holidays…no holidays for me though still washing cooking cleaning washing cooking cleaning…it’s nothing to do with love it’s to do with the hours in the day and the available energy left after the essentials have been done…still painting oils now and learning drawing getting better still trying teacher thinks i’m improving…kids learning to drive now on my car heavens kids driving my car…working studying housework trying to make a living for me and the kids no help to speak of from him though now i have a bit of a break in the holidays when they go to him…can’t get a better job too tired no time what with taxiing kids around and washing cooking cleaning…more time now the kids are moving out though help needed with moving trailer cleaning share houses…more time to get a better job but i’m too tired i feel too old for the energy to start something new now…grandchildren already what fun though i haven’t started my life yet…job’s finished now i’ll go to art school…learn how to write…time for myself at last…how do i do this it’s hard doing new stuff but great new ideas at least i have learnt discipline to get writing done…get drawings and paintings done…good at IT and at last at last i sense a little mastery of my media…

you can’t go on the stage your thighs are too short besides it’s

not a good profession for a young woman of your background… science

is better you’re good at science… agriculture is better still then you can

come and run the farm with me…and no you shouldn’t marry him he doesn’t like the

right kind of whisky and besides he’s not good enough for someone of your background…so

you married him well we want nothing more to do with you consider yourself not part of this

family any more…ha ha ha is that a painting look kids it’s pretty awful isn’t it…teaching well teaching

that’s not much of a profession not much status or money but it’ll do for you…you still playing with paint

don’t know why you do it you get no better…bring me tea in bed in the morning…the house needs to be cleaned and

tidied there’s washing to be done 20 shirts 20 pairs of socks shorts skirts sheets towels ironing and cakes and lunches for next

week…you’re such a bad driver why do you think you can teach anyone else to drive even if you haven’t had a crash i’m sure you’ve

caused plenty…why can’t you get a better car it would be safer for the kids…can’t you provide better for the kids you’re just about on the

poverty line why can’t you get a decent job and earn more…buy me new clothes i’m sick of these old things all my friends have designer clothes why

can’t i…my feet have grown again i need new shoes…can you take me to my friend’s place…can you take me to work i start at midnight…can you pick me

up from my friend’s place…can you pick me up from work i finish at six in the morning…can i live at home i can’t get a job…can i come back for a while the share

house didn’t work out…can i stay with you while i have my baby…will you look after my dog rabbit cat goat for me while i have a holiday they don’t escape much…well if

you’re at art school and silly enough to go back to university at your age at least it keeps you occupied though i can’t believe you’ll ever come to much…doing a phd why did they

accept you…they must have wanted to fill empty places…they gave you a scholarship what a waste of government money can’t imagine you have much to offer…still it keeps you from

being a bother…want more feedback? i can go on like this forever…

b l e e d i n g

Forgotten …

Homeless Bones

homeless boneshomeless weary bonessearching…no one heart-rest place too many places stories bones

perhaps under chalk and flintgrown rough by roots of yarrow and celandinesoft rain seeping through tough turfnestling with some iron age arrowor spearhead lost by a careless Roman boyperhaps too a rusty nail fallen from his horse’s shoerooks cawing circling over blue harebell-strewn hills

perhaps under red ochre dust seeds from waving yellow grasses sparsely grazed gazelle zebra antelopebony brown sheep goats bells clanging a tall burnished thoughtful laddreaming in the shadered blanket long stickcrows wheeling callingacacia to acacia

perhaps under orange lantana or banyan tree quiet to the market’s bustle drifting scents of garlic cinnamon cloves.Scarlet kumkum bronze turmericdried fish luscious marigold heapshibiscus jasmine frangipanifragile boy with black plum eyesplaying in the dustkites keening wheeling abovea raven croaking from a broken roof

perhaps under eucalyptus-dosed leaf litter blue-grey leaves glittering rattling shining settling in oxide sandy soil under bright starsmeeting the bones of another lost childwho went bush and never was foundanxious men calling searching days on endin the hot empty distance crows calling on a dying fall

It’s clearno one place will dotoo many places stories bones

ash these tired bonesso they blow drift nestle into heart-placesknown only to the wind.

Then they can rest.

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e Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle Th

e Dreaming

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The weather in Bristol is cold and misty. I’m here for a couple of days to catch up with my mother’s dear friend Iris from so long ago. It’s the last time I will visit her in her mansion in Clifton Heights, overlooking the Clifton Gorge.

Iris’s husband Malcolm was to have been the next Governor of Bengal, but Indian independence intervened in 1947. She told me that she was sent ‘home’ round about that time to find somewhere for them to live while he handed over administrative powers to his Indian successor. Seeing this house, she immediately bought it. It was huge, ten or so bedrooms, a gallery, servant’s quarters, the lot. At the time, the size was what she had been used to, but in her enthusiastic way she had miscalculated, because of course there were no servants in postwar England. The impetuous purchase had become a rod for her back. So much cleaning.

Now Malcolm is dead, her sons are living overseas and her eyesight is failing. It’s time for her to move into something much smaller and more manageable.

As I enter the house, I see it immediately, set in a place of honour. It’s a pastel portrait of my mother; the direct blue eyes gazing over folded hands at whomever will meet them. I can’t. I never can. I look away.

Iris comes out to meet me. As usual she is full of warmth and laughs, and shows the indomitable no-nonsense vigour of ex-India British women of that particular background.

1985: Sibyl’s story‘Yes, there she is, still my best friend of all

time. She always has pride of place, wherever I live. I still miss her and always ask her advice, you see how her eyes follow you? You’re so like her. If she had lived, your life would have been so different. She was so full of love for you. When I die, I want you to have that portrait.’

There is someone new to meet today: stout Sibyl, also in her 80s; another old friend of Iris’s and my mother’s, from wartime Calcutta.

We have a cheerful extravagant lunch – smoked salmon, Beaujolais, family silver – in the huge dining room, sitting at one end of the long polished table. Then we sit on comfortable sofas in the drawing room for coffee and conversation about India, and about my mother, of course.

‘You know, she died so quickly. I didn’t even hear she was ill. I went to see her as soon as I was told, and all I could do was arrange her pretty hair over the pigment marks at the side of her face. She always hated showing them.’

Iris is nearly in tears, and I am too, but I yearn for any information about her, her life or even her death, that I can glean.

Then, to my surprise, the seemingly indomitable elderly Sibyl falls to her knees in front of me.

‘Sally, can you ever forgive me?’ she cries out, tears streaming down her face. ‘You would have had a mother all these years if it hadn’t been for my cowardice. ’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Pat and I both joined up as nurses when the war broke out. First we trained with the Calcutta St John’s Ambulance Brigade. It was fun, but then things became more serious as the war casualties and half-starved refugees from Burma were brought in to the Presidency-General Hospital where we were working. There were few supplies, and no inoculations. Then I was posted to the typhoid ward. There was no treatment for typhoid then, and I was so scared, I didn’t want to go. Your mother volunteered in my place. And she caught typhoid and died. You must have blamed me all these years.’

She is sobbing so hard she can barely speak.‘Sibyl, I never knew anything about all this.

Please get up. There’s nothing to forgive. She was an adult. She chose her own path.’

I can say only these words to her: guilt must have weighed her down for all these years.

But later, in the train on the way home, gazing out of the window and contemplating the day, I am angry. Not with Sybil, but with my mother.I hear an echo of St Francis in her behaviour. In protecting Sibyl and caring for the typhoid patients she gave her own life.

But why didn’t I figure in the decision? I was only four, after all. Did she feel invincible, full of hubris? Was the British sense of duty so strong that she would risk her life? Was life so difficult for her that she wanted to die? Was it something to do with St. Francis?

I’ll never know.

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Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle

The Dreaming

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Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siec

le The Dreaming

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Bradley and Traill Solicitors Bristol

12th January 1994

Dear Mrs Berridge

Re: Lily Iris Carter, deceased

We have been handed your Christmas card addressed to Mrs Carter, and have to inform you of her death on 3rd June, 1992.

Yours faithfully

John Bradley

1994: Iris’s painting

Loftus Street Katoomba

21-1-994

Dear Mr BradleyThank you for your letter of 12-1-94 informing me that Mrs

Carter is deceased. Mrs Carter and my mother Gwendolin Patricia Berridge were

good friends in India in the early 40s. I have maintained contact with Mrs Carter since my mother died of typhoid in 1942 when I was four years old. Mrs Carter had a portrait of my mother that was painted by her second husband Malcolm, and she promised that on her death this should come to me.

Obviously, by this time you may have disposed of Mrs Carter’s possessions in the appropriate manner, but if the portrait is still around, I would very much like to have it. Since it was wartime when my mother died, and things were very chaotic with my father away in the army and fighting in Burma, I have very little to remind me of her. I think it would have little monetary value, but it would mean a great deal to me if I was able to have it. The portrait is in pastels, and is of a dark-haired woman with blue eyes looking directly at the viewer over folded hands, and was in an oval frame. I was under the impression that she would put this in her will, but of course I could well be mistaken.

Please pass my condolences to the family. Iris was a very warm person with great charm and vitality. I loved her very much although we seldom met, and I shall miss her.

Yours sincerely

Sally Berridge

Bradley and Traill Solicitors Bristol

27 Jan 1994

Dear Ms Berridge

Thank you for your letter of the 21st. Your request is most moving and I will do what I can to help.

Mrs Carter’s Will did not mention a gift in your favour. Perhaps it was due to the fact that she was suffering from terminal cancer. Many things may have slipped her mind with the trauma of her illness, although she did not show this in conversation. She was a Lady, and a very brave one.

I am still dealing with the estate, there are a few loose ends to deal with, and I will approach her Son Roger. He lives and works in France, so it may be a while before you hear from me again. Her other Son lives in South Africa, and would not have a great knowledge of her affairs.

I do know that Mr Carter shipped most of his Mother’s possessions to France – none went to auction. There is therefore a very good chance that your Mother’s portrait is still in the possession of the Carter family.

I hope to write to you again.

Yours sincerely

John Bradley

Gray France

17-3-1994Dear Sally

I am writing in response to your letter of 21st January to Mr Bracey about your mother’s portrait in done in pastels by my stepfather.

We have found the picture and will be sending it to you very shortly, once we can put together suitable packaging to protect it in the post. I am sending you this letter in advance to let you know it is coming, in case there are any customs formalities to go through at your end.

I am sorry it has taken so long to respond to your letter, but my mother’s furniture is still stored in the attic of our house in France since it was brought over last year. Unfortunately we are not able to live in our own house, because our work means we have to live in another part of France, so we can only go to our own house at weekends.

I am very glad you wrote and got in touch with me, as I am delighted to be able to pass the portrait on to you. I remember meeting you in India when we were both about four years old, and I think it must have been shortly before your mother died. Ever since then her portrait has been in very prominent place in our various family homes, as my mother always counted her as her best friend of all time. I also know that you have been in touch with my mother over the years, and I know she would want you to have the portrait should you wish it.

Thank you for your condolences. Fortunately my mother accepted her fate very bravely when she knew she had terminal cancer, and so she died quite contentedly.

I hope the portrait reaches you safely, as I am sure it will.We (that is, my wife Pat and I) have been living and working in France

for the last 2 1/2 years and are thoroughly enjoying it. If you ever have occasion to come to France, please do come and see us. We are in the countryside about 30 miles east of Dijon. Likewise, if we ever make it to Australia, perhaps we could look you up. We have a long-standing invitation from some friends we met in Nairobi, who are now settled in Victoria, and we hope one day to go and see them (when we are retired!).

With kind regards and all good wishesYours sincerely

Roger

Bradley and Traill Solicitors Bristol

21-3-1994

Dear Ms Berridge

Further to our recent correspondence, I have pleasure in enclosing a copy of a letter today received from Mr Carter.

I am very pleased that the Portrait of your Mother has come to light and hope that it will arrive at your home in the not-too-distant future.

With best wishes

Yours sincerely

John Bradley

Gray France

17-3-199

Dear Mr Bradley,

Sally Berridge’s letter

I am sorry to be so long in replying to your letter and hers, but pressure of work and preparations for our younger daughter’s wedding have left us short of time to search through my mother’s furniture which is still stored in the attic of our house some 130 miles from here, pending completion to the works on that house.

Anyway, we have found the portrait of Sally’s mother, and will shortly be sending it to her in Australia. I remember meeting her in India when we were both about four years old. Since then I know she has been in regular touch with my mother, and her mother’s portrait was always very prominent in our family house. Naturally I am very pleased to pass it on to her, as it must be much more valuable to her than me.

Yours sincerely

Roger Carter

Loftus Street Katoomba

12-6-1994

Dear Mr Bradley

Thank you for your letters of 27 Jan and 21 March.

I am happy to let you know that the portrait of my mother arrived safely from France, and now has pride of place in my home.

It has been so kind of you to assist me in this matter, and the added bonus to me is that I now have contact with Roger Carter, and we hope to meet before too long.

With very best wishes,

Yours sincerely

Sally Berridge

Loftus Street Katoomba 13-6-1994

Dear RogerThank you so much for your letter, and, indeed, for the portrait, which

arrived here beautifully packed, and in one piece.It has moved me very much to that you responded to my request in

such a friendly and generous way: I have no recollection of meeting you all those years ago, though your name is so familiar to me from letters and conversations with Iris. Isn’t it strange that we’re now in touch after all those years and the distance of several continents?

It took me some time to open the parcel and look at the portrait, because I was never able to look into my mother’s eyes when the portrait was hanging in your mother’s house. Fortunately my daughter had dropped in to see me the morning it arrived – it means so much to her and to my two sons to see such a lively and happy portrait of their grandmother. Anyway, I eventually opened it and felt very much at peace with her, and she now occupies a central spot in my house where we can keep an eye on each other!

I was (and still am) so sad that your mother has died. She occupied a very special place in my heart, as a wonderful woman in her own right, and also as a link to both my parents and the days of India now gone. We really enjoyed each other’s company, partly because I reminded her so much of my mother. Perhaps they have now met up once more!

It seems we also have an African connection – were you aware that we went to Kenya in 1948 – I lived there till I was 18, and went to the Kenya High School in Nairobi. Dad and my stepmother Joyce had a farm outside Kitale, and after he died in 1960 she stayed on for seven years before she went back to family in England.

And yes, if you do come to Oz, please do get in touch. I would very much like to catch up with you and to meet Pat.

With very best wishes and many thanks,Sally

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1800s 1920s 1940s 2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial

cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India

Kenya liners maize pollen rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise

wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks

1800s1920s1940s2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial coral cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India Kenya liners maize pollen rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks 1800s1920s1940s2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial coral cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India Kenya liners maize pollen rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks 1800s1920s1940s2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial coral cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India Kenya liners maize pollen rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks 1800s1920s1940s2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial coral cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India Kenya liners maize pollen rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks 1800s1920s1940s2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial coral cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India Kenya liners maize pollen rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks 1800s1920s1940s2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial coral cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India Kenya liners maize pollen rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks 1800s1920s1940s2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial coral cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India Kenya liners maize pollen rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks 1800s1920s1940s2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial coral cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India Kenya liners maize pollen rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks 1800s1920s1940s2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial coral cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India Kenya liners maize pollen rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks 1800s1920s1940s2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial coral cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India Kenya liners maize pollen rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks 1800s1920s1940s2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial coral cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India Kenya liners maize pollen rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks 1800s1920s1940s2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial coral cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India Kenya liners maize pollen rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks 1800s1920s1940s2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial coral cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India Kenya liners maize pollen rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks 1800s1920s1940s2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial coral cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India Kenya liners maize pollen rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks 1800s1920s1940s2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial coral cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India Kenya liners maize pollen rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks 1800s1920s1940s2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial coral cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India Kenya liners maize pollen rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks 1800s1920s1940s2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial coral cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India Kenya liners maize pollen rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks 1800s1920s1940s2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial coral cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India Kenya liners maize pollen rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks 1800s1920s1940s2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial coral cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India Kenya liners maize pollen rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks1800s1920s1940s2000s adventures army Australia barley battered brothers brass Bill cold colonial coral cracks equator eucalyptus farm farmer farming ghee gnarledhands Harry highseas highsnows India Kenya liners maize pollen

rhododendron sherpa SilkRoad skirmishes steamertrunk tails tales tea Tibet turquoise wars warmth waves wood woodsmoke yaks

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time silver lace silk embroidery

locketAlice dead

silk brass soapstone silkembossed

broken buddhaBasildead

silk lace silver time embroiderypearls Gwendead

Precious

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Heartland (I)Did my mother really die? In Calcutta? Could

it just be a story of my father’s, a sop to keep me quiet? Did it really happen? In the end, I must go to Calcutta to see if I can find her grave. In the end, I must answer these questions. Dad is dead, they’re all dead.

The decision is made, the ticket booked, the money paid. I am going. I relearn some Hindi words: ‘Please,’ ‘Thank you,’ ‘Get lost.’ A friend suggests that the National Library has Indian newspapers from wartime in their archives. Why don’t I look for my mother’s death notice?

HeadlineIn the National Library I find the Calcutta

Statesman, 12th March 1942. I look for her death announcement. There it is – there, on the left of the front page. It is undeniably true. Berridge, Patricia, next to columns of advertisements: the War Gift Shop’s Special Auction to benefit the Lady Mary Herbert’s Bengal Women’s War Fund; a famous remedy for pyorrhoea and gingivitis; Mappin & Webb’s jewelled military badges; how to mend a leaky roof; a Friday the 13th raffle for a Hillman Minx at the Belvedere Fete in the Grand Hotel; Vancatachellum’s condiments, renowned for quality and flavour.

Light-headed, I photocopy the page and leave the library. Tears are close, the night is dark and cold. A sharp wind comes off the lake. This simple black and white announcement brings me closer to her death than any of my meagre four-year-old’s memories.

Goddess (I) and warThe 12th of March 1942 was the Festival of

the Winter Solstice, the morning of the Gods, when the sun passed into a fresh sign of the zodiac. It was, according to the Statesman, a lucky time when enterprises of every description should be undertaken. Every Hindu should bathe in a sacred river at the correct hour of the transit. Presents made of sesame seeds should be exchanged; small images of birds made from flour, butter and ghee should be baked and tied around the necks of little children as amulets of good fortune. These should be removed on the day of the winter solstice and fed to passing birds to take away all evils. Perhaps ayah did tie one of those amulets around my neck, perhaps it has kept me from evil, though not from difficulty. Perhaps it was, after all, a good day for a soul to make its transit into the next world.

Fighting had moved to Central Burma. After the evacuation of Rangoon, the British had abandoned the delta and were now fighting alongside their Chinese allies. Was my father with her when she died? I know he was fighting in Burma around that time.

What next?

In practical terms, the announcement confirmed the date (11th March 1942), cause (typhoid) and place of her death (Calcutta).

But how am I to find which cemetery she was buried in? I order some reels of death records for Calcutta from the local Mormon Family History Centre. Within a few days I return with some trepidation to read my microforms.

After spinning though hundreds of facsimiles of death records of the British from a multitude of years and towns and cities in India, I finally come to Calcutta and the 1940s.

There it is, a handwritten entry. Patricia Gwendolin Berridge, dead from typhoid on 12th March 1942, buried in Bhowanipore cemetery. I copy the entry and go home with jelly bones. I have found it. It is true after all. Has anyone ever visited her grave? Why should visiting a grave matter?

Next, I write a letter to the commander of the Fort William garrison, asking his permission to visit my mother’s grave, as it seems the cemetery is within the fort’s confines. I receive a reply through email – the cemetery is no longer within military boundaries and may be visited at any time. And although they have a record of the entry in the burial book, it seems that there is not a marked grave site.

2001: Search for the beloved

Goddess (II)I print off a street map from Calcuttaweb.

When I arrive it will be the Durga Festival. Durga is an important goddess for the Hindus, particularly in West Bengal. She was created from Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva to destroy the king of the demons, Ravana, who took the form of a black water buffalo. She rides on a lion and has ten hands, each holding a powerful weapon given to her by ten other gods. With these weapons that conferred the power and strength of the ten gods, Durga slew Ravana, and it is this victory that is celebrated each year, especially in Kolkata.

Durga is the mother of Ganesh, Kartikka, Saraswati and Lakshmi: she is the goddess of psychic death and renewal, and although she is so fierce in aspect, she brings about the necessary death before rebirth, to live out one’s dharma in a better way. She too protects against all evils. The festival was first recorded in 1606 in West Bengal, and every year, when the planets are in the right conjunction, in elaborate temporary temples (pandals), pujas are built to Durga with flowers, candles and incense. In Calcutta, work groups, family groups and friends get together and pay for images to be made of Durga and her family, and then later the images are taken down and put into the Hooghly River (the Ganga, River of Grace) so that the holy effects of Durga may be taken by river to the ocean, then spread into the universe for the benefit of humanity. Perhaps Durga can round off the effects of the Festival of the Winter Solstice in 1942.

DreamtimeQantas flies me from Canberra to Sydney

to Hong Kong. Cathay Pacific to New Delhi. Dreamtime drags by in the cattle class cabin. Finally we arrive at 3.00 am. I unravel my legs and rotate my ankles to help my feet to work properly. I’m praying that the transport from the hotel will be there. I walk out with my luggage. My senses are hit by a wall of people, and mercifully a young man waves a sign with my name on it. We make contact and walk out of the building through a car park.

I must be dreaming, all the cars are Ambassadors, white or black. How does my guide know which is his? But he does, and bangs on its window with his fist. A sleepy figure in the driver’s seat eventually unravels from many wrappings and unlocks the doors. They have been waiting for two hours. Perspiration trickles down my back. Insects make that familiar hum. I know that unsavoury smell on the slight breeze. I climb into the back of the car. We arrive at the hotel safely and I am shown to my room. Thankfully I have a shower and fall into bed.

Kim’s roadThe next morning I emerge late for breakfast.

The food is a mixture of Indian and British, but certainly not the best of both worlds. I wander through the foyer. At the tourist desk a man materialises and knows my needs.

‘Madam would like to see the Taj Mahal? We can arrange it.’

‘It’s not too late?’

‘No, no, madam, of course not. We will arrange a car and driver for you immediately.’

I don’t have a clue where the Taj is from here, or how long it would take to get there. Will I ever have this opportunity again? Probably not. I have a spare day while I wait for the train to Calcutta, so of course I’ll go. I hand over probably too many dollars, and a white Ambassador arrives. I am introduced to my driver, Murali, a Hindu, a small, finely-built man. He wants me to sit in the back. I feel like a real memsahib.

We set off down the road that Kim travelled, the Great North Road to Agra, in the chaos of Delhi traffic. Murali is calm and confident in his driving, thank goodness. I ask him how long the trip is, and it is only now I find out that it is a 450 km return trip.

The colours, myriad people, milling traffic, smells, cows wandering about, the honking of the cars and lorries, the way everything is painted. Here is life in all its richness and variety, its tangible and deep reality. This heady mix coloured my early years. This is what speaks to my heart, not the sterile cleanliness, manageability and relative calm and suburban life of Canberra.

We thread our way steadily though the lorries and bicycles. My adventurer’s blood boils in my veins: I am my great-great grandmother escaping from the Indian Mutiny on the back of a camel.

Murali and I discuss Hinduism, how India has fared since Independence, how he makes enough money to feed his family on his small farm in Himchal Pradesh, and just what am I (an older woman on her own, a grandmother of six, a curiosity) doing here all on my own. When I tell him I was born in Murree, a daughter of the Raj, he is delighted, welcomes me and tells me that I really am an Indian. He is also interested in my quest to fi nd my mother’s grave, since ancestors are very important in Hinduism.

Th e traffi c is so diff erent from the sedate Pajeros, BMWs, Fords and Saabs of Canberra, particularly in the midday dead zone where there is time to look at the sunshine on the wattle blossom, avoiding the odd dead kangaroo at the side of the road, and make believe one is in the bush.

Here, on this double-lane road, the whole of humanity is unleashed, and some of the animal kingdom too. Many, many Ambassadors, medium-sized lorries, the pride and joy (as well as the livelihood) of their owners. Th ey are all painted with individual verve, many having injunctions and advertising or religious symbols with intensity and variety of colour and style.

Lexicon‘Horn please!’‘Keep distanse!’‘Powar break.’‘Cleean greean.’‘Use dippre at night!’‘Crystal clear slow melting ice cubes.’‘Durga Icecream.’‘Say no to plastic bags!’‘India is great!’On a red traffi c light: Relax.On a traffi c control point: Avoid rash driving.On a wall: No lounging, playing, roaming.On a hospital wall: Leg for the legless.

LiteratureMcRae and Carter1 say that since the late

1960s British literature has undergone a sea change because of the way the English language has been used by many migrants to question their identity and relationships to the world. English is a world language now and is not owned by any one nation. It is therefore open to local variation both in England and elsewhere.

Kipling’s stirring Victorian writing kept the notion of the Raj afl oat and endowed it with patriotism, glory and fame. It certainly aff ected my views when I was younger. It was the writing that my father enjoyed until his taste was soured by his bloody experiences during the struggles of partition in 1947.

Many writers have used India and the decline of British power as a source for their fi ction: A Passage to India (E. M. Forster); the novels of Paul Scott, including the Raj Quartet; John Masters, and J. G. Farrell’s history of the Indian Mutiny, Th e Siege of Krishnapur. Rushdie, who was born in India, used India as the setting for Midnight’s Children and Shame. Vikram Seth’s epic, A Suitable Boy, Arundhati Roy’s Th e God of Small Th ings, V. S. Naipaul, R. K. Narayan and Anita Desai’s novels have all at various times been looked at as either Indian writing or as Indians pandering to Western tastes.

And there are the writers of the Indian diaspora such as Rohinton Mistry who discover a new country whilst they simultaneously develop a new perspective on the country they left behind.

Give wayI trip back to the present, to the constant

rhythm of car horns. I can’t break the code. Th e drivers use their horns instead of their brakes. We travel along the outer lane most of the time because the inner lane is taken up with a medley of traffi c forms: bicycles with two or three people on board, motorcycles with whole families on board – Dad driving wearing a cricketer’s helmet, while Mum sits sidesaddle with her sari blowing in the wind, kids wedged on the petrol tank or fi tted between Mum and Dad. Th en wagons drawn by camels, donkeys or buff aloes. Th e animals are slow, amiable and unmoved by the noise and speed.

1 McCrae, J. and Carter, R. 2004. Th e Routledge guide to modern English writing: Britain and Ireland. London, Routledge.

Loose cows purposefully wander from the median strip into the traffic and somehow everything flows around them: they continue chewing the cud and all is well in their protected world. People stand chatting in the middle of the traffic.

Roadside restaurants emit delicious curry smells, they are crowded with people. Bottled water is freely available, this must improve public health.

Suddenly a green lorry is coming directly towards us, on our side of the road, head on. My adrenalin surges. I think, ‘Oh, this is the last moment of my life, I’m glad it’s finishing here, now. Like this.’

Murali keeps his head, we swerve at the last minute, miss each other by inches. When I have recovered my composure and find I’m still alive, I ask him what happened.

It seems there was heavy traffic on the two lanes going the other way, and when that happens it’s not uncommon for the odd driver to take advantage of the space on our side of the road. Scary.

‘Are there many accidents like that?’‘Oh yes, madam, many people indeed are

killed like that.’

GuidanceMurali turns to me:‘It would be good for you to have a guide

around the Taj Mahal, to take care of you, madam. Sometimes there are pickpockets in these tourist places.’

Obviously this is a job for one of his friends. Nevertheless, it is a good idea. I agree, he makes a call at a roadside phone and soon we pick up Khan. He is a Muslim, as tall and strong as Murali is short and finely built. We bump along, passing Mohammed’s birthplace down the road to Mathura on our left.

Khan asks if I would like lunch. I’m pretty hungry by then, so I agree, and we stop at a luxurious motel. I order sandwiches. Murali has to stay with the car, so I get enough for him too. After another hour we reach Agra, passing through the city to get as close as we can to the Taj. Exhaust fumes are slowly destroying the marble of the monument, so we must park the car and get into an electric bus that takes us to the entry. I am not sufficiently organised with cash so I am taken to an ATM nearby.

I am hot by now and red in the face. We walk in – the crowds are predominantly Indian, not many European or Asian faces here. There have been a number of terrorist scares lately.

Heartland (II)Khan stops and faces me. He puts his hand on

my heart. I am taken aback.‘Madam, don’t be fraiding. I can tell that your

heart is frightened. India is your country, and you belong to India. You will come to no harm here in your country.’

My throat thickens. It’s true, behind the excitement there is the anxiety of travelling on my own; there are the memories of India and what happened to me after my mother died.

Indians understand these things. Can you imagine a regular Aussie guy or a Brit being so sensitive to someone he had just met? I can’t.

Anyway, Khan takes a few photos of me with the Taj in the background and we wander along to the building. It is truly beautiful. I long to see it by the light of the full moon when it is reputed to become golden, incandescent, to shimmer and twinkle.

Rabindranath Tagore described it as ‘a teardrop on the cheek of time.’ Sir Edwin Arnold, a British poet, wrote of it: ‘Not a piece of architecture, as other buildings are, but the proud passions of an emperor’s love wrought in living stone.’

I wonder what it would be like to have someone love you so much that they built you a memorial like this.

Shah Jehan, the fifth Mughal emperor, built it for his Empress Mumtaz Mahal, a Muslim Persian princess. She was his inseparable companion, his comrade, counsellor and inspiration. She softened his heart to make him care for the weak and needy through charitable deeds, and bore him 14 children. She died giving birth to the fourteenth child while accompanying him on a campaign, only three years after he ascended the Peacock throne. Shah Jehan’s hair and beard grew snowy white within a few months, and he built this mausoleum as a monument to his eternal love.

The Taj was probably designed by an Iranian architect, Ustad Isa. It was completed in 1648 by more than 22,000 artisans working for 22 years on the banks of the Yamuna River. Over a thousand elephants were used to transport the marble and other stones used in its construction, and a decorative element only 3 cm long can contain more than 50 inlaid gemstones. It was ‘designed by giants and finished by jewellers.’ The derivation of its present name is unknown, but is thought to be a abbreviated version of the Empress’ name. The story goes that some of the artisans who inlaid the flowers and calligraphy into the marble using lapis lazuli, onyx, jasper, sapphires, topaz and carnelian on this wondrous tomb had their hands chopped off so that they could never repeat their work.

Around the entrances excerpts from the Holy Koran are inlaid in onyx. The craftsmen created an optical illusion by elongating the tops of the characters so that they appear in proportion when viewed from ground level.

Surprising that this building has survived, bearing in mind the ferocious politics that went on during the Mughal Empire. Khan tells me that the British had some hand in preserving it.

Khan also tells me that Shah Jehan had planned another building with the same plan as this, but in black marble, as his own memorial on the other side of the River Yamuna. But his son Aurungzeb deposed him. Shah Jehan ended up imprisoned in the Red Fort in Agra for eight years and was eventually buried next to Mumtaz Mahal in 1666.

Indian starsEventually we return via the electric bus to

find the car where Murali is having a snooze. I am driven to a jeweller’s shop where I am given a bottle of Pepsi Cola. Not what I normally drink, but I’m thirsty. Clearly they think I have a lot more money than I do, but eventually I buy a pair of earrings – black sapphire, the Star of India. In certain lights a star radiates from the centre of the black stone. It is a little piece of India I can wear.

Kim’s road againMore traffic, life multiplies. I begin to flag.

We drop off Khan. Murali and I travel on through the chaos back to Delhi. Eventually as the evening darkens we arrive safely back at the hotel. I am full of affection for Murali, and I arrange for him pick me up in the morning for a short sightseeing trip in Delhi. I have only the morning to look around, because in the afternoon I catch the train for Calcutta.

Stepping in timeMurali takes me to the India Gate, where a

number of regiments are doing drill routines and presenting arms. The ornate turbans are a wonder, as is the transformation of the men. While waiting their turn, the men slouch casually, smoking, chatting, draping their arms around one another. At their turn to present arms they straighten up and give the impression of practiced warriors.

The orders of the drill sergeant, the sound of boots, the shine of brass buttons, the bright colours of the turbans: I am back in Kohat.

Back to the hotel – a fond farewell to Murali who asks me to remember him should I return to Delhi. I slip him some money without the manager seeing, because I’m sure he isn’t paid much out of my fee. The tourist downturn means that he will be short of money to take back to his family when he returns there in the hot season. I know he will remember me if I return. I will certainly remember him.

Railway linesThe inevitable Ambassador comes to take

me to the railway station. When we get there, the guide negotiates with a porter to carry my case. A wiry ragged man lifts my case (complete with travelling wheels) easily onto his head and strides off towards the train.

My guide shows me to my berth. In Canberra I had booked a double air-conditioned berth. This I thought would ensure that I would get to ride inside the train rather than on the outside. I had imagined two berths in a little carriage, with a door to shut it off from the corridor. Instead my berth is the lower one of four in a section of a long carriage, partitioned off only with corridor curtains. Oh well, nothing to be done about it. In two of the other berths are a husband and wife travelling back to Kolkata after their holidays in Delhi. The berth above me is empty. The man greets me, but the wife is grumpy and won’t talk.

I settle in to watch the countryside steam past. Before long a guard comes around to check the tickets and I find I have to pay an extra amount to cover a security fee. Hmm, but again, what can I do? Then another employee comes by with bottles of water and a large aluminium teapot containing hot tomato soup. At this point I must decide whether I will risk the food on the train, but the only other option is to remain hungry until the morning. The soup is enjoyable, even on such a hot day. But the air conditioning is working, I am on the train to Calcutta, my butterflies begin to settle.

Later more food appears: two curries, vegetables, poppadums, rice, chapattis, yoghurt, gulab jamun, far more than I can eat, and the quality is easily as good as the best Indian restaurants in Canberra.

Night dreamsI settle down for the night. I worry about my

passport and traveller’s cheques. I have them on me in a series of body belts and curl up around them in a foetal position hoping there are no pickpockets in the night. I fall sleep to the rhythm of the wheels, back to an amalgam of all my childhood train journeys: Bombay, Kohat, Poona, Kashmir, Delhi, Darjeeling, Calcutta, Rawalpindi, Karachi, Lucknow, I know all the names. The train is an express, rushing through the small stations. I’m sorry because in my heart I am a child again: dark nights on railway stations, sellers of chai, jellabies, samosas, sweetmeats, people calling out by the light of small smoky fires.

I wake at dawn. India rushes past. At stations people rare rising from simple beds on the platforms, lighting their fires, cooking their rice, washing by the pumps. Rice paddies, bullocks, the sun is rising over peepul trees.

Eventually we steam into Howrah station. I am packed and ready after a breakfast of bacon and eggs. In all the crowds, I wonder how my guide will find me, but I barely have time for the thought before a young man strides into my compartment, saying my name. In no time I am in a Land Rover, being taken to the Fairlawn Hotel. I meet Samik, my appointed guide.

Computers and the homelessOh, the Fairlawn Hotel. I know my parents

would have stayed here, but the accommodation registers have been destroyed. The hotel is decked out in rattan chairs, ceiling fans, the staff are in the long white uniforms and cummerbunds that I remember. My room is upstairs, small and oddly shaped, with dodgy electrics and its own bathroom. I definitely won’t drink the tap water.

By the time I’ve had a shower it’s still relatively early. My guide Samik is returning this afternoon to take me to see some of the Durga festival. He warns me to wear shoes that cover my feet completely. I’m not sure whether this is a religious necessity or a practicality because of the state of the streets. Probably the latter.

I go over the road to the Internet café. On the pavement, a family is setting up their home using a blue tarpaulin shelter.

They have a spirit stove and cook their rice while their kids play in the gutter in their ragged clothes. My heart goes out to them, but what can I do? They ask me for nothing and appear quite self-contained. I go into the café – inside are rows of shining computers connected to the world. I send a message to my son and pick up my emails.

Missy Baba of the Raj: the post-Raj bridgeBack at the Fairlawn it’s lunchtime. The worst

of British Indian food, it’s horrible. Thick brown Windsor soup. Not even a decent dhal and rice.

‘This food is terrible, isn’t it?’ An Indian man at the table comments wryly.

‘I remember this soup from my childhood.’His face lights up. ‘You have been to India

before?’‘Yes, I was born here during the Raj.’‘You are a proper Missy Baba, then?’‘Yes, I suppose so. I left when I was seven, for

school in England, before Independence.’‘I have always wanted to meet a proper Missy

Baba. Tell me about your life.’‘My father was in the Indian army, mostly

based up near the Northwestern frontier with Afghanistan. I was born in Murree, a hill station up in the foothills of the Himalayas.’

Mukti is a gentle Bengali obstetrician who has lived and worked in Manchester for many years. He returns to Calcutta regularly with his English wife Brenda, a paediatrician, to visit his family. We talk about India, England, Australia.

He is fascinated by my story – the archetypal Missy Baba of the Raj appeals to him, and he is touched by the idea of me seeking out my mother’s grave.

Goddess (III)Samik returns and we set off to see Kolkata

and the Durga festival. Definitely the shoe advice was because of the state of the pavements. First he takes me to Mother Theresa’s shrine where I inadvertently receive a blessing, but I’ll take all the blessings anyone is willing to give. Then we go to her hospital for the destitute and dying. Here the wards are immaculately clean and young people from all over the world tend the many emaciated figures lying on neat blue bed sheets.

Loving care and attention is given to these people in their last days and hours. A dark skeletal woman waves a hand at me – she wants a drink, and immediately a young fair-haired lass is by her side, lifting a metal mug of cool water to her mouth. These are the fortunate ones, they live the end of their lives with dignity and loving care.

Goddess (IV)Around the corner to Khalighat, a temple to

fierce Kali from whom Kolkata takes its name. Durga created Kali: the black goddess sprang fully formed from Durga’s forehead, and has an insatiable bloodlust.

Kali has four arms: two hold symbolic items – a bloody head hanging by its scalp, and a sharp bloody sword. Of the other two arms, one confers blessings while the other encourages fearlessness. Her bloodlust is satiated every day by the sacrifice of goats outside Kalighat. A challenging sight.

A small walled area is covered in bloody smears and sprays of blood. Its floor is slippery with gobbets of blood, and three men in blood-stained clothes officiate while the swelling jostling crowd watches and prays. People pay to have the goats sacrificed. Six brown and black goats are tethered to the wall. They can smell blood and are terrified. A black goat is grabbed. Squealing and bleating, its head is pushed into a v-shaped stock. A primitive guillotine is pulled down onto its neck: blood spurts everywhere, a brass container is held out to catch as much as possible.

The blood is taken into the temple; the head and still-jerking body are thrown into the corner. Once is enough for me. I ask Samik if we can go into the temple, but he says no, only Hindus are allowed. I argue that I was born a Hindu, but he disagrees and won’t take me in. I must admit I am a bit relieved, but I still wonder what is happening inside the temple.

We see many pandals and pujas to Durga and her family, very ornate and expensive. At the ghats at the edge of the Hooghly River, pujas are being put into the water. They are dismantled from their temples, put in lorries and brought

down to the water’s edge to a wall of people and sound: men in ecstatic states, dark eyes rolling, fierce expressions of joy; orange red turquoise gold saris; drums, chanting, the howling of conch shells. The statues maintain their passive, benevolent expressions as they are passed over people’s heads and laid in the river to set sail amongst seas of garlands – thousands of fragrant orange marigolds and other unrecognisable flowers. The broad calm river is replete with slowly moving islands carrying blessings for mankind to the ocean.

I have dinner with my friends Mukti and Brenda: we call ourselves the Post-Raj Bridge. We eventually find the right boat to watch the Durga festivities from the river. It has taken the taxi driver several attempts to find the tourist boat. Although I have my map of Calcutta with me, it is useless because although the streets are named, none of them have signs.

Unfortunately it is the wrong night for the festivities, and there is nothing to see, but it’s a good trip on the boat anyway. These things depend very much on astronomy, apparently. On the way back to the Fairlawn we pass many trucks full of grinning, waving, excited men – the festival appears to work quite as well as certain banned substances in Australia, or, possibly, a good bloody football match.

Never-memoriesThis is the morning I have been waiting for.

Waiting for, and dreading. We are going to the Bhowanipore cemetery. Samik appears early because of the heat. First he wants to show me the biggest banyan tree in the world in the Botanic Gardens. I am happy to procrastinate.

Then to a little chai-seller’s stall where we all drink chai out of small clay cups. Kurban the driver gets his morning fix so he can cope with the traffic. I don’t blame him. Samik tells me that Kurban is a Maharajah of the road – obviously they like Johnny Cash. Then we go to the flower market to buy some roses for my mother’s grave. Samik thinks of everything.

Thirteen rosesWe pick our way through the wet and muddy

stalls: marigolds, lilies, roses, hibiscus, just patches marked out on the ground, and I order a dozen roses. The flower seller tells us to come back in a few minutes, while he prepares the roses, so we go down to the riverbank.

Here sun worshippers stand waist deep in the river, saying their morning prayers. Yesterday’s Durga statues and garlands silently float by in their matted orange islands. Above, the crowded bridge over the Hooghly is the start of the Great North Road that I travelled in Delhi. The flower seller has removed all the thorns from the roses – in Hinduism it is not auspicious to give flowers with thorns on them.

‘Madam, he wants you to please accept an extra flower. It is better to have thirteen than twelve,’ says Samik. This is a teary morning.

BhowaniporeKurban drives me to the cemetery, he’ll return

in an hour. First he talks to the man in charge of the cemetery and explains what I am looking for. The superintendent brings out a leather-bound ledger for March 1942. Now I face the reality for the first time. We search through, and yes, there is the entry. It is the original of the Mormons’ microform.

Now I see why my searches have been so fruitless over the years – from the scrawly handwriting the surname appears to be Burridge, rather than Berridge.

The superintendent’s eyes grow sad as he tells me that they don’t have a lot number for the grave, only an area marked ‘F’ where the grave is located.

As we walk out into the heat, several men materialise seemingly from nowhere to help me in my search.

Area F is close to the office and not so very large, and we all walk around looking at the names on the gravestones.

No luck, but there are five unmarked graves. I thank the people and they leave. I wander by myself for a while, then choose one of the unmarked graves to sit by. Her grave could be this one, and even if it isn’t, the right one is near.

I look around. The graves are neat and grassy, a bougainvillea hedge sprawls its purple blossoms to the sky. Kites keen overhead. Crows call. Not such a bad place to rest one’s bones. I feel distant, with a heavy sadness. I think of the energetic, attractive young woman, full of life and fun, dying horribly of typhoid. Did she die alone? Was my father with her? Did they still love each other? Did she think of me as she took her last breaths? Tears are close. I put the little bunch of roses on my chosen grave, and near them put the letters I have for her: one from each of my sons and one from me.

I take a half brick that is nearby and put it over the letters, so they won’t blow away. Eventually they will rot like the rose: the words will seep into the ground and together they will mingle with her bones.

Th e sun is hot on my skin. Why wasn’t she vaccinated against typhoid? Th e vaccine was available, but perhaps in wartime there weren’t suffi cient supplies. Why did she volunteer for the typhoid ward? I’ll never know.

No Taj Mahal mausoleum, this, not even a headstone – did my father never bother? Was it just the problem of wartime? Th ough others seem to have managed. Did my father ever come here, did he visit her and pay his last respects before he left India for good? I know she must have been buried very quickly – March in Calcutta is scorching and there would have been little refrigeration for the morgue.

Am I the only person to have visited her in all this time? Eventually I say a silent goodbye and stand up to leave. An inscription on a nearby grave catches my eye.

But I do weep – some part of me is still weeping and I think will remain here near her grave. But I also feel a sense of peace, an ability to keep that internal weeping from driving my actions. I know more about the reality of her death. I say another goodbye. It is hard to go, I may never come here again.

But I have, at long last, paid my respects.

IndependenceLater the same morning, Samik takes me

to the Intellectual’s Coff ee House. We climb dusty wooden stairs at the side of a building, and enter a large shabby room fi lled with tables and chairs. We sit down and Samik orders me a coff ee. Here, he explains, after the war, Ghandi, Jinnah, Nehru and Chandra Bose planned their campaign for independence from the British. I look at the dusty room and wonder … at that time I would have been in England, torn from the land of my birth, making do, trying to fi nd a ‘home’ in England’s green and foggy land.

Smoke at the Durga templeI fl y to Bombay and eventually arrive at the

ashram. I see the fl ower sellers outside the gates, the same young women and men who were there ten years ago. One of them, Sushila, walks over and greets me by name, even though she must have seen thousands of other Europeans since then.

After two weeks in silence and many hours of meditation, I write on a prayer stick and put it in the sacred fi re at the Durga temple.

I write a prayer to release my mother’s soul. Th e sad immature child in me has been clinging to her for so long. Th at child has stayed at Bhowanipore cemetery, I know. It’s time to set my mother free, and set myself free too.

Th e stick crinkles, the lettering glows and turns to ash; the smoke rises straight up and in the distance a bell tolls.

Do not stand at my grave and weepI am not here, I do not sleep.I am a thousand winds that blowI am the diamond glint on snowI am the sunlight on ripened grainI am the autumn rain.When you wake in the morning hushI am the swift uplifting rushOf birds circling in fl ightI am the stars that shine at nightDo not stand at my grave and weepI am not there, I do not sleep.

My mother lies in her coffin. Her face is grey-yellow and blurred, though she doesn’t look decayed. I sit by the coffin, talking to her. Her face comes alive, as it is in many of her photos. She is animated, and we commune with each other happily. I don’t know what we say, but I feel joy, comfort, humour and so much love between us. Then it’s time for her to become dead again. She settles back into her coffin. Her face blurs again. I wake. It’s 3.49 am.

6-1-05. Yesterday I wrote of my journey to India to find my mother’s grave.

Heaven isn’t all it’s cracked up to beyou know.

Heavenly music yesbeauty yescalm yesperfect yes Yetno body

no body to play withno body to love stretch acheno blue blue cornflower eyesno black Irish hair no soft pale breasts no voice to sing a Strauss songno bones muscles smells.

Lurching into deathmy dear electric body shockedinvaded digested discarded

reaching strainingI left my fragile crust of bone

behind

My shallow imagined carapace of immortality left behind

The red thread connecting life and death stretching snapping dissolving into

the blue fireconsuming transforming (trans)migrating

At least my body didn’t grow oldmy skin didn’t crack and wrinkle joints freeze brain melt down. No.There’s that to be said for dying young.

Down there I lost heartlost my heart

and the bird of dreams flew me awaytoo soon, if the truth be told.

Yet. And yet.Umbilical strings pull me back Oh yesthe umbilicus survives death like it or notespecially with daughters Oh yesa fierce girlish cordembroidered painted knotted with lace and memoriestangled in the web of my essencemending tears tearsinfinitely elasticbinding separating close farclose far

far close.

Never ever severed try how you will.

Boyish cords are plainerjust as dear

but more like knicker elasticfunctional easy plain strong

Oh yes

my bones remain though my blue eyes are long dissolved

into the dark earthjoined with melted roses words in some small corner of a foreign field …

NowI look down the kaleidoscope of time for one last instant Yet

I thinkits prisms hold me for ever

I thinkmy edges are fading blurringmy essence

yearnsfor eternal dissolution in

the universal ocean.

Yetit feels as though I’m not all done.

Another life?Another lifetime?

Who knows?

As I saidHeaven isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Notes from an afterlife

Eter nity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle

The Dreaming

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Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siec

le The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages A

tomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetim

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e Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Yes, we had a farm in Africa, though not at the foot of the Ngong hills. And yes, like Karen Blixen, the dry, burnt colours of Africa did enter my heart and my veins. It’s not just the smell of the dust, the red and gold of the gloriosa lilies, the geckos that hang around the ceiling, the kak-kak-kak of the guinea fowl that call you back to Africa. It’s not just the blessing of fl uid gazelles fl ying through the bushes. It’s not just the excitement of seeing a lion. It’s not just the comic warthogs, babies following their parents in line, trotting off into the bush, tails rigidly vertical, with end-tassels blowing in the breeze as though they were on top of a guardsman’s helmet. It’s not just the lightness of the air, the singing and strumming of drums in the dusk. It’s the intense blue clarity of the sky and the weighty shifting clouds that call you back. It’s the sunsets that smack you between the eyes and make even the strongest atheist believe in a celestial city. It’s the feel of the place. Africa is sticky. Th ere’s no getting rid of Africa however hard you try, once you have been infected. An African worm slithers and whispers in my brain.

A movie about Africa; a poster of a giraff e in a travel agent; the thrum of a drum; a meeting with a Kenyan friend – each time the worm whispers its old questions: What happened to our farm? Could I ever fi nd it again? Did those seven years really happen? Are they merely a neurological twitch in my brain? Is my memory embroidered by Elspeth Huxley’s Flame Trees of Th ika, Karen Blixen’s Out of Africa?

Did we really live in a tent for a year? What happened to our farm? What happened to Kenya’s hopes and dreams after independence? What are the consequences of our having lived there for those who now live on that land?

At Kenya High School reunions people seem to remember me, they have photos of me in their albums, so I suppose I really was there. But a fi lm of unreality grows over my Kenya memories while at the same time the worm keeps whispering in my head. It isn’t comfortable. It’s time to listen, to give the worm some answers.

How dangerous is it for an older single woman to travel the 300 miles to Kitale from Nairobi? Fairly dangerous, no doubt. A schoolfriend, Di, who still lives in Nairobi, puts me in touch with Tony who still farms on the slopes of Mt Elgon. He can run a low key tour for me. He can pick me up in Nairobi, drive me to Kitale, help me locate the farm, drive me back to Nairobi.

A few emails, and a trip is planned for July 2003. Th e worm settles down. I email my brother Ted in England to see if he wants to come too. At fi rst he declines, then two weeks before I am due to leave he changes his mind. Perhaps the worm whispers to him, too.

I duly arrive at Di’s home in Karen, a Nairobi suburb named after Karen Blixen (Isak Dinesen), where she once lived. We decide to visit the Kenya High School for Girls where we did our secondary schooling.

Kenya, located on the east coast of Kenya, located on the east coast of Africa, shares borders with Somalia, Africa, shares borders with Somalia, Ethiopia, Sudan, Uganda and Tanzania. Ethiopia, Sudan, Uganda and Tanzania.

The natural landscape includes a The natural landscape includes a coastal plain with sandy beaches, coastal plain with sandy beaches, extensive semi-arid plateaux, fertile extensive semi-arid plateaux, fertile highlands and the dramatic Rift Valley highlands and the dramatic Rift Valley that cuts across Kenya from north that cuts across Kenya from north to south.to south.

The climate ranges from hot and humid The climate ranges from hot and humid on the coast to cool and temperate on the coast to cool and temperate in the highlands. Rainfall is unreliable in the highlands. Rainfall is unreliable throughout much of Kenya, and less than throughout much of Kenya, and less than one-fi fth of the land is suitable one-fi fth of the land is suitable for agriculture.for agriculture.

Most of Kenya’s people (over 31 million Most of Kenya’s people (over 31 million in 2002) live in the cooler highlands or in 2002) live in the cooler highlands or the coast, which are best suited to food the coast, which are best suited to food production. The population will continue production. The population will continue to grow rapidly, as almost half the to grow rapidly, as almost half the people are under 15 years of age. There people are under 15 years of age. There are over 40 ethnic groups, mostly with are over 40 ethnic groups, mostly with their own language. Kiswahili and English their own language. Kiswahili and English are the national and offi cial languages are the national and offi cial languages respectively. About 80% of Kenyans are respectively. About 80% of Kenyans are Christians, 10% are Muslims and others Christians, 10% are Muslims and others retain indigenous beliefs. The Main cities retain indigenous beliefs. The Main cities are Nairobi (the capital), Mombasa (the are Nairobi (the capital), Mombasa (the main port), Nakuru and Kisumu.main port), Nakuru and Kisumu.

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July 2003: Into Africa

Di drives us to Kileleshwa along the crowded, dirty, pitted roads. After nearly 50 years, my fi rst impression is astonishment at the unlikely size and solidity of the school buildings made from basalt blocks. Why and how was there such an investment in girl’s education? It was fi nished in 1951, perhaps the school was an example of post-war expansion and rebuilding.

My heart sinks and unexpectedly those old butterfl ies begin to fl utter in my stomach as we drive past Baden Powell House where I fi rst boarded while the school was being built, and where I was bullied so much. Th e concrete at the front is still there, where we roller-skated endlessly. Huxley House (after Elspeth Huxley) is now called Tausa (peacock), I like it. I re-feel that old anxiety as we walk to the principal’s offi ce – Jammy’s fi erce shade must still tramp the corridors with her lopsided stride.

While we wait for the principal, a kind elderly man introduces himself and pours us milky tea from a large aluminium teapot and makes us feel very welcome.

Everything is very formal so I am glad I took Di’s advice to wear a skirt and not jeans.

Th e principal is strong and impressive – a good organiser, I imagine. Th e students have just won a national science prize, she tells us. We give a small donation towards the building of an assembly hall – they still don’t have one, but they do now have a chapel and a library.

Th ere’s the same parquet on the dining room fl oor where we had assembly and the Elizabethan night for the Coronation in 1953.

Th e memory of those ferocious meatballs assails me, my name shines in gold on an Honour Board for gaining the Higher School Certifi cate in 1955. Also Huxley House is there for winning Cock House, while I was Head of House. Newer boards list the girls since us, mostly European until 1963 (independence year), after which the names are mostly African.

Th ese young women have gone on to study at the highest level: medicine, science, law, agriculture. I feel so proud of them – they must be a strong part of the backbone of this country. Th e school obviously continues the tradition of academic excellence set by Cambridge when I was there.

A group of girls in the dining room is practising singing – not our romantic European hymns and ballads, but strong, throaty African ballads to a drum beaten with spoons and forks, plenty of movement of feet and hips. So music is still very much part of the school life here.

Di and I walk along the corridor, where some girls are washing out their lockers. Th ey are so polite, charming and intrigued by us two mzees (old ones).

We tell them that KHS was our school, but they giggle and don’t believe us. We’re much too old for that, and obviously we were never young like them. Th ey wear the same uniform we had: long grey pleated skirts, white shirt, brown socks and lace-up shoes, red and black striped ties. Many young women are silently working at their homework, unsupervised in the classrooms.

Th e trees are leafy and tall, fl owers bloom and there’s a much more friendly atmosphere than when we were there. Th e physics and biology labs look just the same.

Di goes to the loo, and as I wait for her a young student comes and talked to me. She asks me about my career, and tells me she wants train in medicine, travel overseas to America or Canada to specialise, then come back to help her people. Brilliant.

The staple diet includes thick porridge The staple diet includes thick porridge (posho or ugali) made from maize (posho or ugali) made from maize fl our, served with vegetables. Very few fl our, served with vegetables. Very few people can afford meat. The poorest people can afford meat. The poorest people cannot afford enough food, and people cannot afford enough food, and malnutrition contributes to many malnutrition contributes to many child deaths.child deaths.

Health conditions have improved to Health conditions have improved to some extent, but government health some extent, but government health services are not able to provide for services are not able to provide for everyone, due to lack of funds. People everyone, due to lack of funds. People still suffer from pneumonia, TB, malaria still suffer from pneumonia, TB, malaria and illnesses related to poor sanitation, and illnesses related to poor sanitation, such as enteritis and diarrhoea. While such as enteritis and diarrhoea. While Kenya’s HIV infection rate dropped Kenya’s HIV infection rate dropped almost 3% in 2002, it still has one of the almost 3% in 2002, it still has one of the highest infection rates in the world, highest infection rates in the world, especially in urban areas. A major health especially in urban areas. A major health victory was achieved in March 2002 victory was achieved in March 2002 when the circumcision of girls under when the circumcision of girls under 18 was banned, but the campaign 18 was banned, but the campaign to ensure the practice is completely to ensure the practice is completely eliminated continues.eliminated continues.

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I want to talk more with the students, but it isn’t appropriate. I am an outsider now. But my heart fi lls with pride for these young women, working so hard, doing so well and showing

such a warm and generous spirit towards the invaders who had neglected to nurture and encourage their endeavours while the British were in power. And though I wasn’t responsible for those attitudes, I do feel a certain guilt that such sins of omission were carried out on my behalf.

Th e next day Tony and Ted collect me at Di’s place.

‘Oh yes,’ says Tony easily. ‘I’m sure we can fi nd the farm. Nyongeza will remember it. One of his relatives – I think it was his cousin – worked for your father. I remember Joyce from the Kitale Th eatre Club. My parents knew her well. Don’t think I ever met your father.’

We climb into the long wheel-based Land Rover and set off through the Nairobi slums. On his instructions we lock the doors, while Tony speeds up as much as he can. It’s messy, desperate living for these people, for the AIDS orphans who are now street kids. Th ere are street stalls: charcoal, second hand clothes (from Oxfam and other charities), Coca Cola. Tony tells us that the charity clothes have sapped the energy from the local home-based weaving and dyeing industries. Th e streets are pot-holed, muddy and smelly.

Once on the main road the car lurches in and out of potholes big enough to swallow it. Th e metal bar in front of me becomes hot from my hands as I hang on desperately to stay more or less upright.

Our maximum speed is about 80 kph and 300 miles will take us two days. It takes a strong car and a good driver to go any distance outside Nairobi, and I am more than thankful I am not making this drive on my own. Lurching down the old road that drops down over the edge of the Rift Valley escarpment, Mount Longonot rears in the distance. Th is is the road we travelled down in the dreaded Fordson van 48 years ago.

Th e worm wriggles and catches in my throat.We stop at Lake Nakuru National Park Lodge

for the night. Lake Nakuru is a controversial managed and fenced park with a particular strategy for encouraging some species.

Most Kenyans still depend on the land Most Kenyans still depend on the land for a living. Except in severe droughts, for a living. Except in severe droughts, Kenya grows enough maize for its own Kenya grows enough maize for its own needs, but has to import wheat. Cattle, needs, but has to import wheat. Cattle, sheep, goats and camels are important sheep, goats and camels are important in drier areas. Pastoralists must keep a in drier areas. Pastoralists must keep a delicate balance between their herd delicate balance between their herd size and the feed available.size and the feed available.

Tea is the leading agricultural export, Tea is the leading agricultural export, followed by coffee, fl owers and various followed by coffee, fl owers and various vegetables and fruits. Unfortunately vegetables and fruits. Unfortunately world prices for these products fl uctuate world prices for these products fl uctuate wildly, affecting the incomes of farmers.wildly, affecting the incomes of farmers.

As the population grows there is As the population grows there is intense pressure on the land and other intense pressure on the land and other natural resources. The government natural resources. The government hopes to increase crop yields by hopes to increase crop yields by improving services to small farmers improving services to small farmers and by introducing new grain varieties. and by introducing new grain varieties. Soil conservation and reforestation are Soil conservation and reforestation are essential to protect the land. Women’s essential to protect the land. Women’s vital role as food producers, farmers vital role as food producers, farmers and child-rearers is gradually being and child-rearers is gradually being recognised.recognised.

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In Nairobi, life is tough for those who lack In Nairobi, life is tough for those who lack well-paid jobs. They live in slums and earn well-paid jobs. They live in slums and earn a meagre living by selling vegetables a meagre living by selling vegetables and second hand clothes, cooking food and second hand clothes, cooking food or doing odd jobs. Although the new or doing odd jobs. Although the new government is providing shelter and government is providing shelter and education for many former street children, education for many former street children, many others still survive by scavenging, many others still survive by scavenging, begging or stealing. Few Kenyans have a begging or stealing. Few Kenyans have a piped water supply and proper sanitation. piped water supply and proper sanitation. Even fewer have electricity, so wood, Even fewer have electricity, so wood, charcoal or kerosene is used for fuel.charcoal or kerosene is used for fuel.

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For example, lion are excluded from the park in an eff ort to increase the numbers of smaller animals lower in the food chain.

We drive out at dusk to spot animals, and see white rhino, giraff e, baboons, kudu, water buck. Flamingos dreamily pinkly crust the edge of the lake.

Th eir fi shy smell wafts towards us, it’s sickening. As the sun sets, they rise in rosy clouds with eerie cries to perch on land overnight – no one is sure where they go.

Th e next morning we are up at dawn to spot leopard, but we aren’t that blessed. In the Land Rover we can open the roof and stand up – the animals are unworried by the vehicle, so we can get really close. When we are packed up and ready to leave, we go to a lookout above the lake. When we get out and walk to the edge to see the fl amingos, a fi lthy male baboon jumps in through the roof and makes straight for our packed lunches. Ted and Tony beat it off . As a parting gesture it pees extensively and horribly on Ted’s new jacket, but thankfully it hasn’t bitten anyone. Baboon’s teeth are dirty, and they carry rabies. Th is is the danger and unpredictability of living with wild animals.

At the Lodge they off er to plant a tree in memory of our family, if we pay a pittance. It is of course a way of making money for the Park, but anyway Ted and I plant a thorn bush in memory of our family and the farm.

We set off again upcountry to Kitale. ‘Th at’s the road to Molo, isn’t it?’ Ted becomes

unusually animated. I remember seeing a dentist’s surgery at Molo,

he had a Kilner jar full of extracted teeth near the front door. It was his principle marketing tool.

Th e journey is now undertaken to a continuous commentary from Ted. Th e landscape has unleashed his memories. Th ey come thick and fast in the form of stories that have a subtext of emphasising the oddness of the African way of life, through European eyes:

Th is man was hunting a honey badger. He put his hand down the hole, and when he withdrew it, there was a snake attached to a fi nger of his left hand. He got his panga (large knife), cut off the snake’s head, and cooked and ate the snake before he died from snakebite.

It reminds me of seeing Dad giving an old man a cup of thick white milk of magnesia for a digestive disorder, the standard treatment in those days.

‘Here,’ Dad said. ‘Drink this, it’s ostrich’s milk. It’ll do you a power of good.’

Many landless people and poor Many landless people and poor farmers are moving to towns. Industry, farmers are moving to towns. Industry, mainly using agricultural raw materials, is mainly using agricultural raw materials, is expanding slowly. There are not enough expanding slowly. There are not enough jobs in Nairobi and other cities to meet the jobs in Nairobi and other cities to meet the huge demand and youth unemployment huge demand and youth unemployment is a serious problem. is a serious problem.

In 2001, the unemployment rate was In 2001, the unemployment rate was estimated to be 40%. Kenya lacks major estimated to be 40%. Kenya lacks major mineral resources and relies heavily on mineral resources and relies heavily on imported oil. imported oil.

Tourism is also an important income Tourism is also an important income earner. Kenya’s economy remains earner. Kenya’s economy remains uncertain while corruption and its reliance uncertain while corruption and its reliance on low-priced primary goods continue to on low-priced primary goods continue to be factors.be factors.

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Kenya is experiencing severe pressure Kenya is experiencing severe pressure on viable agricultural land which is at on viable agricultural land which is at a premium just to grow food to survive, a premium just to grow food to survive, for the majority of people. Everywhere for the majority of people. Everywhere there are little shambas growing maize, there are little shambas growing maize, bananas and coffee. There is confl ict with bananas and coffee. There is confl ict with the wild animals: elephants eat enormous the wild animals: elephants eat enormous quantities of vegetation, lions can take quantities of vegetation, lions can take people, goats or cattle. Yet much of people, goats or cattle. Yet much of Kenya’s present economy is dependent Kenya’s present economy is dependent upon tourists. By the side of the road upon tourists. By the side of the road or on heavily laden bicycles are the or on heavily laden bicycles are the charcoal sellers eking out a living. Much charcoal sellers eking out a living. Much vegetation is chopped down to produce vegetation is chopped down to produce the charcoal, and no re-planting is done. the charcoal, and no re-planting is done. Sheep, cattle and goats are everywhere: Sheep, cattle and goats are everywhere: traditionally, wealth is measured in herd traditionally, wealth is measured in herd size, so overgrazing is a contributor to size, so overgrazing is a contributor to land degradation.land degradation.

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‘Can’t be ostrich’s milk,’ said the old man. ‘You couldn’t milk an ostrich. You’d never catch it, they run too fast.’

Ted rattles on with his stories, and surprisingly starts bringing in snatches of languages such as Nandi and Wandorobo that he learnt while working as a District Offi cer.

He’s lit up, we can’t stop him talking about his adventures, and who lived where and the good times that the Rugby team had in their rugger bugger days etc., etc. Clearly his memories reside in languages, and the visual cues from the landscape switch on his stories of the past. He sits in the front of the car with Tony, who can hear better over the noise of the car, and manages to nod and reply now and again as he drives carefully to negotiate the potholes.

I switch off and ponder my own thoughts on memory and what the visual cues bring to me. For me, the landscape triggers the emotions of the time – a lonely lost feeling curiously mingled with a sense of adventure. It’s not the landscape as much as the smell of the dust and the sheep and goats, seeing the people, the cheery waves from the side of the road, the plants and the animals that bring back past times.

Most of those times I endured with a sense of separation from what was happening, a powerless feeling of being sent hither and yon by Dad’s decree.

Yet I also know now that I did well at school. I was Head of House, passed my exams well. A mishmash of contradictory feelings; perhaps some have been superimposed during my refl ections on childhood. Perhaps I have taken a position that conforms to my present thinking, rather than recalling accurately how I felt at the time.

As we creak and lurch along, now and again there is a blessed strip of better road. Either it is relatively new and so hasn’t disintegrated yet, or possibly the full extent of funding went to it rather than the pockets of some corrupt offi cial. On one of the decent strips of road near Eldoret we pass the private airfi eld that ex-president Moi (reputedly) built for his own convenience. We pass what used to be the village of Hoey’s Bridge – now called Moi’s Bridge.

We pass by many shambas (small fi elds) bright green with tall tasselled maize. Th e rains have been exceptionally good this year, and Tony hopes that the price of maize will be high enough to bring a good income to the locals. He also tells us that the seed companies have released hybrids, which do yield well, but they are infertile: this means that seed can’t be kept from one year to plant the next, seed maize must be bought. Th at brings a huge extra cost to these farmers living on the edges of poverty.

In the late afternoon, after negotiating a particularly diffi cult stretch of road with thick mud and deep ruts, we arrive at Lokitela, Tony and Adrianne’s farm on the slopes of Mt Elgon.

Th e next day: Kitale main street. Not so diff erent, though busier and dirtier. Th ere’s still a bakery where the Woods’ Kitale Bakery used to be. Th e chemist sells medicines, veterinary supplies, fertilisers, garden seeds and tools. In the Soy Trading Company I buy camomile tea, and fi lm for the camera. Street pedlars sell potatoes and oranges, a few boys beg. We can’t leave the vehicle unattended, and, as I do my stint of keeping guard, one of these boys gazes into the rear view mirror of the Land Rover, gazing oddly at his own face.

In the late 1800s, the British decided In the late 1800s, the British decided to protect their interests in Africa by to protect their interests in Africa by building a railway from Mombasa to building a railway from Mombasa to Lake Victoria, across what is now Kenya. Lake Victoria, across what is now Kenya. British rule brought new crops, some British rule brought new crops, some schools and health services and improved schools and health services and improved communications; but for the local people communications; but for the local people it also meant loss of their land, new taxes it also meant loss of their land, new taxes and forced labour.and forced labour.

Resentment of colonial rule contributed Resentment of colonial rule contributed to the bloody Mau Mau uprising of the to the bloody Mau Mau uprising of the 1950s, during which 12,000 Africans 1950s, during which 12,000 Africans died. Although the British administration died. Although the British administration suppressed the movement by force, the suppressed the movement by force, the pressure for self-government continued pressure for self-government continued and eventually succeeded. and eventually succeeded.

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He wears a dirty black jumper with long baggy sleeves. He has a white plastic container up his sleeve, and he is inhaling into it. He is sniffi ng petrol.

Only three farms in the Trans Nzoia are now run by Europeans, compared with about 900 when I lived here. Th ere’s the Post Offi ce, the excitement of letters from England, ‘home’. Th ere’s the train station, where I embarked so many times on the train to cross the equator three times before getting to school in Nairobi. Th ere’s Kitale Primary School, best forgotten.

Th en it’s down the road to fi nd the crossroads that was one corner of our farm. Nyongeza drives us in the Land Rover out from Kitale on the Cherangani road. For a few miles there is decent bitumen, then it deteriorates into the usual enormous potholes. We ponder the 1948 map that I retrieved from Joyce’s belongings after her death. I had picked the wrong place on the map, but Ted read it better than I did.

At the crossroads where the Public Works Department hut once stood there is now a little shopping centre, Kaplamai. We continue down the road to Hoey’s (Moi’s) Bridge, and there are huge blue gums by the road. Th e worm roars in my head, ‘Th ese are the trees we planted all those years ago.’

At the farm boundary we stop and take some photos at the roadside. How are we to fi nd our way onto the farm without impinging on the privacy of the present owners?

But Nyongeza solves it for us: he speaks to a man who is walking down the road, and on his information we go back up to the dukas (shops) at Kaplamai.

Here a man called Simba takes the opportunity to help us. He has trained in animal production at Kabete, and now, like many qualifi ed people, has no work. His ambition is to buy ten acres at Molo to grow potatoes and produce milk.

Simba fi nds his mate Charles, the man who who now lives in what used to be our house. Charles owns the Kaplamai supermarket and the Umoja Hotel. He is very friendly and intrigued with us. He introduces us to his little daughter in her bright red coat, obviously the apple of his eye.

Yes, Ted and I fi nd the farm, after all these years. We drive down the same old driveway and there it is: the old workshop where we lived is still standing – the verandah roof a bit the worse for wear, but held up with brick pillars now, as well as the old gum posts. Th e kitchen, the posho store and the old loo are still there too.

Th e dairy still stands, and they run seven milking cows. One of the cows looks as though she has Guernsey blood – could she be a descendant of our cows? Ted talks away with Simba and Charles in Swahili (although they all speak English perfectly well), most of which I can understand, but this group of men seems to have forgotten my existence.

Ted seems to be ready to go, but I’m not. My worm just isn’t satisfi ed, and a lot more answers.

I butt in and ask about how they manage for water. Th ey said that Dad’s dam is still there.

In 1963, Kenya achieved its In 1963, Kenya achieved its independence, under Prime Minister independence, under Prime Minister (later President) Jomo Kenyatta. On (later President) Jomo Kenyatta. On Kenyatta’s death in 1978, Daniel Arap Kenyatta’s death in 1978, Daniel Arap Moi became leader. After years as Moi became leader. After years as a one-party state, Kenya held multi-a one-party state, Kenya held multi-party elections in 1992 and 1997. party elections in 1992 and 1997. Although ethnic tensions and charges Although ethnic tensions and charges of corruption led to protests and some of corruption led to protests and some deaths, President Moi and the Kenya deaths, President Moi and the Kenya National Union remained in power.National Union remained in power.

Fresh elections were held in December Fresh elections were held in December 2002. Mwai Kibaki of the Democratic 2002. Mwai Kibaki of the Democratic Party of Kenya came to the presidency Party of Kenya came to the presidency on an anti-corruption platform, and Moi on an anti-corruption platform, and Moi stepped down. stepped down.

The Kibaki government has included The Kibaki government has included reform on issues such as child rights, reform on issues such as child rights, education, press freedom and HIV/Aids education, press freedom and HIV/Aids policy. However there remains much policy. However there remains much work for the government to do to deal work for the government to do to deal with corruption, health issues and with corruption, health issues and unemployment.unemployment.

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So we all pile into the car and go down the road to a small group of thatched mud and wattle houses further down the road, but still on what was our farm.

Amy, the daughter of the family, remembered the name Berridge straight away, and took us over to the orchard. The orange, mango and loquat trees we planted are still there, and they still produce fruit. She knew that we had planned to build a proper house near the orchard.

Then we walk down to the dam – it’s still holding. It looks good and has plenty of water for the cattle. A Kavirondo crane potters about on the bank.

Back at Amy’s house an older lady, Mary, comes out from the house to meet us. She’s suffering from malaria, and not feeling too well. She remembers Joyce clearly, she had worked for her for some time. She speaks well of her, and says Joyce used to tell her about what Ted and I were doing as we grew up. They seem to have fond memories of the Berridge family.

Then I spot an old ammunition box against the wall of a verandah – Dad’s stencilled name still visible on its side. Ammunition boxes are of value for storage because, being metal, they are impervious to termites.

Mary asks us if we would like tea – the dasturi (custom) for respected visitors. They put on the kettle over the fire in their open air kitchen. I know the firewood is from the trees Ted and I planted.

Amy sits us down in a tiny sitting room in their thatched mud and wattle hut – it contains a three-piece suite covered in pink and white crochet, pictures of Jesus on the wall. I feel so honoured. The tea comes – smoky, milky, hot and sweet. So we chat with Charles and Simba while the other women chat together in the kitchen hut.

The men tell us how difficult it is to get jobs, even after a good education like Simba’s. They say unemployment is 70%.

Then it is time to go, so with their permission I take photos of them all including Mary’s three grandchildren, and we swap addresses.

It is so strange to be back there – familiar and strange at the same time, a dream. I am so touched by their warmth and friendliness – they are happy to show us around and talk of the past: did we plant these trees, where did the prickly pear come from? The old cork tree is gone, it fell over a few years ago.

After the rain the greenery is lush, the maize high and dark green, the cattle fat. The people look well and clean, how they do it is a mystery with their lives running in a very basic way – no running water, cooking over a fire. The crocodiles of schoolchildren we see on the sides of the roads shine in their clean uniforms.

All are generous with their smiles and waves as we pass in the large Land Rover. I feel no animosity. Curiosity perhaps, and the little school kids on the road verges are tickled pink when we wave back at them from the car.

‘How are you?’ they call out happily as we drive away.

How are we indeed, I wonder.

The orchard Ammunition box

Kitale cemetery

The kind man in the chemist’s shop remembers that Dad was a Freemason. He has introduced us to his brother, who knows someone in the municipal council who has a map that show’s Dad’s grave. As we get out of the car he tells us that the grave is unmarked, but he definitely knows which one it is.

Ted hesitates. ‘Is it worth going if there isn’t a name on it?’‘Yes, it is, for me.’There are many unmarked graves. Many of the

tombstones have toppled over. But it is peaceful, grazed over by cattle and sheep – entirely appropriate. Two shining schoolboys stop and introduce themselves to me, shake hands and apologise that they can’t stay to help me look for Dad’s grave because they must get home for lunch and back to school in time for afternoon lessons.

We walk a few yards and are shown a slab of concrete half-hidden by grass.

So this grassy slab is all that is left to mark that large loud man who ruled my young life.

Our physical remains disintegrate into the earth, or blow into the air as ash. Even interred under a heavy slab of concrete, nothing stops the disintegration, and that piece of earth is forever changed. Even as the sheep and cows graze over it, even if the name is knocked off, or if the metal from a headstone is taken to be melted down into a saucepan. The atoms and molecules gradually trail their way into the air and the groundwater, into the bellies of worms. And when we visit the departed, we too leave our mark – in our breaths, our thoughts, our hopes for redemption.

The concrete is for a moment shaded from the hot sun and, who knows, perhaps somewhere soul connects with soul.

Does it matter if you visit the grave and there is no name on the slab? To me, of course it does.

It matters to me.

Then and now 1950s 2003

Above: Side view of the workshop building where we lived. The same curved verandah pole can be seen in both photos, and there is now an additional room on the end nearest the camera. Below: Front view. In the 2003 photo, the part on the right hand side (a small passage between) is where we had our bathroom. The car was parked under the roof this side of the bathroom.

1950s 2003

Above: The dam surrounded by fever trees. The brick maker’s shed and kiln can be seen in the old photo. Below: The view from the verandah. On the left is a cork tree. In the old photo the Cheranganis Hills can be seen, with Flat Top in clear view. It was a cloudy day in 2003.

Left, above and below: Detail of the roof in 2003. The owners have sensibly put corrugated iron over the old tarred paper roof. They have also added brick pillars to help keep the roof up.

Above right: The old loo still stands. Whether it is in use I don’t know. The trellis in front of the door has gone.

Below right: The kitchen. The window this end was a store, the cooking was done in the other end. The vegetable garden behind now grows maize. The gum trees behind are ones we planted.

Its fac

e is normal, but its body is as long, thick and very bent, l

ike a heral

dic dragon. From it grow fern fronds, like a fabulous sea horse.Lokitela 2003. The last night in Kenya

Te

d and I are on a riverbank. We are warned of crocodiles. There are two there, but they go. Then another appears and walks off into the forest.

old memories sprout anew greening yellowing through time translucent to my eye’s touch � greening yellowing through time � my inner light infusing �

in the wetness of my brain � time suspending bending lending trembling tricking shimmering

my eyes twice-lensed � ees trembling tricking shimmering re-igniting long-cold ashes

born in the rings of trees � eath re-igniting long-cold ashes childish fingerprints exuding

in twilight’s dusty breath tangling with red lilies orange lantana childish fingerprints exuding in the secret garden of my head

tangling with red lilies orange lantana � in the secret garden of my head old memories sprout anew

Young gum tree – planted Canberra 2003 Old gum tree – planted Serikwa Farm 1953

Eter nity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle

The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic ag

e Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle Th

e Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siec

le The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages A

tomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetim

e All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetim

e All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle Th

e Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

England

Win Green: an ancient clump of trees on a hill in Cranborne Chase, near Chettle, Dorset.

BedrockI have found the bedrock of my life. Here is a vacuum exactly the size and shape of my bones and blood. It has waited for all

these years vacant for me only me. To sit in this space my space is to bathe in warm honey. It is the sweet fruit of my searches. It is my home my bedrock. Some teleological pressure brought me here to this exact moment to this exact place it grounds my feet my mind fills a gap in me in a fundamental space the same size and shape as that vacuum. Space is filled by vacuum, vacuum by space. Simultaneously my inner and outer worlds ripen a simultaneous filling and ripening of my inner and outer worlds. Here on Win Green I sit in the centre of five trees whose antecedents were here in the Iron Age. The wind soughs in the branches. Before too long I will be cold pale sunlight sparkles down soft leaves glow and fade on tree trunks grey and scarred with wrinkled maps on the windward side pale grey-green my initials are scars carved on these trunks aeons ago disguised thinly now by time but I know them I know them well. I sit in the centre of a shallow hollow. Five trees surround me. I lean against one and nestle between its outcropping roots small pieces of chalk dig into me the tree trunk firms my back. This place was sacred for druid ceremonies, I know, I was here, then. Here I mingle with the ancient people in their dark robes on the midsummer full moon drums bells plaintive pipes circle outside the trees then move to the centre light a fire in the very hollow where I sit today in the glow I see a large iron pot into it we throw winkled black things herbs body parts sounds memories entrails bones blood scars the spell calls to descendants not yet born remember in your bones and blood the ancient ways and in the bones and the blood of this modern modernist postmodern world keep the blood-remembering memories intact to track back to this spot from wherever you think you are in the wide world. The ties of the spell are a trail shaping the landscape the memory of the sound of the wind the colour and smell of the flowers in the hedgerows the sound of the birds though none fly through these trees a blood-memory is never forgotten, only remembered when the time and place are right, can only urge and persuade until it is assuaged. Otherwise it brings restlessness on a summer’s night a yearning a need to seek this place to recharge the ancient spirit that flows in the veins here is memory (or something) coming through ancestor’s blood farmer’s blood banker’s blood smuggler’s blood. My sacred spot sacred to me to the restless bones of my ancestors who travelled the world for fame and fortune in the name of the Empire. My parents’ bones rest more easily now. I have honoured their journeys by travelling to find their last resting places. Neither is marked on the ground, only by an old register in Bhowanipore cemetery in Calcutta, an old map in the Municipal Council in Kitale. Grass, concrete, grass. The funerals I never experienced, a little child for one; eight months pregnant soon-to-be mother for the other. How far apart their bones lie, yet somehow they came together, perhaps in passion, to fertilise the egg create the DNA that became me. My life adrift tracking them down tracking me down who am I what am I where did I come from am I like my mother am I like my father where do I belong? Adrift. What life pressure has brought me here to this particular place this particular moment? A bumble bee buzzes by zigzags away. The sun has gone in a chill wind my bones are warm and chilled.

Am I no longer adrift?

July 2003

The magpie turns into a rabbit and hops away.

A

magp

ie fl

ies out of a tree. It has a young bird inside its be

ak, grey and flu ffy. It opens its

beak. The young bird emerges, grows to adulthood and flies away.

Dream 1st August 2003 after sitting at Cranborne Chase.

Map from Hardy, T. (1995). Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Ware, Wordsworth Classics: Frontispiece. Originally published in 1891.

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Castleman of Chettle, Wimborne, Hinton St Mary, Dorset. A demi-man in armour holding in his dexter hand a dagger, all ppr., in his sinister a key or. ‘Without God castles are nothing.’

Scar

Trai

l

Trac

k

Bone

Mon

ey

Mem

ory

Bedr

ock

Bedrock

In the Carboniferous Period, Dorset was far south of the equator. Volcanic activity folded the ocean sediments to form folds like the Lullworth Crumple.

Fossils of ammonites (extinct relatives of the cuttlefi sh and nautilus) are fl at spirals some as large as 1m in diameter.

According to Gaston Bachelard, ammonites build their homes around the axis of a logarithmic spiral, according to a transcendental geometry.

Septarian nodules developed from balls of mud that rolled along the ocean fl oor. As the ocean receded they cracked in seven directions and the cracks fi lled with broken shells that became ctystalline. Th ese nodules can be 2m in diameter and have been used for table tops when sectioned, cut and polished.

190 million years ago there were vast numbers of starfi sh off the coast of Dorset. A catastrophic storm swept sediment over them and they became fossilised. Th is sunstar is new to science: it has many (perhaps 19) arms.

Bedr

ock

Ensom, P. 1998. Discover Dorset: Geology. Wimborne, Th e Dovecote Press. Sunstar p. 28; Septarian nodule p. 41; Ammonite p. 50; Lullworth Crumple p. 76.Bachelard, G. 1969. Th e poetics of space. Boston, Beacon Press. p. 104.

Memory

‘Farming has always been the most important economic activity in Dorset ... Many parts of the landscape, especially on the chalk downs, bear evidence of the activities of prehistoric farmers.’ (Bettey p. 6).

Sheep were extremely important to the medieval economy of Dorset and were the key to successful arable farming. Th e Domesday Book recorded more than 22 000 sheep, owned mostly by wealthy Benedictine monasteries and royal lands., but farmed by farmers who grazed their many sheep on common land, especially on the chalk lands. Th e sheep were confi ned within hurdles.

In the north of Dorset, dairying was the main agricultural activity. Farmers rented out their cows to dairymen who did all the milking and produced cheese and butter. Th is is the kind of activity described in Tess of the D’Urbervilles.

A medieval sheepfold - image from the Luttrell Psalter.

A complex pattern of irregularly shaped fi elds bounded by high banks with narrow winding lanes joining isolated farms. Th is landscape developed through the slow, arduous clearing of forests in the north and west of Dorset.

Th is map shows one of the great Dorset estates that held most Dorset farmers as tenants.

On the chalklands, farms were generally only 20-30 acres in size.

Mem

ory

Bettey, J. H. 2000. Discover Dorset: Farming. Wimborne Dorset, Th e Dovecote Press. Sheepfold p. 9; Maps pp. 8, 10.

Money

Chettle farms: aerial view of Iron Age and Roman occupation debris. Th e remains of a settlement, now fl attened by cultivation, occurred near a chalk slope. Durotrigian pottery, bronze brooches and Samiian ware were found there. In 1700, numerous human bones, spearheads and weapons of war possibly indicating pagan Saxon burials were found when nearby Chettle Long Barrow was opened. (Royal Commission 1972).

Map showing some of the enclosures made by Dorset tenants in the 1600s.

Th e religious and economical changes of the sixteenth century brought ‘new men’ to prominence. Th ey wanted to exploit their estates in any possible way, and did this through enclosing common land and increasing the size of the sheep fl ocks. Tenants were evicted to make way for sheep; many of the smaller farmers were unable to pay their rents and were also evicted.

Rye, clover and sainfoin were introduced as fodder crops. Other new and profi table crops were introduced to cottage industries, to produce linen, canvas and sailcloth.

Woad was grown for its soft blue dye that was the basis for all the dark colours used in the woollen industy.

Hemp was used to manufacture rope and twine.

Mon

ey

Royal Commission on Historical Monuments (England 1972). An inventory of historical monuments in the County of Dorset. Volume IV: North Dorset. Chettle farms Plate 14.

Bettey, J. H. 2000. Discover Dorset: Farming. Wimborne, Dorset, Th e Dovecote Press. Enclosure map p. 15.

Bone

A depression at the end of the Napoleonic Wars made farm prices fall by half. Th ose who had borrowed money were in trouble and the fate of poor farm labourers became even worse. Unemployment and poverty increased rapidly, and many sought poor relief. In southern England, the labourers rioted, breaking the machines (especially threshing machines) that had deprived people of their livelihood). Th e riots spread through Dorset, culminating at Tolpuddle where six of the rioters were sentenced to transportation, becoming immortalised as the ‘Tolpuddle Martyrs’.

In the nineteenth century conditions improved: the Victorian age brought in the pursuit of learning and the application of modern agricultural techniques and scientifi c methods to animal breeding. Th e growing population of the cities provided a ready market for agricultural produce.

Dorset Horn sheep (from a print published in 1841).

An idealised view of the countryside in which most Dorset farmers and labourers lived a harsh life in very poor conditions.

Smocking detail from a traditional Dorset ‘smock-frock’ worn by Dorset labourers and produced as one of the many cottage industries.

Bone

Bettey, J. H. 2000. Discover Dorset: Farming. Wimborne Dorset, Th e Dovecote Press. Sheep p. 35; Farmers p. 43.

Worth, R. 2002. Discover Dorset: Dress and textiles. Wimborne Dorset, Th e Dovecote Press. Smocking p. 53.

Track

Th e late 1870s ended Victorian prosperity. Harsh springs and wet summers brought livestock diseases and poor harvests. Wheat and barley were being imported from America and Canada. Th e Free Trade agreement caused local price falls of 40-50%. Frozen beef was imported from Argentina; cheese, mutton, wool and lamb came from Australia and New Zealand.

Dorset land went out of cultivation: the great sheep fl ocks on the downlands disappeared. Income from rents fell, and many large landowners and successful farmers had to sell their farms to men of independent means. Fortunately the trade of fresh milk to the resorts of Weymouth and Bournemouth relieved the situation to some extent. With the development of the railways, summer visitors provided a market for locally produced milk, immune to import pressures.

Railways also transported local cheeses and churns of milk to London, and labourers used the trains to seek work in the towns. many emigrated because of the lack of work.

Modern Dorset sheep: Dorset Horn ewes.

Haymaking. Milking was carried out by hand in the outdoors.

Trac

k

Bettey, J. H. 2000. Discover Dorset: Farming. Wimborne, Dorset, Th e Dovecote Press. Verso page: Modern sheep; Haymaking: Inside front cover; Milking; p. 49.

Trail

In the Dorset cottage industries, women and children made Dorset Knob buttons, thread, waistcoat and shirt buttons wollen cloth, striped silk ribbons and bone lace.

Th ey also sewed the traditional ‘smock-frocks’ worn by labourers. Th ere was no cheap ready-made clothing – people either made clothes themselves or, if they could aff ord it, used tailors and dressmakers. Much of the cottage industry textile work was exported in trade with Newfoundland.

Especially, the families of agricultural labourers made gloves. Children were put to work as soon as they could hold a needle. Women and children worked very long hours for small wages in cramped, badly ventilated cottages in poor light, or in factories that prepared the skins, turning them into leather.Th ey did the cutting, sewing, stitching of buttons and the fi nishing.

Bobbin lace-making was another common cottage industry and women of all classes made their lace at home.

Dorset lace patterns. ‘Girls go to gloving early, and it is a misery to them as long as they live.’ (Worth 2002, p. 31).

An 1880s beige silk bodice and skirt, possibly a wedding dress. Fashionable dressing was easy for women of the upper classes who were in contact with the fashion houses of London and Paris.

Trai

l

Worth, R. 2002. Discover Dorset: Dress and Textiles. Wimborne, Dorset, Th e Dovecote Press. Gloves: p. 31; Lace Patterns: p. 33; Dress: p. 47.

Chettle Parish occupies about 1 124 acres, and lies at the head of Crichel Brook. Th e village is at the bottom of a valley and is surrounded by open fi elds.

Chettle House is attributed to the architect John Archer, a student of Vanbrugh. It was built about 1710 for George Chafi n, MP. It is a fi ne example of English baroque architecture, well-known for its fi ne staircase and rounded corners. It has two storeys, two halls on the ground fl oor (east and west), basements and attics. It is made of red brick with rows of ashlar dressing and architraves. Th e roof is lead and slate. Th e basement contained the kitchen and other service rooms, and the attics were the servants’ rooms.

George Chafi n’s son William inherited the house, and after his death in 1818 it stood empty until Edward Castleman purchased it in 1845. Edward Castleman was my great-great grandfather.

He repaired the damage that had occurred while the house stood empty, and modifi ed the original plan, changing the ground fl oor and adding fi nials representing castles (the rebus of the Castlemans) to

She turned Chettle House into fl ats for income, and these remain to the present. Her sons and daughter still live in Chettle, which is one of only six villages in England belonging to a single family.

Th e House is open for weddings, there is a village shop, the Lodge is now a restaurant, Castlemans, and a timber treatment plant provides employment. Th e family spend their lives restoring the 60 or so cottages. Th ey want the village to remain a living community, not a dormitory for Blandford or Salisbury commuters.

the attic storey of the central pavilion.

Family legend says that there was always a pot of soup on the stove in the kitchen to feed anyone who had fallen on hard times during the ebb and fl ow of Dorset agricultural enterprises.

In 1912, my great-grandfather Edwin Castleman again altered the house, adding parapets.

My grandfather Douglas Edwin

didn’t inherit the house, instead it went to his older brother Edward.

Th e family built Letton House for Douglas and his family at Pimperne, fi ve miles away.

In the 1950s Letton House burnt down, and the area is now a housing estate.

After the second world war, my second cousin Alice Bourke returned as a widow from India.

Scar

ScarInformation and plans of Chettle House from Royal Commission on

Historical Monuments (England). 1972. An inventory of historical monuments in the County of Dorset. Volume IV: North Dorset. Photo of Chettle House: personal archive 2003. Other information: family archives.

Without God castles are nothing

BloodTh ese images are of my mother’s

family, most of whom I discovered within the last ten years. When I was in England in 1996, someone told me that my mother’s family tree was at Chettle House, near Blandford, Dorset. I returned to Australia, but wrote to the curator, asking to add myself and my children and grandchildren. In reply, I had a letter from an unknown cousin, telling me that I had numerous other cousins and a family tree that goes back 800 years and includes a famous smuggler, Isaac Gulliver. He lived in the 1700s and early 1800s and became the equivalent, in today’s terms, of a multi-millionaire through his smuggling activities. He married his only daughter Anne to a wealthy banking family, the Fryers.

Anne Fryer’s daughter married the son of a local farming family, the Castlemans from Hinton St Mary. Th e Castleman family (from whom I am descended) became very wealthy through smuggling, part-ownership in a Wimborne bank, and ownership of a railway that wound through the New Forest, the Castleman Corkscrew.

Edie, Ella and Douglas Castleman-Smith, my maternal great-aunts and grandfather. Edie married Sam Walker, the rector of Charlton Marshall near Blandford. Ella never married and became the fi rst female mayor of Blandford in the 1930s for a number of years, and was re-elected in the 1950s. Douglas’ history is told elsewhere.

My recently discovered cousin Susan.

Elizabeth Gulliver

Isaac Gulliver

Hawkins, Desmond. 1993. Cranborne Chase. Wimborne, Dorset, Th e Dovecote Press. Veiny Cheese Pond, unnumbered plate.Other photos from family archives.

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Veiny Cheese Pond at Long Crichel, where Isaac and Elizabeth lived.

Faisant mistral

1 pheasant, jointed1 chopped onion1 Tbsp olive oil2 cloves of garlic, crushed1 tsp chopped parsleyjuice of 1 orange4 fl oz white wine2 Tbsp tomato puree4 oz black olives, stoned and choppedSalt, pepper

Saute pheasant and onion in oil until golden. Add the rest, simmer for one hour (or simmer in a slow cooker for four hours).

Golden syrup pudding

100g SR flourPinch of salt50g castor sugar50g shredded suet1 egg, beaten2 Tbsp milk3 Tbsp golden syrup

Mix dry ingredients, then add the wet ones. Cook in a steamer until done.

Strawberry jam

Wash and take the tops off the strawberries. Weigh them and cover with an equal weight of white sugar in a pan. Leave overnight, then carefully bring to the boil. Repeat the last two steps three times in all. The jam will then be ready to bottle.

This method of making strawberry jam has been used at Chettle for 50 years and rarely fails.

Sweet apple chutney

1.5 kg apples100g chopped crystallised ginger1 tsp cayenne pepper2 cloves garlic, crushed1 tsp salt2 tsp mixed spice500 ml malt vinegar300g brown sugar200g sultanas

Peel, core and chop apples. Put apples and garlic in half the vinegar, stir and simmer. Add the rest of the ingredients and cook to correct consistency.

Chettle recipes

Bedrock Memory Track Trail BloodMoney Bone Scar

blood-remembering druids body parts wrinkled black things spells earth pulse hunt hounds horn tree wrinkles bells pipes rites rights roots fl ights deer chase crane cranborne chalk fl int wessex sheep green keeper forest fox hunt hounds horn moon stone storm tree wrinkles bells pipes rites rights roots fl ights deer chase crane cranborne chalk chalk fl int nettles restless curlew stones bones bone-remembering wind sounds tree wrinkles bells pipes rites rights roots fl ights deer chase crane cranborne chalk fl int wessex sheep green keeper forest fox hunt hounds horn moon stone storm blood-remembering druids body parts wrinkled black things spells earth pulse chalk fl int nettles restless curlew stones bones bone-remembering wind sounds tree wrinkles bells pipes rites rights roots fl ights deer chase crane cranborne chalk fl int wessex sheep green keeper forest fox hunt hounds horn moon stone storm chalk fl int nettles restless curlew stones bones bone-remembering wind sounds tree wrinkles bells pipes rites rights roots fl ights deer chase crane cranborne chalk fl int wessex sheep green keeper forest fox hunt hounds horn moon stone storm blood-remembering druids body parts wrinkled black things spells earth pulse chalk fl int nettles restless curlew stones bones bone-remembering wind sounds tree wrinkles bells pipes rites rights roots fl ights deer chase crane cranborne chalk fl int wessex sheep green keeper forest fox hunt hounds horn moon stone storm chalk fl int nettles restless curlew stones bones bone-remembering wind sounds tree wrinkles bells pipes rites rights roots fl ights deer chase crane cranborne chalk fl int wessex sheep green keeper forest fox hunt hounds horn moon stone storm blood-remembering druids body parts wrinkled black things spells earth pulse chalk fl int nettles restless curlew stones bones bone-remembering wind sounds tree wrinkles bells pipes rites rights roots fl ights deer chase crane cranborne chalk fl int wessex sheep green keeper forest fox hunt hounds horn moon stone storm chalk fl int nettles restless curlew stones bones bone-remembering wind sounds tree wrinkles bells pipes rites rights roots fl ights deer chase crane cranborne chalk fl int wessex sheep green keeper forest fox hunt hounds horn moon stone storm blood-remembering druids body parts wrinkled black things spells earth pulse chalk fl int nettles restless curlew stones bones bone-remembering wind sounds tree wrinkles bells pipes rites rights roots fl ights deer chase crane cranborne chalk fl int wessex sheep green keeper forest fox hunt hounds horn moon stone storm blood-remembering druids body parts wrinkled black things spells earth pulse chalk fl int nettles restless curlew stones bones bone-remembering wind sounds tree wrinkles bells pipes rites rights roots fl ights deer chase crane cranborne chalk fl int wessex sheep green keeper forest fox hunt hounds horn moon stone storm blood-remembering druids body parts wrinkled black things spells earth pulse chalk fl int nettles restless curlew stones bones bone-remembering wind sounds tree wrinkles bells pipes rites rights roots fl ights deer chase crane cranborne chalk fl int wessex sheep green keeper forest fox hunt hounds horn moon stone storm blood-remembering druids body parts wrinkled black things spells earth pulse chalk fl int nettles restless curlew stones bones bone-remembering wind sounds tree wrinkles bells pipes rites rights roots fl ights deer chase crane cranborne chalk fl int wessex sheep green keeper forest fox hunt hounds horn moon stone storm blood-remembering druids body parts wrinkled black things spells earth pulse chalk fl int nettles restless curlew stones bones bone-remembering wind sounds tree wrinkles bells pipes rites rights roots fl ights deer chase crane cranborne chalk fl int wessex sheep green keeper forest fox hunt hounds horn moon stone storm blood-remembering druids body parts wrinkled black things spells earth pulse chalk fl int nettles restless curlew stones bones bone-remembering wind sounds tree

Eter nity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle

The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic ag

e Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle Th

e Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siec

le The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages A

tomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetim

e All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetim

e All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle Th

e Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle

The Dreaming

Smuggle: Danish smugle–smuggle; Swedish smugga–lurking hole; Anglo-Saxon smuga–creep; Icelandic smuja–creep or creep through a hole.

Moonrakers

Creepers

C

en

tipedes

If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse’s feet,Don’t go drawing back the blind, or looking at the street.Th em that asks no questions isn’t told a lie, Watch the wall my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

Five and twenty ponies,Trotting through the darkBrandy for the Parson,‘Baccy for the Clerk;Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,And watch the wall my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

Running round the woodlump if you chance to fi ndLittle barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine,Don’t you shout to come and look, nor use them for your play.Put the brushwood back again – they’ll be gone next day!

If you see a stable door setting open wide;If you see a tired horse lying down inside;If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;If the lining’s wet and warm – don’t you ask no more!

If you meet King George’s men, dressed in blue and red,You be careful what you say, and mindful what is said.If they call you ‘pretty maid’ and chuck you ‘neath the chinDon’t you tell where no-one is, nor yet where no-one’s been!

Knocks and footsteps around the house – whistles after dark –You’ve no call for running out till the house-dogs bark.Trusty’s here, and Pincher’s here, and see how dumb they lie –Th ey don’t fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by!

If you do as you’ve been told, ‘likely there’s a chance,You’ll be given a dainty doll, all the way from France,With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood –A present from the Gentlemen, along o’ being good!

Five and twenty ponies,Trotting through the darkBrandy for the Parson,‘Baccy for the Clerk.Th em that asks no questions isn’t told a lie, Watch the wall my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

A smuggler’s song

Kipling, R. 1994 (1906). Puck of Pook’s Hill. London, Penguin Books, pp. 179-180.

1700s and 1800s My 4x great-grandfather Isaac Gulliver was active as a smuggler when smuggling was a common activity (late 1700s to early 1800s). Nearly everyone was involved in smuggling as a venturer, smuggler’s aide or in purchasing smuggled goods. The southwest coast of England was relatively close to France, only a few hours by ship across the English Channel. Many shops throughout England were stocked with smuggled goods, but especially those of Kent, Dorset, Cornwall and Devon. His Majesty’s Customs organisation was inadequately staffed and paid, so it was commonplace for Customs men to be paid off in kind for turning a blind eye to smuggling activities. Also, it was in their interests, as it was common for Customs men to be killed by smugglers. Severe penalties such as hanging were carried out for those convicted of smuggling, but this was not common. HM Customs made various rules (e.g., the size of brandy barrels) that were designed to reduce smuggling but the smugglers seem to have been one step ahead much of the time. The variety of items smuggled changed as tariffs changed. For example, if tariffs on tea went down, tea would no longer be smuggled, and some other goods with a high tariff (e.g., Leghorn hats) would be smuggled instead. Isaac seems to have been farsighted, and to have had a great entrepreneurial spirit. He ‘laundered’ spirits and wine through his many pubs.

His only son Isaac died young, from a chill, so he married his older daughter to a wealthy Dorset man, John Fryer, who provided venture capital for the smuggling operation, and together they set up a bank that produced its own bank notes. Isaac received a pardon from George III, believed to be because he alerted the King of Napoleon’s plot against him. He seems to have then kept to merely smuggling wine and spirits. The Fryer family later married into the long- established Castleman family, successful farmers from nearby Hinton St Mary. The bank later invested in various developments including a railway (the Castleman Corkscrew) that twisted through the New Forest to avoid desecrating parts of scenic and heritage value.. Later, smuggling in general was reduced as law enforcement was stepped up. Then my 3x great-grandfather’s cousin, Sir Robert Peel invented policemen, who also assisted in reducing smuggling activities.

2005 Even today no measures are completely successful against smuggling. A one-hour search on the Internet revealed that smuggling is still alive and extremely well in 2005. The top ten countries with the highest annual trade leakages are: the Phillipines ($16.4 billion); Japan ($1.5 billion); US ($785 million); Singapore ($685 million); Hong Kong ($594 million); Taiwan ($368 million); Korea ($362 million); China ($300 million); Malaysia ($210 million);

France (1$189 million); United Kingdom ($128 million). In Asia the most smuggled items are electronic goods, plus pearls and precious stones, metals and coins. These figures from the Phillipine Daily Inquirer seem conservative. According to HM Customs and Excise in Britain, they are still unable to curb smuggling of tobacco, with estimated losses of £1.9 billion revenue during 2003-2004. Of all the cigarettes smoked in Britain, 15% are smuggled and of those 54% were found to be counterfeit, bringing potential health problems other than those caused by nicotine. People- and baby-smuggling are worldwide trades. Commodities attracting attention are: drugs (e.g., Colombian cocaine); war souvenirs from Iraq; guns (including anti-tank rockets, anti-aircraft missiles, explosives, rifles, handguns and ammunition) from Egypt to the Negev, the West Bank and Gaza; opium hidden by a Sikh in his turban; perfume, cigars, shampoo and beauty products into Malaysia; juvenile prawns from Malaysia to Thailand; stolen cars to Mexico from Arizona; nuclear-capable Cruise missiles from Ukraine to Iran and China; textiles into the US (possibly from China); and cockle spat from Malaysia to Thailand. We are all aware of the attention received by young Australians smuggling drugs in Asia.

Plus ca change, plus la meme chose.

A short view of smuggling

Isaac Gulliver 1745-1822. Buried at Wimborne Minster. Married Elizabeth Gulliver nee Beale in Sixpenny Handley, Dorset on 5/10/1768. Isaac and Elizabeth were married for 54 years. In their old age, after Gulliver was granted a pardon and stopped smuggling all but French wine – which he still sold through his network of public houses. They lived a respectable life in Wimborne, Dorset, near the Fryer family who had assisted in the smuggling venture, and were landowners and bankers. Their daughter, Betty Fryer, was my great-great-great grandmother. Isaac was recognised as a great speculating genius who left £60 000 when he died, as well as numerous properties to his wife and family. In today’s terms he would have been a multimillionaire from his smuggling enterprises. He, with the Fryers, founded the Wimborne Bank that was later taken over by the Dorset and Wilts Bank.

179

Hey lad thou’rt Sam? Tha looks a fine strong lad too

how art tha ‘t pushing this damn chair I’m no lightweight they say.

Look at me lad here let me see thy eyeshonest they seema good lad needs honest eyes and strong muscles

Sam lad I’ll pay thee a soose1 a dayto push this chair and me round town mebbe some days you’ll push me up to the Harns2

for a pint or two of October.3

You know the way lad let’s get away from all these women wives daughtersfuss fuss fuss me who sailed my Dolphin4 so often to France and back without need of their advice.Anchored on shore I am now.

Push lad push tis only a slight hilltha must do better than thatstill let’s wait a while under the chestnut treetis a grand spot o’ shade this summer.

Sam lad your eyes remind me of my Isaac

twenty-four he was when he passed awaytwas but a simple chilldamp sheets from that dirty Sherborne inn he was always poorlytook a fevernow I have only my two lasses Ann and Bettytha knows them I reckon.

Isaac helped my Ann whomarried that drunkard Edmond Waggoh noshe wouldn’t listen to her mother and mea tippler he was no fit man for her Isaac brought her back to usclaimed her dowry plate and linenwe cared for her a whilethen that Wagg died a coupla years later she found her a widowerDr Crawford as tha knows now at last the lass is happy.

Betty married my mate John Fryer’s ladhappy times they have with their five littl’ uns.

Smuggler’s terms and glossary

1. Soose: a coin.

2. Harns: The Horns Inn in Burts Hill was a pub

frequented by Gulliver and his men.

3. October: the strongest beer, brewed in that month.

4. Dolphin was Gulliver’s favourite from his fleet of

30 luggers.

Luggers are small sailing vessels that mount one or more square sails. The sails are hung from spars and therefore are set obliquely to the mast. They have the ability to sail very fast.

180

You want more tales ah lad

such stories I could tell yousuch a life I’ve hadnow ‘tis nearly over yes lad surely ‘tisme stuck in this Bath chairI’ll think on’t happen another day I’ll tell you summat

Sam, tha must know in my life as free trader5

I carried a pistol6

But my men could never carry arms nor hurt the gobblers7 bats8 they could carry but no carbines.Was that afternoon near Hook’s Woodwe laid up wi 20 pack horsesloaded wi our brandy an baccyup come the riding officer9 wi six dragoonstook our horseswhen fifty of my men set on emexciseman firedhit my Bill in the armso it must be later amputatedhit my Ned so bullet went thro his breasthe died laterjust using bats and clubswe beat them soldiersbroke their swordstook back our horses and our goods.

Believe me lad there’s better ways

to make gobblers do what you wantthey knew oh yes they knewwe wouldn’t hurt ‘empassed ‘em baccy or a pound of tea to take home to the missus. Take me home now lad my leg aches.

Yea lad I’m ready for theelet’s go on down to market square

yesterday my Elizabeth and I went in t’gig up to Branksome Chine10

the sea lad the seawesterly breeze blew strength into my bones filled my mind with memoriesI’ll tell thee some of my talesbut I say to theedon’t tell ‘owt ‘bout what I say ... but then lad ‘tis all over nowme with a King’s Pardon.

How did I get the King’s Pardon? ‘tis a good tale lad

twas a while ago now. Tha knows I were a free traderalways I were on the sea tween here and Francetwas not possible to do my work without knowing where the French fleet layoft we’d hear a tale from our frog freighter11 in Francespecially after a glass or two of that Noyau12

devilish good at loosening tongues

5. Free trader: smugglers’ name for themselves.

6. Gulliver’s pistol. I have a pistol like this is my

possession. It may even be Gulliver’s pistol.

7. Gobbler: smuggler’s name for revenue official.

8. Bat: stout pole usually of ash, about 6’ long, used by

smugglers to defend themselves.

9. Riding Officer: mounted Customs Officers appointed

in 1699 to patrol in search of smugglers and hidden or

abandoned contraband.

10. Chine: cliff. Branksome Chine is now called Canford

Cliffs. It overlooks Poole Harbour and real estate there

commands exorbitant prices.

11. Freighter: person responsible for obtaining

contraband abroad.

12. Noyau: a French liqueur.

181

When I were on a run13 it came to me ear them frogs planned to kill our King

George III it was thenhappen King were holding court at Weymouthso I took mesel’ alongcraved an audiencetold ‘im the plotnow at first he wouldn’t believe me storyme being a lowly free trader an allhe sent spies to France to see whether the plot was hatchin’ as I saidso they tell him it was truethey put a spoke in the frog’s oars our King was saved mighty pleased he was he gives me a Royal Pardon for any illegal activities in which I may have been involved! Laugh! You could have heard me in Le Havre. Anyhow His Majesty realised I were a useful man after then I were able to send news secretly to Lord Nelson,telling him where the frog fleet lay so he could chase ‘em away later I told ‘em Napoleon thought to invade Englandsome French brandy it cost mebut I’m a loyal Englishman allus have binas I see’t tis still possible to bring in good French and Rhenish wine now and thenbut no more tea or spirits.

Them gobblers stupid they wereI learnt to fool ‘em quick an’ easy

‘twas early days an I were just learning the tradesomeone tipped ‘em I were going to Wimborne market to meet me menmy lads heard about’t they tol’ meI thought to stir them landsharks14

I put on my smock my Elizabeth powdered my hair greyI took four sheep bent myself into an old shepherd walked among ‘em at t’market them all alert pistols at the ready looking for Isaac Gulliverthere I were walking right past em lad, I were hard put to’t not to keel over laughing.

One of my lads tol’ me this story ‘bout a gobbler in Lyme.

Tha must unnerstan’ there were half a mile ‘tween pier an’ Cobb gate where gobblers could inspect cargo. My lad Tom were a tubman15

he had two tubs had got off t’ Dolphin and were taking them back to Kinson16 for mebut outside the customs house he ran into the chief landshark. Well Tom says he how’re you today. Well sir says Tom quick as a flash, sir I’m that pleased to see you. I trust your lady wife is well, and your young uns. Yes Tom says he we are all very well. And Tom what’s that you’re carrying there.

13. Run: a smuggling operation14. Landsharks: smuggler’s name for land-based revenue officers

15. Tubman: a smuggler employed to carry small tubs16. Kinson was/is a small village near Wimborne where Gulliver had one of his properties, Howe Lodge. A long house with 18 rooms, it had a brick tunnel 30-40 ft long from the garden to a secret cellar. A small trapdoor in the living room floor had a heavy iron ring to open it and led down 4 ft to a hiding place. It also had a small door to a tiny chamber 10 ft up a large chimney. The house was demolished in the 1950s.

Barrels were also stored in the tower of Kinson Church of St. Andrew. Grooves made from the ropes are still visible.

182

Now sir says Tom putting ankers17 downexciseman axed me to bring

these tubs to you he gi’ed me a florin to do the job. But damn himif I’d know’d they’d be so heavy and cut my shoulders soI woulda seed unto the deveil afore I’d ha touched o’em.Well now sir liked the idea of catching a tubmanbut he couldn’t lift the tubsso he gi’ed Tom another florin to carry em back to the Custom House after he had rested his poor shouldershe strode off to await Tom’s arrivalbut soon as he rounded the cornerTom were suddenly strong again shoulder’d the ankers and made off homeflorin in pocketgrin on face.

But there were a better day stillThem ridin officers were after me

I led em home to Kinson at full gallopjumped in the front door slammed it in their facesI knew they had no warrant to search my househammer on the door though they would. Four of em stayed to keep an eye while the others galloped off for the warrant.When they returned a few days latermy trusty Elizabeth opened the door to themdressed in black sorrowful in tears. He’s died she said.

You’re too late to catch him. He’s gone to meet his maker. Come in she says come and pay your respects. In the front room with curtains drawnI were layin’ in t’ coffin pennies on my eyes spots on my facehands crossed on my heart. I were an ash-grey corpse. They were sorry to see me gone they said. They took off their hats bowed their heads said condolences tiptoed outrushed out so they wouldn’t catch t’ spots whatever killed me.I were near burstin’ with laughter. When they were gone I jumped out the coffin Elizabeth and I filled it with baccysome of them gobblers followed the hearse to my funeral I watched from the hedge course we collected the baccy a few days later.

Hast heard of moonraking lad?tis a good story

One night on full of t’ moon some of my lads went to a streamwhere they had buried six ankerstwo weeks beforethere they were knee deep with their rakes creepers and centipedes18

17. Anker: small cask usually holding 8 1/2 gallons.

18. Centipedes and creepers: grappling irons used to bring up (creep up) sunken contraband from the sea bed or from streams.

Centipedes

Creepers

183

When gobblers came bystopped on the bridge they asked

What be you doin lads?W’em be trying to get this girt cheese out o’ the waterlads saidlooking dumb and pullin’ their forelocksthem simple yokels said the gobblersas they went on their way.Moonrakers we bin since then.

I were never an owler19

I were mostly a flasker20

and a dry goods21 man Hollands22 Geneva frog wine port and Noyau we carriedour dry goods were baccy o’ courseBohea23 Singlo24 Hyson Congo25 Souchong26

silk salt pepper coffee cocoa sugarcardamom turmeric sesame mace cloves. Beautiful Dolphin smelt after a run of spices. Then back to France loaded wi’ cotton stockings needles woollens anvils iron files never did I take gold to France tho’no guinea galleys for me. Lad they were fast those guineaboats36 men rowing waterguard couldn’t catch emthey weren’t called ‘The Death’ for nothin’. But me I knew the gold paid Napoleon’s armiesand here me with a free pardon from His Majesty as well as giving him other news about Napoleonit wouldn’t have been loyal and I’m a King’s man.

How did I start wi’ the free trade? through my dad he were a free trader too

but I could see further than him when I were a lad only 12 I sailed to Jersey Guernsey France in t’ Dorset a privateerwhen I were a few years older I sailed Poole to Newfoundland and back many a time on the cod run27

I saw the world and how ‘t workedwhen I came back I found a venturer28

my good friend John Fryer of Poole and Christchurchwho were ship-owner and bankerowned wild land along our Dorset coastit were perfect I made my first run before I were your age, lad.

I chose a good dark29 for my first run

exciting ‘t was.We used Dolphin my first sweetheartJohn took on the venturePierre were my freighter in Le HavreI had dry goods, spirits from the Low CountriesTom and a keen crew with some glutmen and extramen30 to try how they wentduffers31 batmen and tubmen waited with the funt32 and dragger boats33 by the shore ‘t Branksome Chine

19. Owler: wool smuggler.20. Flasker: smuggler of liquor.21. Dry goods: non-liquid contraband, especially tea.22. Hollands and Geneva: Dutch gin.23. Bohea: tea drunk by the working class.24.Singlo, Hyson: green tea drunk by the middle class.25.Congo: tea preferred by the upper class.26. Souchong: smoky-flavoured Chinese black tea.27. Cod run: a well established trade bringing cod from Newfoundland to the British Isles. 28. Venturer: a smuggler’s financial backer.29. Dark: moonless nights, ideal for smuggling.30. Glutman and extraman: tide waiter or boatmen hired on a casual basis.31. Duffer: unmounted contraband carrier who could carry up to 1 cwt of tea or tobacco. Bootleggers used their boots or baggy trousers to hide tea or tobacco.

32. Funt: smuggler’s pinpoint warning light.33. Dragger boats: boats used for nefarious purposes. Originally they were oyster boats with a shallow draft.

184

wi’ higgling carts34 and pack horsesI decided to take it easy and divide the crop35

dry goods we brought in straight awaybut the spirits we went back for latersee lad this is how we sowed the crop36

ankers all tied togethertween each anker were tied a heavy stonemarked well on the chart where we dropped em over cut the ropeno stinkibus37 for ustoo dangerous to hover38 so in we went when wind and tide favoured usstraight way we cut the ropes on the fenders unloaded them they was filled wi baccy ladsome baccy we had wound into two-strand ropesto lie with Dolphin’s sheetstea packets small enough to fit under skirt or capein we wentmen and women on shore unloaded

quick and silent never a curse or a shoutlanterns shroudedoff went carts and pack horsesmuffles on their hoovesjust clinks of harness in t’darkup thro lanes to t’ Chase39 where no one would follow

shortly ‘twas all doneno landguard the wisertwas a few nights laterstill a dark when tide was coming inwe went back to work the cropup it came with creepers and centipedeswe put the ankers on punts sent them in on the flood to our faithfuls waiting there in Brandy Hole 40.

Several runs I had afore I married my Elizabeth at Sixpenny Handley

fine young lass she werebetter still her dowry were Blacksmith’s Arms at Thorney DownI changed it to King’s Armsafore long I’d made cellar that much larger and dug some tunnelsthen we could bring in spirits and winemake money from t’ runthen make more selling’t at t’bar.

34. Higgling cart: peddler’s cart.35. Crop: cargo of contraband.36. Sowing the crop: sinking casks in the sea with weights and markers.

37. Stinkibus: foul-smelling spirits immersed for too long.38. Hovering: there was a law against vessels waiting off the coast for favourable conditions so they could come in and land their cargo. Fast coastguard cutters were empowered to seize their goods.

39. Cranborne Chase: a wild forested area renowned for the numbers of lawless people who inhabited it. Described by Thomas Hardy in his Wessex novels.40. Brandy Hole: a cave commonly used by smugglers while they hid and waited for the cargo to come in.

185

Elizabeth my love don’t fussjust one rug on me bad knee will do

it’s autumn but no chill yet in t’windcall Sam I’m ready to go.

Today push me chair down West Borough to the Harns

push boy push am I still so big that I tire you so soonnever mind lad you shall have your pint o’Octoberhey now there we areit wasn’t so farsit rest awhile Sam ladwhile I light m’pipe and sup m’alewhen I were a lad your age the worthies of Wimborne didn’t want me in their townnow I’m rich they don’t objectWhat go on with my tales? Never was there such a lad for a story. But we near the end of all my tales.

I’ll tell you of me last run one bright morning

I brought me three large luggers to Bournemouth’s shorefull to t’brim they werebrandy gin rum silk lace handkerchiefs playing cards salt and pepper spices tea tobacco andLeghorn hats

Days before I had got my lads to take a packet of good tea

not smouch41

an’ a hogshead41 of brandy to Warehamto t’ Light Dragoons regimental barracksthick heads those soldiers had that last morningthey didn’t trouble methat fool the Riding Officer at Poolehe wouldn’t dare to come for me without themI’d greased t’palms of t’Customs officers too

Jed had Black Jack saddled for megleaming he were

ready prancin’ on t’beach as I came ashorea bright Dorset morning such as I love …those luggerssuch a sight lad such a sight as I’ll never forgetanchored near the beach they wereon t’beach such a crowdpack horses carts wagonsmy lads millin’ abouthundreds of them there weremy sixty men wearintheir smocks in honour of this last dayhair freshly powdered

O the splash and the rhythm of the oars as rowboats brought me goods ashore

shoutin’ liftin’loadin’ packages barrels boxes into carts and wagons onto my packhorses

41. Smouch: elder and ash leaves shredded to resemble tea. 42. Hogshead: 54-gallon cask.

186

Half t’townspeople there too waitin to see what I had brought

probably not a few Customs officers tooif truth be told come to see what I’d make of ityes my last run I wanted em all to rememberto tell the tale of this day to their children and their children’s childrensuch a free trader I was let em never forgetwhere’s there’s stupid laws there’s them that can make good from itand not only for ‘emselves.

Nearly all day it took to unload those luggersby afternoon t’ tide was coming in

they rode high in the wavesthe wind was up and time for us all to gothey unfurled their sailsmy three brave captains saluted me as they turned their wheels to catch the windsuch a sight, lad, such a sight ...

Twas time for me to go, too Jed passed me Black Jack’s reins

I set myself in t’saddlein my red coatdown we galloped in fine style to the head of the cortegeBlack Jack showin’ his paces as much as meI led all t’carts wagons pack horsesall loaded with me free tradin’ goods

They said after, t’ line went for two mileswe made our way from t’beach

up past harbour down t’lanesthrough Wimborne up to Kinson and Crichelthey all knew where to put their loadsthey knew I’d be after ‘em if they tried to double cross mebut all those lads were well paid for their efforts we all came out of ‘t well.

Sam lad you’ve finished your alerun and get me a pound of baccy afore we go

me bones are weary nowwind has cooled it’s time to go homebut lad what a sight it was, what a sight ...

Dreams are all I have nowmy ropes are coiled now

I dream of the days of goldI am old now but in my day, boy, in my day ...

Waves slop at the bows of the Dolphin as she sails for France in the soft windy dusk …

References

Information on Isaac Gulliver comes from an anonymous document (author believed to be Mrs Alice Roe) belonging to Gulliver’s descendants, which gives many details of his life from local historical records from the time (newspaper articles, deeds of sale etc). The stories also appear in the following books and a number of websites:Coxe, A. D. H. 1984. A book of smuggling in the West Country, 1700-1850. Padstow, Tabb HouseGuttridge, R. (No date). Dorset smugglers. Sherborne, Dorset Publishing Company

www.burtonbradstock.org.uk/History/Smuggling/Smuggling.htm (31/3/05) provided most of the Smuggler’s Dictionary.www.communigate.co.uk/dorset/kinsondorset(31/3/05)www.edht.org.uk/Education/People.htm#castle (31/3/05)www.swgfl.org.uk/dorset/html/smuggler/smug ig3.htm (31/3/05)www.dorsetlife.co.uk/articles/ArticlesDetail.asp (31/3/05)www.smuggling.co.uk/web/textsmug29.htm (8/6/05)

The illustrations are redrawn and painted in gouache from the above sources.

Eter nity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle

The Dreaming

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e Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siec

le The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages A

tomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetim

e All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

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e Dreaming

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The Dreaming

Fac

t

Built near Pelion Mount, Iolkos, Greece 1400–2000 BCTonnage: Not known.Length Not known. Called ‘The First Long Vessel’.Beam Not known.

Special features: The goddess Athena fitted a ‘speaking timber’ (from Zeus’ sacred oak of Dodona) at the prow. This timber could speak prophecies and operated like a compass, corresponding to the North, while the steering oar at the back corresponded to the South. The imaginary line between the oar and the prow extended to a certain point on the horizon, and was determined by the the positions of the stars (e.g. the Pole Star), so that the captain could steer the course of the ship.

Date of first service: Not known accurately, or indeed whether Argo was a real ship or belongs in the realms of mythology. Argo was named after her shipbuilder Argus, and was built of either oak or pine with 50, 30 or 24 oars (depending on the source) each side. She had a shallow draught and no deck so that she could be pulled up onto sandy beaches after mast, oars, rudder, ropes etc. had been removed to make her lighter. Argus was part of the crew and repaired the ship piece by piece while it was at sea.

Main voyage: Traditionally believed to be the voyage to Colchis to collect the Golden Fleece. Jason was the admiral, Tiphys steered the ship and the rest of the crew numbered 49–64 men (depending on the source) including Hercules, Castor and Pollux, Orpheus, Theseus and the maiden Atalanta.

Constellation: The contstellations now known as Carina (Keel), Puppis (Stern), Pyxis (Compass) and Vela (Sails) all belonged to a gigantic constellation called Argo.

Argo

Barthes, R. (1977). Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes. New York, Hill and Wang p. 46 (in Monotype Sorts).

Le Vaisseau Argo – The ship Argo

A frequent image: that of the ship Argo (luminous and white). Each piece of which the Argonauts gradually replaced, so that they ended up with an entirely new ship, without having to alter either its name or its form. This ship Argo is highly useful: it affords the allegory of an eminently structural object, created not by genius, inspiration, determination, evolution, but by two modest actions (which cannot be caught up in any mystique of creation): substitution (one part replaces another, as in a paradigm) and nomination (the name is in no way

Le Vaisseau Argo – The ship Argo

A frequent image: that of the ship Argo (luminous and white). Each piece of which the Argonauts gradually replaced, so that they ended up with an entirely new ship, without having to alter either its name or its form. This ship Argo is highly useful: it affords the allegory of an eminently structural object, created not by genius, inspiration, determination, evolution, but by two modest actions (which cannot be caught up in any mystique of creation): substitution (one part replaces another, as in a paradigm) and nomination (the name is in no way linked to the stability of the parts): by dint of combinations made within one and the same name, nothing is left of the origin: Argo is an object with no other cause than its name, with no other identity than its form.

Barthes, R. (1977). Roland Barthes. New York, Hill and Wang, p. 46.

Th e process of this work has been like the repairs on Roland Barthes’ Argo: I feel as though I have been rebuilt while sailing through the many family discoveries I have made. My name is the same, but I have changed. I now know more about the sort of people who transmitted their genes and their culture to me: high achievers, writers, artists, farmers, army offi cers.

Th ese kinds of discoveries have aff ected me profoundly: I now have a sense of the personal characteristics and abilities I have inherited.

I can now cling to some kind of human web that has been absent, and in that way I feel a certain invincibility. I feel less adrift. Yet I still feel the lack of a homeland, I still feel in exile.

Canberra 2005

I say that if my kids and grandkids weren’t here I would move to England. Would I really? I don’t know. But I do know that I feel more at home in England (particularly Dorset where I felt very rooted) and India than I do here. I miss the deep cultural roots of Europe and India in music, art, architecture and literature. I live in a land that feels alien to me, despite the creature comforts I am so fortunate to have.

Perhaps I will decide on a life of perpetual summer: Dorset/Canberra/Dorset/Canberra.

Perhaps I will always be in exile, adrift.

Family threads

Aboriginal rights I recently discovered I recently discovered that my great-uncle, W. H. Timperley that my great-uncle, W. H. Timperley CIE, was a writer and Superintendent CIE, was a writer and Superintendent of the Aboriginal prison on Rottnest of the Aboriginal prison on Rottnest Island. Apparently he was instrumental in Island. Apparently he was instrumental in ameliorating many of the cruel conditions ameliorating many of the cruel conditions for the prisoners. My older son has just for the prisoners. My older son has just published a biography of the parents of a published a biography of the parents of a young Aboriginal man who died in custody young Aboriginal man who died in custody under suspicious circumstances. under suspicious circumstances.

Calico printing For this project I have For this project I have been experimenting with inkjet printing been experimenting with inkjet printing onto calico. I recently found out that onto calico. I recently found out that my Peel ancestors were fundamental in my Peel ancestors were fundamental in developing calico printing in England during developing calico printing in England during Victorian times.Victorian times.

The Indian connection I now have a I now have a Bangla Deshi son-in-law. Bangla Deshi son-in-law.

Agriculture I have had a lifelong I have had a lifelong connection with agriculture: I recently connection with agriculture: I recently found out that my mother’s family were found out that my mother’s family were farmers for 500 years in Dorset. I worked farmers for 500 years in Dorset. I worked with sheep, and renovate houses. So does with sheep, and renovate houses. So does my newly-discovered cousin Susan. my newly-discovered cousin Susan.

Matchbox cars My younger son collects My younger son collects Matchbox cars, as does my half-sister’s son, Matchbox cars, as does my half-sister’s son, who he has never spoken to or met.who he has never spoken to or met.

In the midst of winter

I find in myself at last

invincible summer

Soen

Eter nity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

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The Dreaming

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e Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siec

le The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetime All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages A

tomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetim

e All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle The Dreaming

Eternity Aeon Infinity Life span Generation Lifetim

e All our born days Ages Donkey’s years Dark ages Atomic age Elizabethan period Eloueran period Golden age Eternity Industrial revolution Renaissance Tudor period Yuga Fin de siecle Th

e Dreaming

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BibliographyIn all cases, except the details of the five ships (as set out below) and the final quotation, sources are referenced on the pages where they are used.

The following sites for the ships were all accessed on 3-1-06.

Georgic (II)

www.greatships.net/georgic2.htmlwww.merseysideviews.com/

Monarch of Bermuda

http://member.melbpc.org.auwww.theshipslist.com/ships/descriptionswww.simplonpc.co.uk/Monarch_of_Bermuda.html

Llandovery Castle

www.ecastles.co.uk/llandovery.htmwww.clydeside.co.uk/clydebuilt/viewship.asp?id=4067www.merchantnavyofficers.com/llandovery.html

Castel Felice

www.ssmaritime.co,/sitmar1.htmwww.istrianet.org/istria/navigation/sea/immigrany/castelfelice.htmshippinglists.museum.vic.gov.au/ship.asp?ID=17

Argo

http://users.bigpond.net.au/bstone/argonauts.htmThe cover image of Argo is adapted from an image on http://users.bigpond.net.au/bstone/argonauts.htm

Final quotation

Soen, Nagakawa (no date given). Quoted by Matthiessen, P. (1987). Nine-headed dragon river: Zen journals. London, Flamingo, p. 62.

Certificate of authorship of thesis

Except where indicated with reference material, I certify that I am the sole author of the two parts of the thesis submitted today, entitled

Tissue (an artist’s book: this volume) andRe-picturing my life (an exegesis) submitted today. I further certify that, to the best of my knowledge, the whole thesis contains

no material previously published or written by another person except where due reference is made in the text of the thesis.The material of this thesis has not been the basis of an award for any other

degree or diploma.The thesis complies with the University of Canberra requirements for a thesis

as set out in:http://www.canberra.edu.au/secretariat/goldbook/forms/thesisrqmt.pdf

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Date ..................................................................

Copyright in relation to the two volomes of this thesis

Under section 35 of the Copyright Act of 1968, the author of this thesis (an artisit’s book, Tissue, and an exegesis, Re-picturing my life) is the owner of any copyright subsisting in this work, even though it is unpublished.© Alice Margaret Berridge 2006.