One man and his dog

I was having a leisurely cup of coffee with an artist friend the other day, and our conversation turned to the subject of her children, a daughter of 15 and a son of 13. She was telling me how different they are. 

Her daughter is very systematic and self-disciplined. She has drawn up a colour-coded timetable, taking in her school work, revision and hobbies. But, as diligent as she is, she really can't motivate herself to do her art coursework. This is very disconcerting for my friend, for whom art coursework is the stuff of dreams.

Her son, on the other hand, is of a much more creative bent. He recently had to write a story for school, and didn't know where to start. But once he got going, he created an impressively mature piece of work, rich in descriptive narrative and tension.

Two parents, one household, one environment, and two very different children. One of them seems to take after his artistic mother, while the other clearly shares more character traits with her (scientist) father.

Our conversation left me to reflect on how we end up the way we do, and how certain tastes and talents are passed on from one generation to the next. And I began to think about my own heritage. 

Let me introduce Henry Keates Gazey.

I love this photograph - the only one we have of him. Henry Keates Gazey was my great grandfather. He grew up in Birmingham, the tenth of twelve children, and was at art college before World War I so cruelly intervened. He served in the 3rd Battalion Worcestershire Regiment, and was killed in Flanders on 8th April, 1915, at the age of only 21.

I always think that Henry looks haunted and melancholy here. Of course, people rarely smiled in photographs at that time. But I am doubtless also projecting my own knowledge of his fate onto the image, a fate of which he was probably unaware when the photograph was made.

I like to believe that my own creative drive, or any talent I may have, came down through the generations from Henry. Every generation on that side of the family has included individuals with a strong interest in literature, art, the theatre and dance, and there seems to be too strong a connection for this to be mere coincidence.

Sometimes I muse on the idea that, had Henry not gone to war, I might have met him. I might have known and loved him. He might even have shaped and guided my own creativity, an idea I find awe-inspiring. 

But it's nonsense, of course. Had Henry lived, life for his immediate family would have taken a completely different course, different decisions would have been made, different opportunities would have presented themselves. And, ultimately, it's unlikely I would be here at all!

I may never have met him. But I can use his talent to inspire and motivate me. I can strive to make the most of my own creativity. And I can hope that, one day, I might even do him proud. What a tribute that would be.

The Happy Meal

I had always imagined that my blog would be a place where I would mainly post pieces of short fiction, and perhaps a poem or two. Well, like a lot of creative endeavours, it seems to have taken on a life of its own, and become a place for my musings on writing, music, art and life generally. 

Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, and I am enjoying it all immensely. But I thought it was high time that I started posting the occasional piece of short fiction, and that's what I'm here to do today. 

'The Happy Meal' came about as a result of a casual remark I heard on the radio, which made me reflect on the huge potential for melancholy of the humble Happy Meal. This was one of those happy occasions when something just clicked, and I sat down and wrote the first draft of the piece almost on automatic pilot - a fabulous, if elusive, sensation which comes highly recommended!  

The Happy Meal

As if a flabby hamburger and a plastic dinosaur could possibly nourish body or soul, he muses sadly as he watches his son across the table. The colourful cardboard box promises much, but delivers little. A bit like life, he thinks, before he has time to stop himself.

How can a ‘Happy Meal’ ever mend the damage that’s been done? I’m a useless father. She was right. He’ll never be able to forgive me. It’s me he’ll blame, not her. Probably for the rest of his life.

He stares, awe-struck, at his little boy, and marvels at his innocent perfection: the unblemished softness of his rosy cheeks, the neat back-to-school haircut, the fingers with their clipped nails, sinking into the burger bun. And the love that surges through him promises to break his heart, and he wonders if he hasn’t been punished enough already.

He picks up the plastic toy between finger and thumb, and prowls it across the table, trying to distract himself from the tears prickling at him. Deep breath. Triceratops. He remembers it from his own childhood, his fascination with these strange creatures, his need to learn the long names, to list, to categorise. Just like his son.

The boy watches as the dinosaur furtively approaches his bag of chips. The hint of a smile plays across his lips, moist with grease from the burger. He picks out a chip, twists it in his tub of ketchup, and holds it to the dinosaur’s open mouth, his beautiful fresh face level with the monster’s.

‘He’s a herbivore. So he likes chips. But not hamburgers.’

The man smiles. He makes the sort of low, satisfied growling noise he imagines a triceratops might make, in demolishing its favourite meal of French fries doused in ketchup.

‘Daddy?’

‘Yes, love?’

The little boy fixes him with big blue eyes as clear as a sunny winter’s morning.

‘Dad, what’s the matter?’

‘… Oh look. He’s covered in ketchup now.’

But the boy just gazes at him.

‘How d’you mean? Nothing. Nothing’s the matter.’

He takes another deep breath, ragged this time, not quite within his control. He picks up a paper napkin and busies himself in wiping the sticky tomato sauce from the dinosaur’s vacant face.

‘You look sad.’

Oh, no. He’s noticed. No. Every other weekend. That’s all you have. You promised yourself you’d make the most of it. You promised. And you’ve screwed it up. Loser.

‘I’m a bit… tired, that’s all. I’m… I’m sorry.’

He tries a smile, but is unconvinced by it himself. Then he tries a yawn instead, grabbing at the opportunity to rub his eyes as well.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes?’

The little boy frowns and bites his lip.

‘… What is it, son?’

‘We will always do things together, won’t we? You will always want to?’

The sweet, sharp unexpectedness of the question catches at his breath.

He suddenly feels the need to blow his nose. He reaches into one jacket pocket, then another, but there’s no handkerchief there – he knows there isn’t, and the reason why: he hasn’t done his ironing. She told him he was hopeless, the day she left. Maybe she was right.

He is aware of his son watching him, concerned, his sweet head tilted slightly to one side. He dares to meet his eye. But he doesn’t find what he’s expecting there - no derision, no intolerance, no bitter, crushing disillusionment. Because he’s nothing like his mother. Those wise blue eyes are gleaming at him, understanding him better, more deeply, than they should ever have been allowed to do. Loving him.

The boy licks ketchup from his fingers and gently hands his father a fresh paper napkin. The man swallows hard, takes the napkin as calmly as he can and blows his nose into it.

‘I hope so. I’d like to. That’d be great, wouldn’t it?’

His son seems relieved, as if an unbearable weight has been lifted from his tiny shoulders, and he beams at him, a big, sunny life-raft of a smile. 

‘Now. I think I could eat some ice-cream. How about you?’

Showing, not telling: Hylas yearns for home

The best five hours I ever spent in the theatre was at a performance by Scottish Opera of Berlioz' 'Les Troyens' at the Theatre Royal, Newcastle. This massive opera is, understandably, rarely performed.

Based on Virgil's Aeneid, it tells the story of the destruction of Troy, and of our hero, Aeneas', destiny as the founder of a new Troy, to be known as 'Rome'. On the way there, the Trojan fleet is waylaid in Carthage and our hero (predictably) falls in love with Dido, Queen of Carthage.

This is terrible, because Aeneas knows full-well that the gods have already decided his future for him, and Dido isn't part of it. In fact, all through the second half, assorted characters from wood nymphs to the ghosts of other Trojan heroes take it in turns to appear to Aeneas, and give him a gentle prod to remind him of his divine duty to history.

Anyway, Act 5 (!) opens the night before the fleet's departure for Italy, and begins with one of the most haunting arias I have ever heard - 'Vallon Sonore'. Hylas, a young Phrygian sailor, leans against the masthead of his ship as it sits in the harbour. The gentle lilting of the music evokes perfectly the lapping of the water around the sides of the vessel.

This is such an intimate piece that we almost feel that Hylas is singing to himself, not to the audience. It is not a grand, noisy proclamation of this character's suffering (the sort which is usually followed with indecent haste by the character's death from a disease which would, in reality, render breathing difficult, let alone a solo aria projected into the back row of a massive auditorium. I digress.)

No, this is contemplative, quiet, and utterly heart-rending. Hylas remembers an echoing vale, with huge trees giving sweet-scented shade from the heat of the day. He recalls his humble cottage, and bidding farewell to his mother. He asks himself, repeatedly, if he will see his homeland again, but he already knows the answer to that question, just as we do.

The nature of this song reminds me of the idea that, as writers, we should show what is happening to our characters, rather than describing it. There is a sense here that we are almost intruding on Hylas' private grief, such is the intimacy of this moment. How much less effective it would be if he were to stand at the front of the stage and tell us how homesick he is!

The song also makes me think about the nature of yearning, so achingly depicted in this music. If we yearn for something which could happen, in time, there is a real sweetness to that sensation - imagine if Hylas knew that he'd get home eventually. But equally, we might yearn for something which we know can never be - a sensation akin to mourning, as I think Berlioz shows perfectly in Hylas' breathtaking aria.

Do click on the link above and have a listen. The aria is sung here, I believe, by the wonderful Toby Spence, on the LSO's award-laden live recording of 2000.

Family likeness

I’ll be honest, I know very little about sheep.

I know even less about lambs. I always assumed all lambs looked alike: disproportionately long legs and knobbly knees, and out-sized feet that resemble neat little platform shoes. Oh, and pretty faces, obviously.

But I was stunned yesterday when walking in Weardale to come across a Blue Faced Leicester ewe and her two new lambs. Now, I may know very little about sheep, but I can recognise a Blue Faced Leicester when I see one – its distinctive Roman nose, bluish face and elegant, upright ears make it unmistakeable.

The noble profile of a Blue Faced Leicester!

What struck me was how well-developed the character of the lambs, which can only have been a few days old, already was. They had the distinctive face shape of their mother, although soft and sweet in a baby animal way, and the ears already had their attractive curve.*

I eventually had to be physically removed from this scene by my long-suffering husband. This was, after all, a work day for him – he needed to do some photography – and I suspect he was worried he might lose the light altogether if we didn’t get a move on.

Never mind. That image will stay with me and remind me that, after a long and difficult winter, spring must finally be here.


* In a moment of mental abberation while I was watching the lambs, I temporarily forgot my husband was a photographer. If I'd asked him politely, I might now have been able to post a nice photograph of the lambs themselves. Ahem.