MEMOIR: THE WHISTLE

 

I don’t know where my Dad first learnt to whistle. Perhaps, it was playing in the outside orchestra of East End market streets; Billingsgate Fish market or Spitalfields? My grandfather, also called John Teal, was a driver of a horse drawn carriage for the Co-operative Stores, possibly picking up ‘flesh, fowl and roots’ from Spitalfields and delivering to retail outlets across London.

         My Dad was born in 1912, before the car was popular, and he told us stories about how as kids, he and his mates would jump on the back of horse drawn carriages hitching lifts, hidden from the driver’s view, or like Fagin’s children pinching fruit from wheelbarrows or market stalls. Perhaps he was whistled at by an irate carriage driver or incandescent market stall vendor?

       To whistle, he put his two forefingers and two little fingers in his mouth (what a mouthful!) producing the sort of screech that would have brought a pack of Arctic wolves or stampede of migrating caribou up the New Kings Road, no messing. He would lean out of the kitchen window of our top floor flat and whistle me home for dinner or tea. I was playing three streets away and not always outside, sometimes inside a friend’s house. But there was no mistaking that whistle and I knew food was about to be put on the table. Woe be tide me if I was late.

        Our annual holiday was sometimes spent at a Holiday Camp. On one occasion my Dad entered a knobbly knees competition. He could move his knees up and down whilst whistling or humming. At the time there was an act performed on a Saturday night variety show called ‘Opportunity Knocks.’ The guy had a face painted on his back. When he moved his back muscles it resembled a face smiling, angry or contorted. He did this to a well-known organ music tune. Dad could do that with his knees.  He won the competition.

      In later life in the rare event of calling a taxi he would use the same whistle and he could bring traffic to a standstill. He tried to teach me how but I could never get the technique, and whistling in those days was not considered to be very ‘ladylike.’ I can’t whistle now, even if I’m pursing my lips inviting a kiss. Although, without my denture I can produce a whistle while I’m talking, which can sound like I’m a ventriloquist or have a mild speech impediment. However, the tradition has not been entirely lost and is handed down through marriage.  My husband lead groups of children whistling, ‘Bridge on the River Kwai,’ and other songs at school Eisteddfods. They won prizes for whistling. If I’m feeling down my husband will whistle me a little tune like Julie Andrews in the film, ‘The King and I’. It’s the perfect cheer-up medicine.

Janet Daniel.   March 29 2013

THE GANNET MONOLOGUE

I recently attended a Life writing/Memoir course tutored by the excellent Amanda Rackshaw at Cardiff University's Life-Long Learning Department.

1962. MOTHER & DAUGHTER. 82A NEW KING’S ROAD, FULHAM. IN THE SMALL KITCHEN.

       ‘She’s got her hand in that biscuit time again. It’s the same with the cheese. She can eat half a pound of Cheddar in the time it takes me to walk across the road to the Co-op. Look at her-bleedin’ gannet, dive–bombing her way through the whole tin. Those are supposed to last us a week. Some hope with her appetite. It’s not like she’s starving. She can’t be hungry. She just had a cooked dinner and a pound of apples. I can’t afford to keep on replacing the cheese and biscuits every few days. Times are hard enough… and Look at her,head in a book. The lazy mare!

    You need to get off your arse and do something, young lady. Don’t look at me like that either, or you’ll see the back of my hand. What? I’ve got more strength in my little finger than you’ve got in your whole fat body.

    Put the tin away NOW!  You’re not the only one in the family, you know. When I want a Garibaldi or your father wants a Fig Roll, they’ll be none left. What did you say? Don’t answer me back. . . It’s always the same with you, isn’t it? Eat,eat,eat! No boy will ever fancy you. Mark my words. No man wants a fat wife.    Your father did? Well, times were different then. Anyway, enough of your cheek. Come on, give me that biscuit tin.  I said, GIVE IT HERE!   ( SHE PULLS THE TIN AND ALL THE BISCUITS FALL OUT & SCATTER OVER THEM BOTH AND ALL OVER THE FLOOR. SHE BECOMES ANGRY.GOES TO HIT DAUGHTER, WHO TRIES TO GET AWAY & CROUCHES IN CORNER).   

   Gertcha! Now, see what you’ve done. I’ve sweated hard on this place. Not that you’d notice now.  I would have bought a bag of broken biscuits if that’s what I’d wanted. It would have been cheaper too.  Jesus Christ! You try my patience. Now, young lady, clear up this mess. Pronto!        Go on then! Leave home. Do us all a favour.

 Janet Daniel. March 29 2013

TRIBUTE TO ALWYN JONES

Alwyn was an environmental campaigner, activist and our neighbour when we lived in Gwaelod-Garth. In recent times we often met on walks on the Garth.

We recognise you by your values

Hard core green

Sincere

A man living by his principles

fighting for peace in times of war

 

We recognise you by your intelligence

logic, evidence of research.

Your ability to debate at length

to protect the environment

you prize so much.

 

We recognize you by your fleecy marigolds-

Day-glo gloves glowing

as you speed-walk, ruck-sacked

through Garth Mountain mists.

 

We recognise you by your determined chin

few words, lopsided grin,

but most of all we recognise you by your values.

 

 

Janet Daniel

January 2013

TERRACOTTA AND BLUE-TRIBUTE TO JENNY HAMES

I met Jenny in Athens in 1974. She was Vice Consul for the New Zealand Government. I was Librarian at the British Council. She was hugely influential in my life.

 

 

Terracotta and blue

define your memory.

Colours of earth, sky, sea

run through your veins,

germinate in your soul;

surface

as warmth, light, depth, vision,

and grow

in all that you are,

loved by all whom you know.

 

Janet Daniel

2 January 2013

LYNDA PUGH REMEMBERED

In the last three months three old friends have died, Lynda Pugh, Jenny Hames and Alwyn Jones. It's made me think a lot about the nature of friendship and how I wish I'd made more effort.

I met Lynda at Birmingham College of Commerce in 1967, when we both embarked on a Librarianship course, and in our second year we shared a flat together in Handsworth with six others, and whoever else felt like crashing on our tea-sodden living room floor after a night of Leonard Cohen and political debate. She stood out in our group with her sharp intellect, high forehead and Pre-Raphaelite looks, like one of Burne-Jones’ angels-the petite one.

      She was extremely well-read and her values shone through any discussion or debate. In a modest way she lived and practised those values. She had a wicked sense of humour; witty and at times surreal, always enjoying the sense of the absurd, her deep voice chortling at some faux pas or irony committed by a hapless politician, or one of our group, often me! She was non-judgemental of her friends, fiercely loyal and supportive. For her size she could really pack away the food and never put on weight. How I envied her! And in those days none of us exercised. She was also often the one who washed up our greasy dinner plates and tidied up our boyfriends’ mess.

       Lynda was very creative and a job in a library was never going to satisfy that or her need to help people in a deep, meaningful way and create social change. After leaving College she worked in London and Cambridge with the Cyrenians, putting herself in very challenging and risky situations working with homeless people, the poor and destitute. I went to live abroad and we lost touch, which I now regret.

        In December 2009 five of the original eight flatmates met up for a reunion. It was over 37 years since I’d seen Lynda. She had just retired from full-time work. It was inspiring to see how she’d grown and developed, her strong values, kindness and humour at her core…and still that throaty laugh.

Lynda died from cancer on 9^th March 2013. She was 64.

Janet Teal Daniel

THE SPIRIT OF 45

Another film in the WOW (Wales One World Film Festival) at Chapter Arts Centre at the moment. Ken Loach directs and writes the screenplay of  a history of the British Welfare State. The film was simultaneously transmitted by satellite to over 40 cinemas in the UK. In Cardiff it was sold out.
     Loach describes life in Britain before the war, when working class people in cities lived in squalid poverty and atrocious housing. We see the impact of the Depression and mass unemployment in the late 20's and 30's and the lead up to WW2. When fighting men came home from the war, they demanded a different way of life.  The Government borrowed money to invest in new housing, new towns, clear bomb damage, and provide new publically owned services. Loach shows us how the Welfare State and the NHS came into being with the courage of politicians such as as the Liberal, William Beveridge, and Aneurin Bevan under the Labour Party leadership of Clem Attlee. He shows us the hope and idealism of the age. All utilities, infrastructure of the Railways, the Docks, Mines, and the Car Industry were all taken into public ownership. Unfortunately, the new nationalised industries designed to give the working class a better deal, were managed by Boards chaired by former capitalist bosses. They were managed top-down and highly centralised bodies.
       Loach then whisks us off to the 1970s and 1980s and Thatcherism. The move from communities looking after each other to a culture of individualism.  Thatcher said,'There's no such thing as Society.' We see the dismantling of nationalised industry, the selling off of Council houses, and the long-term impact on what is happening now-the privatisation of the NHS and related services.
     In the panel discussions after the screening, Loach denies that this is a nostalgic film but rather a call to arms or a call for more discussion in the form of a People's Assembly and a new political party-a coalition of the left-to save the spirit of 45. Labour's period of government under Blair is ignored in the film. What happened to the Socialist party lead by George Galloway, called 'Respect?'
      I'm not a supporter of Thatcher at all, but I think it's a pity that Loach gives no time in his film for some of the not-so-good aspects of nationalisation. He romanticises nationalised industries and fails to discuss the impact of these large monopolies on the quality and cost of services to the public, and practices such as Trade Union Closed Shop practice, ripe in the print industry for example in the 1960s. There was a very good book puvlished in the 1980s called,  ' It's no way to run a rail road,' which gives a more balanced view. It would have been helpful to bring together the learning from the past. Who would want to return to heavily centralised organisations managed by men? If the NHS is going to survive as a national treasure, surely it has to be managed differently, so there's real accountability from bottom up and top down. Huge organisations have to be broken down into smaller parts if they're going to be able to be managed efficiently, owned by the people for the community, and providing excellent service.
     The problem for me in Loach's film is looking at the old order to find new order solutions. Of course we must learn from the past, but the reality is we aren't in a post-world war situation. There are different threats, including religious fundamentalism, the marginalisation of women in some societies, terrorism, the crisis of confidence in capitalism in the West and the burgeoning economies of China, Brazil, Nigeria, India, with crime, drug wars and ever widening gaps between rich and poor in the developing world. Then there's the biggest issue facing mankind today- climate change. Loach's answer is too simplistic for me. We need to prioritise what's important to us as a society. Socialists, Anarchists and Greens are coming together in the 'Occupy Movement.' If the spirit of 45 and the spirit of 2011 could be combined against the darker side of capitalism, without suppressing innovation, ideas and community entrepreneurship, perhaps we might see some progress.

For more information Google, The People's Assembly' and The Coalition of Resistence'.
  

NOSTALGIA FOR THE LIGHT

This film directed by Patricio Guzman is  part of the current 'Wales One World Film Festival,' at Chapter Arts Centre, and marks the 40th anniversary since the military coup led by General Pinochet that resulted in the death of President Salvador Allende and thousands of his supporters. 'The coup was the final chapter in Chile's first socialist experience,when finally the local wealthy classes supported by the USA and CIA,abandoned any pretences of obeying the rule of law and joined in the overthrow of the democratically elected government...' (www.chile40yearson.org.).
       The cinematography by Katell Djian is superb, focusing on the detail of the lives of those women still seeking the remains of their loved ones who disappeared during the seventeen years of the dictatorship, and who may have been dumped in the Atacama Desert or into the sea.  
          The Atacama Desert is the brown bit on the Planet Earth taken from outer space, the only bit of our planet that has no humidity at all.  It is home to giant telescopes and astronomers who study the past through the stars. The film sets this up against the juxtaposition of the 'women of the disappeared.' Stars and human bones are both made of calcium. We see a stark image of an elderly woman sifting through the vast desert sand looking for bones, another who finds her brother's foot, identifiable by his shoe, followed by shots of whirlpools and galaxies of cosmic starlight; very beautiful, but both stare into some kind of void. 
        Jesse Cataldo (www.slantmagazie.com) says,'Nostalgia for the Light' is also an existential mediatation on the inherent horrors of existence, finding parity between the cold recesses of space and the more immediate loneliness of human life.'
         To me it also an exposition on the mystery of our existence, bringing science, spirituality and art together. Breathtaking and strange. I recommend this film to you.
For more info see www.chapterarts.org.uk.