Monthly Archives: April 2015

The Soul of a Woman

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There has been some talk in the press (in case you missed it) about the soul of a woman, as opposed to the body of a woman. Well I’m not here to discuss those issues. But it did make me think about what a woman’s soul means to me. So I offer three favorite quotations from a purely personal point of view. The quality of the writing will certainly be superior to my usual offerings.

Anne

“God forbid that I should undervalue the warm and faithful feelings of any of my fellow-creatures! I should deserve utter contempt if I dared to suppose that true attachment and constancy were known only by woman. No, I believe you capable of everything great and good in your married lives. I believe you equal to every important exertion, and to every domestic forbearance, so long as–if I may be allowed the expression–so long as you have an object. I mean while the woman you love lives, and lives for you. All the privilege I claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable one; you need not covet it), is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone.”

Jane Austin, Persuasion

P1018654

But this imperfectly taught woman, whose phrases and habits were an odd patchwork, had a loyal spirit within her. The man whose prosperity she had shared through nearly half a life, and who had unvaryingly cherished her—now that punishment had befallen him it was not possible to her in any sense to forsake him. There is a forsaking which still sits at the same board and lies on the same couch with the forsaken soul, withering it the more by unloving proximity. She knew, when she locked her door, that she should unlock it ready to go down to her unhappy husband and espouse his sorrow, and say of his guilt, I will mourn and not reproach. But she needed time to gather up her strength; she needed to sob out her farewell to all the gladness and pride of her life. When she had resolved to go down, she prepared herself by some little acts which might seem mere folly to a hard onlooker; they were her way of expressing to all spectators visible or invisible that she had begun a new life in which she embraced humiliation. She took off all her ornaments and put on a plain black gown, and instead of wearing her much-adorned cap and large bows of hair, she brushed her hair down and put on a plain bonnet-cap, which made her look suddenly like an early Methodist.

George Eliot, Middlemarch

Shirley

A lover masculine so disappointed can speak and urge explanation, a lover feminine can say nothing; if she did, the result would be shame and anguish, inward remorse for self-treachery. Nature would brand such demonstration as a rebellion against her instincts, and would vindictively repay it afterwards by the thunderbolt of self-contempt smiting suddenly in secret. Take the matter as you find it: ask no questions, utter no remonstrances; it is your best wisdom. You expected bread, and you have got a stone: break your teeth on it, and don’t shriek because the nerves are martyrized; do not doubt that your mental stomach—if you have such a thing—is strong as an ostrich’s; the stone will digest. You held out your hand for an egg, and fate put into it a scorpion. Show no consternation: close your fingers firmly upon the gift; let it sting through your palm. Never mind; in time, after your hand and arm have swelled and quivered long with torture, the squeezed scorpion will die, and you will have learned the great lesson how to endure without a sob. For the whole remnant of your life, if you survive the test—some, it is said, die under it—you will be stronger, wiser, less sensitive.

Charlotte Bronte, Shirley

Now Who’s a Domestic Goddess?

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It must be some kind of nesting instinct. Spring has sprung and I’m in full homemaker mode. This morning I made a pot of strawberry jam and angel hair pasta and now I have bubbling on my stove top a big batch of homemade tomato ketchup.

Jam

Ketchup

Angelhair

 

 

 

 

Before I retired I thought making jam and chutney and baking bread were terribly clever and complicated. Now I realise that all you need is time. I’ve discovered all kinds of fascinating ingredients that I had no idea existed, like special sugar to make your jam set,  pasta flour and pizza flour; and spices like star anise, allspice (which I always thought was a blend of  all the spices actually), and whole vanilla pods and cinnamon sticks.

I’ve been experimenting with new kinds of cakes and tried my hand at a Genoise sponge. I had heard this was quite tricky. But as I was beating the eggs and sugar I suddenly realised that my dear old Mum had taught me how to make one when I was about six. I had to use an old rotary type whisk then whereas now I have a powerful Bosch mixer but it all came back to me as things do when you are getting on a bit. I remember the kitchen in the old house in Wythenshawe before we moved to the posh part of Didsbury, the red Formica topped table and my mum, moving around the room brisk and efficient and pretty, peeling potatoes for Sunday lunch, stirring the gravy (always Bisto gravy, she didn’t like Oxo) and overseeing my efforts. Sometimes we would add cocoa to make it a chocolate cake, sometimes we left it plain, but we always filled it with lashings of whipped double-cream. She used to have a tub delivered with three pints of milk every Sunday morning and then she would carefully pour off the top of the milk into the cream to make it go further. Mum must have been a cat in a previous existence. Like just about every other family in England we always had a Sunday roast. If we were having beef she would make wonderful Yorkshire puddings, crisp and delicious; if we were having lamb she would make mint sauce by chopping fresh mint with sugar and then adding just a little vinegar. I was grown-up before I found out you could buy it in a jar. I make it that way too.

I don’t want to go all Dickensian about the past. We weren’t poor and I don’t remember ever wanting anything I couldn’t have except a pony. And on reflection Dad was quite right to say that the back garden wasn’t big enough. No one had very much in those days, even the rich lived rather frugally. But I firmly believe that children don’t really care about money or things. All they want is love and attention. My brother and I certainly had bucket loads of those. It was a very happy childhood.

What’s In a Name?

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Last night I had dinner with my very lovely and very smart website designer and was scolded for not posting on my blog lately. Yes, I have been lazy and since she has gone to the trouble of setting up my website, the least I can do is use it properly. So……

Another dear and lovely friend (I am very blessed in that regard), has retired from nursing and has developed a new interest in genealogy. Having researched her own and her husband’s family trees she looked for new worlds to conquer and decided to work on mine. So far she had followed my father’s line, the Gilmans, mostly in Manchester. I’m sorry to say we are a very undistinguished crowd. Professions on my grandfather’s side include: pattern maker; labourer, lamplighter, bootmaker, fustian cutter, legging maker and mattress upholsterer.  My grandmother’s side were mostly barge people, which is, perhaps, a little more romantic.

bargeAs a novelist I’m very conscious that the right name can do wonders for a character. In my family there were lots of men named James and George on both sides. There is many a Fanny and a few Annies. But one name stands out. My great, great  grandmother had ten children. Their names are: Ada, John, David, Julia, Mary Ann, William, Andrew, Annie, Susan and Seberina. Seberina?

Seberina Parker, born 1872, no date of death. Her father was Daniel Parker from Birmingham, a waterman. He would have been 45 when Seberina was born, his wife Sarah would have been 36. Seberina was the 7th child.  I wonder how a middle-aged bargee in Birmingham reacted when his wife wanted to call her new little girl by that strange and fanciful name. Perhaps he was the indulgent type and just shrugged and put his arm around her shoulders, smiling down at the little child she nursed. ‘If that’s what you want, love.’

Where did she get the name? I googled it and found it isn’t that unusual. I think it’s a variation of Sabrina and is, probably, Spanish. Perhaps someone can enlighten me. But that doesn’t explain where Sarah found it.

I think I have the answer. There was a book published in 1846, Seberina by George C Judson. Sarah would have been 10 when it was published. Could Sarah read and write? I know her granddaughter couldn’t because I have her wedding certificate signed with a X (Ada Males, her mark). But Sarah was brought up in Uttoxeter, a quiet, market town. She might have attended Dame School and learned to read. I have an image of her curled up on a window seat pouring over her precious book following the adventures of Seberina.

I love the idea of Seberina, Sarah’s one romantic flight of fancy. I am wondering, if I ever have a granddaughter, is there the slightest chance of persuading either of my sons to keep Seberina in the family?