It’s tennis season and memories of being turned away at the Wimbledon turnstiles still haunt me. Not even a frilly white frock, pretend tennis racquet and packet of strawberries was going to convince the security guards to let us in. I was probably 8 or 9 and Mum normally managed to blag her way in anywhere. Not this time, despite the flirting, protests and pushing me forward and ordering me to smile nicely. I knew at the time that my outfit was ridiculous. Tennis players wore short, simple tunics and not frilly bridal dresses. Nobody was going to be convinced by a pink plastic toy tennis racquet and as for the strawberries … mushy and inedible. Years later I was able to sneak in with my BBC ID pass and watch from the commentary boxes, As always, looking back, this was Mum at her most creative; trying to make a dream come true and cementing future memories. Cemented they were, but maybe not for the right reasons.
Barnet Council has brought back a Summer Festival and is putting on outdoor cinema events for us all to enjoy for free. Walking past the giant screen earlier with my little dog I heard the familiar plock, plock of the match and no doubt all eyes will be glued to Emma Raducanu as she slams her way into tennis history later today. I did start tennis lessons (in protest) at senior school, but was soon excused after messing around and not taking it seriously. Our tennis coach, the formidable Miss Harris, taught us how to serve … “ball UP, look UP, racquet back, watch ball and THROW the racquet over”. Yes, of course I knew that what she meant was to keep hold of the racquet while making a throwing motion to contact the ball and send it over the net. My first attempt was a disaster as I missed the ball. “You’re supposed to hit the ball, Sonia, not watch it drop to the ground.” Yeah, yeah, yeah. Second attempt. Right – up, look, racquet back, watch and throw. Clatter, clatter, clatter. “You’re not supposed to actually throw the racquet across the court, Sonia.” Yeah, yeah, yeah. I was much happier running around the square, making faces at the tennis students who probably wished they’d had the balls to risk the wrath of Harris. The only competitive sport she ever convinced me to take part in was hockey which I also loathed. All that knocking of sticks, whacking shins and getting up at dawn for hockey matches. I made myself very good at defending the goal which meant that not only did I have shin pads, I didn’t have to do all that running up and down the pitch. Netball was OK as I was tall and was often made goalie. Again, lots of knocking the ball back and not having to run around too much.
So now we’re approaching a life after lockdown with more time to actually go to things I’m going to apply for tickets for Wimbledon next year – and in my precious mum’s honour I’m going to try and find a white frilly frock to wear. Looking back, I’m pleased we didn’t get in because she would have been heckling the players no doubt, gate-crashing VIP areas, digging up bits of grass for me to take home as a souvenir (I’ll tell you that story another time) and hoovering up the spare strawberries left by the posh people who bought them inside the club grounds. She came to the Finchley Festival once – the yearly event with dozens of highly decorated floats, Carnival Queens, displays, events and a huge fairground. There was so much noise around that nobody really noticed her loud singing and she even managed to get herself a ride on a police horse by flirting with the mounted policeman who wasn’t laughing at first when she stood on a chair and tried to mount his horse to sit behind him. Advantage Margaret.
Here’s to Summer freedom. Here’s to my marvellous mum. Love all.
I was just about to give up the trumpet when my precious mum bought me one. It was dusted aluminium with shiny slides and inner bell. I loved it, but sadly it didn’t love me. Having had tonsil and adenoid surgery I couldn’t maintain the air pressure needed to get a decent note out of it, so the noise of air escaping down my nose was louder than any note I could muster. I decided to take up the trombone which was altogether easier to play and didn’t sound like a balloon about to burst. It was also great for creating sound effects in the school plays and making resonant farty noises to make my granddad guffaw with laughter and my Nan waft her hand in front of her nose (making Pop laugh even more). Mum, bless her heart, would have taken on a new job to pay for the trumpet, so I didn’t tell her for ages that I’d moved on to another instrument. She would have understood, because one of her phrases was “move on, move on” which she did, often.
It’s Mental Health Awareness Week so I’ve dusted off my old trumpet from its case under the sofa and just tried to play it. Thinking about my wonderful mum I’ve tried a chromatic octave scale in her honour and now need to lie down. Another reason for not persevering with the trumpet was that my dad was never keen. I couldn’t really understand why not as he’d played the trumpet himself in the past. I finally got it out of him that he was worried I’d end up in the brass section of an orchestra and as a professional violinist he knew how raucous and misbehaved brass players could be; a bit harsh I thought, however it cemented my love for jazz and the sound of a big band which will never leave me – another thing that Mum did, often.
Having grown up with my mum’s unpredictable, hilarious, embarrassing antics I realise now that I never sought her out for comfort or re-assurance and never really confided in her about anything. God forbid I ever spoke badly about friends or teachers – Mum would be there firing on all cylinders, mis-quoting me (always the worst bit), screaming and probably throwing things. So I kept it all in. My lovely dad was always working showbiz hours, so I didn’t see an awful lot of him. All in all, the only person to really rely upon was myself when I was little. Looking back I can remember being quite happy prancing around in ballet dresses, singing songs and pretending to be a famous performer. I even managed to crow-bar a little dance into the nativity play when I was the Virgin Mary. I don’t think she did pirouettes and arabesques, but who really knows? In my world she did with her skirts hitched up high, a big grin on her face and proper pointy toes.
I must have been about 6 or 7 when I was told that I was going to be adopted. The family who were going to give me a new home lived in a huge house in Swiss Cottage with instruments everywhere, a massive garden with dozens of balletic fuchsia bushes and a very loud daughter who thought it was funny to boss me around and remind me that she was the rich one and that I was the poor one. That bit didn’t resonate really, because I don’t think you’re really aware of income snobbery at such a young age – well, I wasn’t. The bit that did resonate was the hope that this might be the end of all the abandoning. Mum was always leaving me with different people, some of whom I knew, some not. My teachers were nice enough, however I didn’t really trust them as they insisted that you can’t get a sun and moon in the same sky or that ALL leaves are green, not red – wrong. It felt as if my dad wasn’t there much and it has only been in later life that I’ve realised that he just didn’t know where I was. He had no real control over Mum’s spontaneous off-loadings and tried to make things seem as normal as possible when I came home again and carried on as normal. it was a bit confusing as I often wondered if he cared that one family used to send me out to the allotment grounds (now Brent Cross Shopping Centre) to dig up earth for their garden with a tiny spade and a whicker shopping trolley. It didn’t matter – I quite enjoyed it really as it gave me time to practice my dance moves and sing songs to myself. I didn’t get adopted of course, because it turned out that the adoption was one of Mum’s stories that made a lot of sense to her as they would have had the money, status and opportunities for me that she didn’t think she could offer. How wrong she was on that count – all I wanted from her was to be there, no matter now crazily she was behaving. OK, maybe without the mis-quotes such as “Sonia tells me that you don’t wash your bottom.” WHAT??? Or ” Sonia won’t be writing an essay about birds because she hasn’t stopped crying about the one you cooked and brought to school.” No amount of protesting would ever convince “that” teacher that I had no idea she ate chicken sandwiches and no, I didn’t expect her to go veggie.
The reason for mentioning all this is that I feel pretty much like the same me as I did back then. I still love joking with people, pulling silly pranks, putting Mum’s antics into anecdotal stories and seeking out the good in most situations. Children make up their minds about what life means when they’re little – I know I did. Mum loved me, but not enough to stick around, so I was probably doing something wrong or had something about me that people didn’t like. Ring any bells? I see it a lot with coaching clients; those old rules we made up for ourselves when we were far too young to make them. I’ve been very lucky to have been able to re-programme my relationship with my mother and see her for who she was – quite simply a woman who wanted everything, but was mentally unable to cope with anything for very long. Her heart was the size of a planet, her voice as shrill as a whistle. She enchanted and infuriated in equal measure and is about to be immortalised in a children’s book which aims to help adults laugh along and explain mental health issues with their kids, classes, grandchildren and friends. It’ll also be a way of children seeing that other mums do silly things too and that talking about it is better than hiding food, breaking things in secret or retreating into your own little world.
It’s been a year hasn’t it? We’ve all lost people we love, been scared into avoiding each other and missing those we’ve been unable to hug. Soon we’ll be able to start venturing out again, enjoying the world around us, seeing loved ones and making lots of noise. And what’s really making me laugh right now is the idea that if my neighbours start up with their 4am loud parties again, I can always get the trumpet out and start practicing in the garden. Now, where did I put that mute?
We’ve all done it haven’t we? Made up our own words to misheard lyrics and sung them at top volume much to the amusement of our fellow singers – or is that just me? Mum did it all the time, although I suspect she knew exactly what she was doing and enjoyed the surrounding harrumphs and gasps of exasperation. One of her favourite festive tricks was to join a choir, flirt with the vicar (they were always church choirs), befriend the baritones and sock the sopranos between the eyes with her mad, falsetto singing. Imagine Hyacinth Bouquet on helium and you’ve got the picture. I was always somewhere in the background, half-listening, half-wincing at Mum’s singing and trying to distance myself. She was having fun though and didn’t give a hoot about the stuffy people around her getting upset. She never lasted long in the choirs as I recall and I do remember going on holiday to a vicarage in Swanage one year where my brother and I had bunk beds in one room and Mum apparently slept on the sofa, although we never saw any bed clothes on it when we got up early in the hope of surprising her with a cup of tea. So the flirting must have paid off.
In the early eighties I started work at the BBC and moved in to the top floor of a wonderful, tumble-down house which Mum had inherited. It really was a very old, unloved house with rattling windows, three freezing floors, no heating, no hot water and a ghost. Mum lived on the bottom floor, so it was often a case of sneaking past her rooms to get upstairs and into my flat without her shouting out or accosting my friends on the way up. Most of the time it was she who opened the door as we only had an old iron knocker which was next door to her bedroom. On various occasions she’d jump out and shout something inappropriate when I intercepted friends on the way up, thus ending the friendship or stopping any new romance in its tracks before it had the time to blossom. She meant well of course and thought that offers of tea in bed or an extra feather eiderdown might encourage things. Errr … well, they didn’t. And then I had a wonderful idea. Why didn’t I get a doorbell that only rang in my flat? I installed it in secret, running the wires along door frames, along skirting boards and well out of sight. She didn’t notice and everything appeared to be going according to plan. And then the trouble started. The doorbell went one evening at about 11.30pm, so I trotted downstairs to see which of my friends had decided to make a midnight visit. I opened the door to a middle-aged man, sweating and tugging at his jacket. “Sonia?” Yes, said I, slowly closing the door to a half-inch slit. “Do you have a maid?” Goodbye, said I closing the door and dashing back upstairs to the warm. Weird man – obviously drunk. Similar things started happening and I was now getting very freaked out and pissed off at the late night knockers. It was only when my grandpa Pop came to visit that things became clearer. He had “asides” with Dad when I opened the door to them both. Dad was a bit embarrassed and neither of them would tell me what they were whispering about. It was always at these points that the penny dropped and I had the sinking “Mum !!!!!!” feeling. What had she said, done or tried this time? They finally came out with it. “It’s your doorbell, Sonia. It’s a bit Soho, don’t you think?” What about my fantastic, clever idea doorbell? It turned out that Mum had found out about it (after all, it was quite obvious when you actually arrived at the front door) and in order to help people differentiate between the main front door and my flat she’d attached a hand-written label. “Sonia. Top flat only. Ring for pleasure.” Whether it was the outrage of the sheer ignorance from her point of view, or the fact that Dad and Pop both had insight into what these labels meant when visiting Soho, I can’t quite remember. I was furious and removed the bell completely and by “completely”, I mean ripping the wires out of every crevice, smashing the button to tiny pieces and crushing the electronic bell device to smithereens. Things that Mum did were always based on love, however at the time her actions felt to me like a crushing mix of anger, confusion and the conviction that she didn’t know me one little bit. How lucky am I that in later life I grew to see her behaviour for what it really was and not what I thought it to be.
Bells have always featured heavily (or should that be Heavenly?) in my world. Church bells with Mum dragging me unwillingly to strangers’ weddings or interminable church services. Jingle Bells with altered lyrics. THAT Hendon door bell and now a talking bus bell, Thinkerbell, who features in my children’s book series, Granny Franny’s Big Red Bus. I’ve started using DING DING as a strap line when I sign the books. And there’s another bell reference that always makes my friends laugh; two very annoying boys at junior school used to sing “Ding, dong, bell DOM – your head’s gone wrong. Two screws are loose, your head’s no use.” to the tune of a nursery rhyme. So that got shortened to “Ding dong” and became my nickname. I didn’t mind, it was better than “Hercule”. Hercule Poirot – Belgium – Beldom. VERY funny. NOT.
As there are no big carol concerts this year, our little neighbourhood group is staging a Christmas sing-along in the park for the children of the local nursey. Luckily I’ve got a very powerful bluetooth speaker from which I can play a few backing tracks for us all to sing along to. And guess what the first track that Lydia, my much loved neighbour sent me this afternoon? You’ve guessed it – Jingle Bells! I promise not to embed the wrong lyrics into the heads of the children, as my mother did to me. It went like this; “Jingle Bells, diamonds and pearls, twinkle all the way. Oh what fun for Santa’s bum as he twinkles in his sleigh – OH … etc. etc.
Have a good run-up to Christmas in these peculiar times. DING DING.
A robin has been visiting our home for the past month. Every day she gets bolder, braver and cheekier. I’ve even managed to get her to eat out of my hand by dangling old bits of spaghetti to make them look like worms. Having posted a few pictures of the robin eating from our table, balancing on my computer screen and looking intently at the new illustrations for my children’s book, many people have commented that maybe, just maybe it’s the spirit of my precious mum coming to keep an eye on me. I love the concept as this little robin is very much like her; brave, fearless, exploring rooms that she probably shouldn’t be in and tweeting at full pelt if she isn’t being let in (she sits on the garden chair and tweets at full volume until we open the back door. She then flies in.)
My mum used to shout through the letterbox whenever she dropped in. There was a door knocker and bell, but no – far too obvious and simple. Shouting “Ooooooh-oooooooh SONIA-darling” was much more fun and personal. She’d often make the trip up from the South Coast with something she’d thought of that morning; a present of a warm vest, two matching brass-etched vases or a strawberry and cream cake for a friend’s birthday. Mum’s way of living was the very epitome of being “present” as she never lived in the past or worried about the future. She thought of something, acted on it and did whatever she thought was appropriate in the moment. Quite often of course, her moments didn’t quite match other people’s, but it never bothered her. She wanted to drop off a strawberry cream cake, so she did. On this occasion when I wasn’t at home, she left the aforementioned cake at the dry cleaners on the corner and had left a note about it with a neighbour whom I’d never met before. All I had was a scrawled scrap of paper with a number on it. I took it to mean that I had to visit this house (it was never very clear what Mum really wanted me to do, so it was an educated guess), so off I trotted down to the neighbour’s house, hoping I’d got it right. The door was opened on the chain by a nervous-looking man who slipped a note through the narrow gap who then disappeared back inside with a loud click. I tried shouting a “thank you”, but it fell on deaf ears as I heard another loud clunk inside the house while he tried barricading himself back in. “Tell my daughter to go to the dry cleaner’s” was all it said. “PWfffff” thought I, whistling exasperated breath out off the side of my mouth. What is it this time? Of course it was now 7pm and the dry cleaner’s was shut. The following morning I dropped in and picked up the cake which was now warm, curdling slightly and a bit droopy. I have no memory of who it was meant for, but sadly it never got eaten. It ended up in the garden as bird food which, looking back, probably wasn’t very good for them as it was full of double cream and sugary jam.
Three of my lovely friends – Jan, Sharon and Alison have all suggested that this cheeky little free spirit might be Mum coming to visit as a lot of people believe that robins are the worldly embodiment of people who’ve passed away and want to keep an eye on us. As all three of them are incredibly musical … and we’re all locked in without the chance of seeing each other … all together now … “When the red red robin comes bob bob bobbing along – along. There’ll be no more sobbing when he starts singing his own sweet song. Wake up, wake up you sleepy head. Get up, get up, get out of bed. Cheer up, cheer up the sun is red. Live, love, laugh and be happy.” It’s coming up for two years since my beloved Mum passed away and I hear her voice every day. And now, maybe, just maybe, she’s checking in to say hello.
My beloved mum used to put on silly voices and invent preposterous names to get on LBC radio. She especially loved Brian Hayes and I was also an avid listener to his show prior to working with him on BBC Radio 2 many years later. I could spot her a mile off. One day she started with a super-posh voice, calling herself Myrtle. “Air, hair lair Brahn. MARvellous to spick choo.” (say out loud and it’ll make sense). “Hello Margaret” sighed Brian Hayes, realising once again that he and his researchers had been duped. Brian Hayes was famed for his ascerbic wit, often brusque manner and no-nonsense attitude to some of his callers. Whenever Mum rang in, he was flummoxed and often silenced (which was when I realised it was Mum on the end of the line). She once called in to talk about how cleaners should be allowed to wear trousers rather than skirts. Her reason, I thought was a practical one and for modesty. No, Mum’s reason for the tirade was because she’d seen the Queen wearing trousers, had written to Buckingham palace to tell her to wear trousers to the next Royal occasion and was trying to start a trend. No amount of Brian trying to explain that Her Majesty always wears gowns was going to convince her. Sadly, years later I could never tell Mum that I was producing Brian’s Radio 2 show in case she turned up and caused havoc. I nearly cracked once when she mentioned him and sighed whistfully … ” I wonder where’s he ended up … I did love him so.”
This morning I was being interviewed by Ben Jackson on BBC Radio Leciester about my new book, “Granny Franny’as Big Red Bus” and it reminded me just how wonderful radio is. I didn’t put on a silly voice, but I was channeling Mum in some ways, because it was her sheer exuberance for new things that partly inspired me to do what all my friends thought was total madness – to learn how to drive a bus. With lots of my friends bemoaning the lack of new material with which to inspire their children to read and the fact that so many bus drivers have faced such difficulties throughout the COVD-19 crisis, I thought that the time was right to re-create the sense of fun and adventure of driving a bus – through the eyes of an old lady who is constantly surprising her grand children. And yes, she buys and learns how to drive an old London bus and gets herself into all sorts of scrapes trying to get back in time. Luckily the book has piqued a lot of interest and is getting some lovely reviews. Ben Jackson on BBC Leicester asked me how I’d approached writing and illustrating the book myself and after half a second to think about it I realised that I’ve done what I always do and jumped straight in and learned along the way. One of my professional artist friends remarked on how clever it was to create illustrations that look childish and rough, like a child would draw. Errr … yes, of course (splutter), that’s exactly the feeling I was going for. Nothing to do with the fact that I’ve never really drawn in my life and the pictures do look child-like because I’ve never had any artistic training. Thank goodness for my beloved husband who’s eye for detail is incredible. He helped me with perspective, authentic bus features and continuity. Without him my scene where Granny Franny rocks up to a wonky, out-of-proportion Buckingham Palace would have haunted me.
I’ll let you into a secret and if you’re reading this Jenny, I apologise. I got completely lost once while driving a party of very posh “air hair lair” wedding guests from the Guard’s Chapel in Birdcage Walk to Piccadilly Circus. You’re not allowed to drive buses in the Royal Parks without a licence and I don’t think I had one. The day was a driving nightmare as the Extinction Rebellion marches had closed Parliament Square and most roads suitable for buses. There was only one thing for it, so I took a deep breath, warned the conductor and drove past the front of Buckingham Palace and through the Park, hoping that the width restriction I saw coming up wouldn’t force me to do a U-turn. We made it and that little scene might just have inspired one of the scenes in the book which always amuses the children who’ve read it.
It’s been so lovely to be on the other side of the radio microphone for a change and even lovelier to have seen that a few grannies are now buying the book for their bus-loving grand children. I think what’s intriguing people is that a step-nanny like me realised a lifelong ambition to drive a bus, had fun doing it and is now using the whole process to help put back. Mum would have been so proud of hearing me on the radio and I know she would have jammed the switchboard trying to ring in to tell me to get more sleep.
Ding, ding, ding – Granny Franny’s Big Red Bus is available via www.grannyfrannysbigredbus.com and on Amazon.
Have you ever used the bottom of a glass as a magnifying device? Mum did. She worked out that she could spy on her carers and see what numbers they were pressing into the security locks. And then, when nobody was watching, she escaped. I still feel bad for that poor locksmith who started his day thinking he was just installing a new front door lock and ended up the victim of a furious, flame-haired harridan accusing him of burglary and kicking his shins. Mum had been in her new care home for about a month and she’d had enough. Tony and I were decorating her pretty 1-bed retirement home as she’d left it in a pretty poor state before being committed. I was out buying net curtains when I had a nervous husband whispering down the phone … “Err .. your mum’s here.” WHAT? “Yes, she’s here and has been giving the locksmith hell.” Can you imagine the pain of driving her back that evening? I tried putting myself in her position at being under lock and key in a vast care home, surrounded by strange people and came to the conclusion that I too would have done anything to escape and go home.
Now we’re all in lockdown the world around us is changing. I walk my little dog every night when it’s deathly quiet outside and the wildlife are wandering the streets freely. Last night there was five or six foxes having a foxy conference in the middle of the road, owls were hooting and the air smelled of blossom and plants. I saw two empty buses and three cars pass me throughout the half-hour I was out on my once-a-day permitted exercise trip. Our Prime Minister is in intensive care due to the Covid-19 pandemic, almost all my friends, colleagues and relatives have lost all foreseeable work and we’re all avoiding each other like the … well, actually yes … like the plague. Our homes have become our offices, our maps, our sanctuary and our prison.
Back when Mum lived a few miles away from me, she used to pop in whenever she felt the urge. No amount of begging her for a little notice ever worked. Sometimes she’d shout through the letterbox – “Ooo – ooo – Sonia”, but most of the time she just appeared. And she’d always have something for me, from a plated meal that she’d obviously ordered someone to assemble and cover in clingfilm to an expensive statue that she’d carted all the way from Selfridge’s on the bus. The other way round for the popping in thing? Forget it. Her house was like Fort Knox and she was continually having the locks changed, because she was convinced that all her neighbours were spies and out to steal everything from her. When she moved to her little retirement home (now miles away on the West Sussex coast), we agreed that her selfless neighbour Heather could have her front door key just in case she ever needed help or I wanted her to check in on her. That lasted about a week as Mum had put together a spy story where Heather was passing information to all her children who would, whenever they felt like it, appear and nick her stuff. Exasperating though that was at the time, I can understand her need for feeling secure and safe and doing what she needed to do to make herself feel empowered.
I know what Mum would have said if I’d explained the lockdown to her. “So now you know how I feel, Sonia darling. Bring toffees when you come to see me, won’t you?”