Writings

21. May, 2022

Gentleman Jack

By series two, Anne Lister has stopped most of her knowing looks at camera, as her energy is taken up by dashing away with a smoothing iron over all financial and personal obstacles, at high speed. And then there are the eyebrows - which, while based on the existing portrait of Anne, are surely becoming, like Dennis Healey’s, a notable entity in themselves?

It is a bravura and breathless performance by Suranne Jones, and the relationships are full of vigour, romance, and highly entertaining clashes with Anne Walker’s domineering relatives. I recently watched an interview with the series writer, Sally Wainright. Like her, I am from Halifax and often visited Shibden Hall as a child without learning anything at all about Anne Lister at the time, which nowadays, seems astonishing. There is one thing, although I recognise so many of the locations with great pleasure, of course, which surprises me. It never seems to rain! Now, this is West Yorkshire, famous for its woollen mills precisely because of our damp conditions. Tourists beware. Your views often come with grey rain, drizzle or cloud, but, gloriously, not always. I will continue to watch and be amazed by how daring, if selfishly independent, Anne Lister was, in the face of the conventions of the day.

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Two teddies are now

Both in my keeping,

Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.

When new, Bruin was purple, larger,

With a deep growl.

My brother's.

Teddy was smaller, fawn,

Mine.

He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall 

And a sink bath.

I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.

I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple

And  my own ted  must never know of that.

I was the oldest but the girl.

Perhaps that played into who got which bear.

Bruin is no longer purple,

Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,

At home and in his flat.

For a few years now, both have looked down from

The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.

They leaned together, slightly forward,

As if wanting to come down.

I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.

Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small

bald patches.

It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.

I felt I had let them down, the two teds, 

Neglected while cherished still.

I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet

Of the single bed below,

Where they seem more contented, two old men together.

Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.