It is always intriguing to come across architectural curiosities like these; somehow miniature, encapsulated in themselves and far more quirkily decorative than their ordinary, urban surroundings. It could be a commercial building, such as the little inn on Cross Street in Manchester City Centre, towered over, in its narrow niche between them, by far grander buildings. Or it could be Victorian or Edwardian almshouses, which are always fascinating to find in the midst of every day terraces and streets. Like parks and drinking fountains, they were gifts to the indigent workforce from wealthy individuals who had benefited from their labour. There are never very many of them, perhaps a group of six or so small, bespoke dwellings, no doubt for the very deserving poor who had somehow, against all the local odds, managed to reach old age. Or then again, it could be a stand alone religious settlement, such as Fairfield, built by and for Moravians who, like the Amish, did not partake of modernity until their last sticklers had to sell to people who did drive cars. Even in the nineties, when I first saw it on a fund raising Victorian Day they were holding, there were no vehicles allowed on its cobbles and those old ladies not in fancy dress for the occasion, did still wear the long frocks traditional in their small society.
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.