The two Dorothys

One day in 1959 a young mother, left alone in England with her children while her husband was helping test H-bombs in the South Pacific, picked up a book on a railway station bookstall somewhere in Norfolk.

My mother Dorothy was never a great reader, certainly not a fan of profound texts. She liked “true stories” of nurses or medical pioneers, having been an SRN in the Midlands before her marriage. So why she was initially drawn to this particular book I'll never know, since she died in 1988. Perhaps the cover notes were particularly persuasive:

"Whither is fled the visionary gleam?

Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

That lost poetry of childhood which Wordsworth laments is recaptured in Dorothea Rutherford's book. Through the eyes of the little girl Liesbeth, the author shows that it need not be true that “the things which I have seen I now can see no more”.

This is the autobiographical story of an enchanting child on the threshold of life. The time is the turn of the century, the place Reval, the chief city of Estonia, where the author was born and brought up. In this setting we relive the early years of a little girl, with her day-to-day joys and tragedies, big and small. Immune from sentimentality, The Threshold displays an astonishing intensity of memory and an exquisite delicacy of selection – glory in a snowflake or a sunbeam, terror in a shadow or a sound, eternity enfolded in the vivid, passing moment."

So she bought it, and began a love affair with it that has lasted ever since. What was this influential text? Only my favourite book.

Why did this book appeal to her? What follows is only an educated guess, piecing together my own childhood memories, and conversations I had with her in later years.

In about 1950 my father, being in the RAF, was sent to Hamburg in northern Germany, as part of that country's post-war recovery. For my mother, with two very small children, this was probably the most interesting, even exciting, time of her young life - a service wife with a large house, a gardener, and an exotic German nanny for Susan and Christopher. They would attend Kindergarten, freeing Dorothy's time to indulge herself. There were holidays at Scharbeutz on the Baltic coast, staying in the impressive Kurhaus. I have a postcard in front of me now, reminding me of the wonderfully deep, soft, Ostsee sand, the curious basket-work beach shelters - a cross between an arbour seat and a beach hut. Below is the card Dorothy sent to my grandmother in Tamworth, noting that this particular stretch of beach was "for allied personnel only - see the flag flying" atop the hotel.

My mother's postcard

Another view of the Kurhaus from the air

And I am also reminded of the sadness of the German 'episode', when my grandfather died and, for whatever reason, Dorothy couldn't travel home for his funeral - a hurt that became a deep resentment towards my father that she carried all her life.

But she also carried with her The Threshold and allowed me to read and reread it, till now it belongs to me. And I feel I'm the only one who really appreciates its magic (that is, of course, until I discovered Christine!) When I read the book now it seems the memories of the two Dorothys overlap, and as I was growing up they also merged with my own experiences of childhood and death.

Christine tried tracking copies around the world that were for sale, and found only forty or fifty. I think there is an excellent reason for this apparent scarcity - all those who already own this volume treasure it too much to ever bear parting with it whilst they are still living. In 2012 our online discussion brought another Christopher into the story - not my "little" brother, but Dorothea's grandson... The Threshold binds us all together, and the whole world should read it.

Ah, look! Spring is here!

They battled through roller-coaster temperatures and a thick blanket of snow. But now they're here!

Some more family history for the benefit of my children

Two of my step-daughters, both middle-aged, have not spoken to each other for several years. The cause of the rift was a misunderstanding over someone's Christmas present. There are 2 miles and an abyss of self-indulgent misery between them.

The broken family is not a new phenomenon, of course. My mother was not my father's first wife, and I was not his first child: in South Africa I have a seventy year old sister. This is not recent or surprising news since I was told about her when quite young. But for years she was just a never-ageing child in a photograph, and she had no significance in my life.

Following my father's death in 1995 she visited this country and met our brother. Why didn't I go to meet her as well? I can't remember now – she was still this kind of “invented” person to me, I suppose – someone who'd had no influence on me, and for whom I had no curiosity, let alone sisterly feelings. Nevertheless my brother saw to it that addresses were exchanged, and every Christmas since then we have sent each other seasonal greetings. This Christmas she added a phone number and an email address. Why? Perhaps it was because she had reached the landmark age of 70, and had wanted to reach out to me one more time. I emailed her an image of my family at a recent wedding. She responded with a fictitious “newspaper” concocted for her by her husband to mark that landmark birthday.

So now I know more about this sister – her schooldays, her marriage, her interests – but not the real woman. I will no doubt exchange more messages and information. But I'm not sure that I'll ever be moved to physically mend this particular break in our family – and there have been many other breaks. I feel separated from her existence by more than miles. And perhaps I am a little afraid that, if we finally met face to face and did not take to each other, we would both experience just another emotional wound from our absent and absentee father.

Fish out of water?

The pool in which I swim is small, but the water is not so cold that I'm unable to bask a little. I admit that, after signing off on By Metes & Boundes at the end of 2010, I was feeling a little washed up. But I'm happy to report that the years spent researching it are beginning to pay off, albeit not financially! Last December Edward Martin, archaeological officer for Suffolk County Council, came to the neighbouring village of Wetherden to talk about Haughley Castle, whose site is currently being cleared and historically re-assessed. I felt my face redden slightly when one of the slides in his illustrated talk turned out to be the plan of that site in 1554 that I'd constructed for By Metes & Boundes, properly cited and analysed for the benefit of the audience!

Haughley 1554

I've also begun to be invited to give talks to local history groups – three so far, and two booked – on my work about Tudor Haughley. Uploading the text of By Metes & Boundes onto an academic website has resulted in dozens of Google hits from around the world by Early Modern historians. Unfortunately, having come out of the historical closet, however parochial, means I get asked to involve myself in a variety of projects on which I'm unqualified to speak. People now try to flatter me into saying yes to their demands, but I must try and regain some of my former control. Thrashing about in all directions will only splash the water out of my comfy pool, and I could end up floundering in the shallows! This increased activity resulted in my life becoming a bit more fragmented than usual, hence the large hiatus in my blog posts.

A Family Reunion

As self-appointed family historian I was recently invited to a reunion of descendents of my great aunt Ethel. With all my other history-based commitments the Shorthouses have had to take a back seat just lately. The weekend turned out to be hectic with much travelling across London, followed by a gathering of enthusiastic cousins. Old hatchets were miraculously buried, skeletons rattled, promises made and information pored over and circulated.

So there I was during the preceding week, on hands and knees, rummaging through two very full boxes of documents and photographs, in search of suitable material to take with me on the train to Southampton. Not surprisingly I discovered a few “projects” I'd begun and not completed – they'll wait for another time – and the following “self-portrait”. Since I've teased many sensitive stories out of near strangers over the past dozen years, I thought my children might appreciate reading a little family history of their own.

This is the earliest photo of me of which I know. I can only assume it was taken after my parents, Dorothy and Eric, were married on 23^rd December 1948. My birth certificate gives the day I was born as 11^th June 1948. Considering I look about six months old in the studio portrait, this would seem about right. The “guilty secret” was at last being officially acknowledged!

In the 1940s my birth would have been called “illegitimate”. I was never told about it, and only worked it out after my mother died and I gained access to her divorce papers which, of course, contained interesting facts like the date of her marriage to my father. What was my mother more ashamed of – me, or her delayed wedding? I don't know as my parents never gave me a hint. Another assumption I have had to make is that my father was awaiting a divorce from his first wife, who was living in South Africa with their child, June: that may have been the reason that I was kept a secret for a while. Following my birth in Scarborough, whilst my parents were living under the condescension of my paternal grandmother Elizabeth, the new family retreated to an old house called “Top th'hill” at Blackshaw Head, out in the wild landscape between Yorkshire and Lancashire close to Hebden Bridge.

My parents never ever celebrated their wedding anniversaries as that would have given the game away! For an inquisitive child I was remarkably dumb about this fact. I only once asked my mother about her wedding. She told me it had been at a Register Office and that she had worn a suit rather than a white dress. I also remember her telling me about an incident in a Dorset cottage when a domestic fire flared into a chimney blaze, due to petrol having been thrown on it. I had always believed this took place on her honeymoon, but on reflection it does not tally with events – she probably never had a honeymoon, not with a sixth month old baby in tow! Perhaps Dorset was the site of my conception...

I was a product of post-war English morality and hypocrisy. Lovers' plans have always, and continue to be, thwarted. Nowadays, though, few people go to such lengths to disguise the simple facts of nature from their children. Through their denial of reality my parents deprived me of the opportunity to empathise with them. More importantly, my mother missed a chance to deepen our relationship at a time when I desperately needed it: in late 1969 I became pregnant with my first child by the man who would later become my first husband. Though my son was very much a desired baby, my marriage turned out to be no better than my parents' in that it offered my wider family a spurious respectability that was utterly dishonest: it, too, faltered and collapsed as their's did, leaving unhappy children in its wake.

The lesson I eventually learned was not to do what others expect, or even demand, of you but only what feels right for you and those you love. Do not deny your history. Be open and brave enough to defend your principles in the face of sneers and contempt. But I'll never be sure if I could have risen to the challenge, only that my mother missed giving me that chance.

Count your blessings while you can

This week I have been almost ashamed to be English as news of the recent looting and criminal damage has spread across the world's media. Then I remind myself that most of us are decent, hard-working and mindful of the feelings of others. Yet none of us should forget the lessons of history – that anarchy creates a vacuum, and that extremism often fills that void.

Intoxicated by their exploits, looters admit they are not poor and justify their actions by asking what fool would turn their nose up at the chance of “new stuff”. They say they loot because they simply can. These excuses remind me of the bankers, MPs and News Corp journalists as they tried to dig themselves out of their various holes – they knew how to profit, so they did. This, I think, is sufficient proof that criminality exists over the whole of society – indeed, being poor has never been a reason to be a thief. What an insult! Thieves generally have more than they need, or steal to feed expensive addictions.

Apologists cite isolation, disconnection and marginalisation for the looting – rubbish! They might be valid causes if perpetrators lived somewhere that quite literally had no jobs or shops or public transport – or free education, libraries, health care and refuse collection, or access to social security and other financial benefits – or even just clean water and crops that will grow! Why don't they think of this before they truant from school or take sick-leave for no good reason?

Some of us no longer seem to understand the meaning of simple words like shame, need, merit, empathy or sympathy. You don't have to be religious (but if it works for you, fine) to look into your own heart and make sure you have not prepared a seedbed for negativity. Above all, parents, don't nurture attitudes that allow your children to assume that everything they see can be theirs – unless you also emphasise that nothing worth having is ever achieved without effort or hard work. Respect has to be earned, not bullied out of people by sheer force of numbers. Rights are wonderful, but are worthless without responsibilities. Much of the language I've heard recently – from adults and children alike – has been the posturing of the school playground. When someone has raised a family, nursed a sick relative, fought a real war, given something up in order to help another, only then will they have earned respect, not because they ganged up and threatened someone vulnerable “behind the bike shed”.

I know my sentiments are not new or revolutionary. But I feel they need recording. And if more people in our very fortunate society spoke out then our country would not now be staring into a terrifying abyss.

The Good Samaritans

I am intrigued and moved by the image currently being used in Samaritans' publicity.

It reminds me of something I was compelled to create during my troubled teens at boarding school in the depths of Norfolk.

Many years later I was equally compelled to reach out to The Samaritans myself. I was given a calm and sensible ear in the middle of a horrendous night. I was encouraged to recognise and appreciate my personal strengths, though I hesitated to put that advice into action for quite a while. It was a rough ride at times, but I think I got there in the end.