Returning from Morocco
Here is a picture of my mother Bernardine, my sister Esther, and me. We had just returned from living in Morocco for two years. Even though we were ‘home’ everything was hard to fathom. We are standing in Trafalgar Square doing an uncharacteristically touristy thing which was buying a little bag of corn to feed the multitude of pigeons, and getting a photo from one the roaming photographers who made their living doing this. There are so many clues in this picture about each of our expectations of our life back in England. My beautiful mother aged around 27, is still covering her hair in the custom she had adopted from living in a Muslim country. I remember that flower print dress in tones of brown and yellow - she didn't own a lot of clothes - and how she wore it with knee high boots, a look I also favour. Esther was always drawn to an outfit that reflected composure and the garb of a traditionally precious daughter. She is wearing her little rabbit fur coat, and I know she would have been wearing her black patent Mary Janes. As for me, I have my neckerchief to denote my interest in boyish activities. My heroes were horse wranglers and falcon tamers. I wore an enormous pair of leather gloves, hoping people would think I had an affinity with these wild birds that were so discriminating about who they would allow to feed them. We had returned from a peripatetic life in Morocco to another one in East Sussex, where we moved house 11 times in two years. I always shared a room - sometimes even a bed with Esther. Age 9, I was two years older, independent and fiercely dedicated to modelling myself in the ways of the Spartans of Ancient Greece who I was learning about at school. It was quite a lonely positioning: being strong, needless and wantless, living according to my self imposed endurance tests. At night when we got into bed I dropped my warrior
stance and asked Esther to tell me a story. Every night she would relate the next instalment of whatever tale it was that she was spinning. Her stories were captivating; they soothed and enthralled me. They allowed me to drop my guard. Over time I began to confide my thoughts, and Esther kept them in a vault. I discovered years later that she never divulged, no matter how worrying my confidences were. Her loyalty was hardwired. And we have remained bound together through this trust. Sometimes when I tell her about my concerns I feel as though I am rolling a boulder down off a mountain top towards her world of order. She is never phased. Sometimes I answer my own questions about my dilemma, but the solace and relief comes from being able to tell her.
stance and asked Esther to tell me a story. Every night she would relate the next instalment of whatever tale it was that she was spinning. Her stories were captivating; they soothed and enthralled me. They allowed me to drop my guard. Over time I began to confide my thoughts, and Esther kept them in a vault. I discovered years later that she never divulged, no matter how worrying my confidences were. Her loyalty was hardwired. And we have remained bound together through this trust. Sometimes when I tell her about my concerns I feel as though I am rolling a boulder down off a mountain top towards her world of order. She is never phased. Sometimes I answer my own questions about my dilemma, but the solace and relief comes from being able to tell her.
