Elizabeth

Amid my sortings and rummagings I finally found this photo of Elizabeth Bennett. It was taken by Neil Selwood in the reception room of the Concordia Hair Studio (Salon? - Help - Lori H!), Oxford, circa 1980. Hero (then Bennett) and I were mis-spending our yoof at Oxford Poly and Elizabeth came to spend a weekend with me in my shared student house. Somewhere I have a photo of Neil taking this photo. I hope I can find it.

I can't say all I there is to say about the amazing E.B. here but I would like to say, with thanks, that as ersatz mother to a rather lost, confused, but dead cheeky 15-year-old, she taught me a lot, not by word, but by deed and example.

To this day, her teaching is still working in me and again and again I have "Ah Ha - Elizabeth!" moments which help, guide and often amuse as I remember her sharp wit - not always easy to take, but often hilarious. And, oh boy, was she the mistress of the fine art of flirting? Something I definitely picked up from her, except I could do with more of her finesse and less of the cheeky, in-yer-face, laugh-a-minute approach.

It is most likely thanks to her that I discovered my passion for knitting, crochet and all things fabricated from warp and weft. Elizabeth never showed me how to knit, nor did I ask. In those days I was more interested in trying to persuade her to allow me to go to just one more party, pleeeeeeeeeeze!

Elizabeth knitted (knat) at every opportunity, during meetings, in the car waiting for us to come out of school, in doctors' and dentists' waiting rooms (I don't know about the latter for sure, but it wouldn't surprise me). She just clicked away, producing colourful sweaters for her children and grandchildren. Oh, she spun, too. I almost forgot. She spun (spinned? span?) the gorgeous wool from the Jacobs Sheep which were kept at Sherborne and at some point experimented with spinning dog hair. I have vague memories of her critically studying the abundant heads of hair of some of the students who, in their turn, looked rather nervously back at her.

As many of you know, she suffered from painful arthritis in her fingers but it didn't stop her. She even created a beautiful tapestry runner for the small stairs in her cottage. One Day, maybe One Day I will manage such a feat.

Now I find it so strange to think that we never exchanged a word about this shared passion. We both rated Kaffe Fassett, though, so there was a meeting of the ways somewhere in between.

It was never easy to tell Elizabeth that I loved her, because, as you all know, she was not demonstrative in her affections. It didn't mean that they weren't there, though. One of the few times I dared was after I learned, from Hero I think, that she was dying of cancer and I wrote to her, feeling the need to make sure she knew.

I've typed out her reply. I wanted to scan and post it in her distinctive script but I had a niggling feeling of discomfort about posting her handwriting here. Strangely enough, my scanner suddenly stopped working! Ah Ha! Elizabeth!

I suggest that, as you read, you let go of any association of this letter  being directed solely to me, “A.C.”, but read as if she were addressing you.  I hope you can be receptive to whatever she wants to say to you. I have just realised now, as I start to type her words, what she wanted to tell me, and my answer to her is:

 “YES! – Thank you!”

Here's the letter:

                                                                                                       

 Cley Cottage,

                                                                                                          17th April, 1991

Dear, dear Anne-Claire,

            Thank you for your letter. I really appreciated it, knowing that it can't have been an easy one to write. I am so glad you wrote as you did, as it is possible that we may not have a chance to talk.

            Our relationship could never be an easy one - you, left with no parents, & inaccessible brothers, me, terrified of saying or doing the wrong thing, of hurting or offending you in some way, of fussing too much of too little. But we have come through all that now. I think we have been held together because I loved you and you (could you really?) loved me, and though you certainly gave me some bad moments during your growing up and “teething troubles”, I had faith (& so did J.G.B) in your intelligence and common sense. Now it is a real happiness to see you settled in to the familiar rôle of wife & mother, which is, after all, the most satisfying of all rôles.                                                                                        

             I don’t know how much you have been told, or how much you have guessed, about my present situation. The plain truth is that I am riddled with cancer, spreading from the liver and there is no cure. I could live for weeks, months or even a few years – no one can tell. I have two good doctors, one feeble one, and a “healer”. Also an osteopath ….. So I can’t complain of lack of care.

            I have mercifully little pain , and “pain-killers” always available: I am happy and contented to take what comes, & I have no fears for the future. So all is well, and you have no need to worry about me, or be sad. You and the other children are a strong support: it is good to know that you are all settled in life. I like to think of you and Heiner & your children – I was just going to write “& your boys”, but we still don’t know, do we. Don’t ever, now or when I am gone, have remorse & doubts and regrets about our relationship. I love you dearly, and tend to forget that you are not my child!

            By the way, the state of my health is not generally known, so please do not broadcast it. I will let you know how things go on, but I don’t expect any spectacular change for a while yet.

            I go, your child comes: it is so interesting to see the old generation giving way to the new! Send me news of the new arrival as soon as you can. I have always admired the way you have faced up to your not-always-easy life.

(Ed: I was allowed to scan and post her signature).

One very last word or two: (I always have to have The Last Word): While typing out this letter, I realised why Now, for me, at least – Duuuuuuuuuuh! Slap me gently in the face with a shammy leather! – misquoting Stephen Fry who I’m sure Elizabeth would have enjoyed.