Starting a conversation with my 20-year old Self

A motherly conversation with my 20-year old Self

For the purposes of this Blog I shall refer to my twenty-year old self as 'Rosy'.   
She is a 20-year old girl/child of the 1960s in her first year at university, on the cusp of womanhood, in her own solipsistic world, thrilled by the unknown adventure that lies ahead of her and lucky to have the freedom to explore herself and the world from the secure base of a loving family home provided by her long-suffering parents.

From the perspective of her future self, which is Me, Rosie, a soon-to-be 64-year old woman who’s managed to survive the trials & errors of four decades of Life to land relatively safely on the far side, this Rosy is still an ‘innocent’, only dimly aware of the workings inside her and largely unconscious that the confident, even at times breathtakingly narcissistic person that emerges from the pages of her diary, is often a fabricated self, furiously defending herself from deep insecurities and fears,—and at this particular time from acknowledging the raw wound inflicted by her recently broken relationship from her long-time childhood sweetheart, A.

The Diary entries span the period from September 1970 to March 1971.

Home was a flat in London in Westbourne Terrace W2 with my parents and brother Simon, just returned from Sydney to start up a new life again back in England, but without Teresa our older sister who had stayed to make her life in Australia, married to Greg.

The Diary is a brown hard-backed notebook bought in Paris in May 1969 where I lived and worked as an au pair for three months with Madame L. and her two teenage daughters on the Quai Anatole France. There are only a few entries before it abruptly stops on 15^th May, and the pages are crossed through with lines and the words: ‘YECHHH!’ and ‘WHAT RUBBISH! RAH 3-9-70’, scrawled across the pages in a different ink. It’s picked up again at the beginning of September, and starts —

“All that was utter rubbish — written with the thought that A. may read it and half copied from my real diary while I was staying in Montmartre with Margot

SEPTEMBER 3^rd 1970 THURSDAY

Pretty grotty weather — God knows what will happen to us in Cornwall, we must be out of our tiny minds.  Daddy bought a Rover today and is going to sell the station wagon, damn it all. I’ll have to learn how to drive the Rover before I can pinch the car again!

I spent all day on my French essay, and except for a small bit — which I’ve already thought about — it is finally finished: ‘L’homme tragique est un être séparé que sa passion où son éxigence de pûreté entraîne hors de la realité…”

(Crikey! that’s brilliant, but you had NO idea about this, surely? What did you say in your essay? Was it all borrowed and plagiarised, was anything original?!)

I’ve just harped on about the effects a stable social & religious framework has on the minds etc. of the people in society & vice versa — from Greeks up to Romanticism thru’ classicism — Shakespeare being something apart, etc. bla bla — and bugger them if they don’t understand a word!! — In the evening Annie & Pollly came round & Pam (Pip’s girlfriend) rang so we invited her and her brother around — they came about 10.30 with some other girl — the brother was the absolute end — can’t be bothered to describe him — just an A1 pompous bore. 
(How intolerant & cruel — the poor boy was likely struggling and insecure like you, just employing a different form of protective armour)
 Pam seemed quite sweet, I’ve heard so much about her, apparently she’s been dying to meet me and is as jealous as hell because she’s convinced Pip’s in love with me & we’ve had an affair etc. — but apparently she’s like that with everyone.

God it’s late and I’ve got to be up early tomorrow. I’m really looking forward to seeing Buddha (Rosy’s ‘best friend’ at college) tomorrow, despite the “big problem—mystery” — I love being with him sometimes — at least I miss him when I’m not! — Had funny wintery feelings today — i.e. being reminded of darkness & snow — hence Harrow and A. in the old days — I was a fool and read his letters last night — It’s still a mystery to me what suddenly changed him, because right up until that first weekend where it all blew up he was saying things like —“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me — I’m so afraid of losing you”, etc etc. It really is a mystery — My God how I’ve changed in the past two years! (oh, yeah?????)  Schlaf’ gut!

THURSDAY SEPT 11^th

Well — had a marvellous time in Cornwall as it turned out — On Friday morning, when B. was supposed to be picking me up, Mrs H. rang & said he had a frightful cold & could I come by train — fair enough — but I had ‘borrowed’ the station wagon to go to the doctors early that morning & Daddy discovered this (2^nd time this week!) & was FURIOUS — and refused to give me a penny for the holiday! — so in desperation I increased my overdraft successfully by £6/18/- and in a mad rush packed my one extra jumper, nightie, toothbrush & that’s all, and dashed off by tube to Waterloo & just caught the Lymington train — great journey — reading Mutter Courage & relaxing & got there by about 7.00 — B. picked me up & we went back & had a sit down lunch with Mrs H. & a friend of theirs. — William P-W & Sally H. arrived at about 3.30 & we eventually set off by about 4.30 — B. drove all the way — at 10.30 we stopped to have a drink in a super pub in Exeter & then camped in a mad field — at such strange angles that we were slipping downwards & sidewards on top of eachother all night — I hardly slept a wink! (we had picked up the tent from Nicholas P. on the way & had a beer in his super-modern house).

We rose at about 6.30 next morning — stopped a little later to have eggs & bacon in a little place & eventually got to Rock where we bumped quite by accident into Anthony (W’s cousin) & Sally’s sister Jane, and they took us to the campsite where half the people who were at the house party were (the P-W’s home on the Isle of Wight where B. & I had stayed for the 1970 IoW Festival a few weeks before) — Richard (Dick), blond, TR4 sports car — Peter & Jeannie (engaged) & Jonnie & Jane (Beach Buggie & skiing boat) — camped in farmer’s field — practically the sole inhabitants!  We stayed three nights & four days — very changeable weather but mostly wet & windy — everybody would meet at the hotel pub on the harbour for lunch & again in the evening, and spend the day surfing in wet suits — I used a ‘belly board’ once or twice. Really can’t describe what we did — just hung around like this enjoying ourselves  
(did you really? I remember you feeling grim and lonely amongst all these strangers, cold & alienated & unhappy)
 — that boy Richard apparently took a fancy to me & I realised it early on but he had the impression B. & I were thick as thieves & didn’t want to break up a beautiful relationship! — but though he appeared at first to be a rich, pot-smoking dropout, one day while the others were surfing I dragged him in to have a swim (it was freezing!) & afterwards we sat in his car listening to his stereo-cassette — having a nip of whisky (!) & talking & he was terribly interesting — he really & truly intrigued me & I would love to know more.

FRIDAY 12^th SEPTEMBER

— his name s Richard — Dickie — don’t know his surname — shortish, blond, watery blue eyes — longish hair — rather weak face — but well dressed — obviously on drugs but probably new to it (what would you know, Duckie?!) — perhaps it was booze, but he looked pretty far gone half the time — but when I was talking to him in the car with the whisky and the stereo — just a few things he said struck me and really stirred something up — I think of him even now, will probably never meet him again & if I do it will all seem different  
(how untrue this rings  — I think you were still writing with a view to A. reading this diary one day and wanting to make him jealous, you made all this up.)

— Will I ever meet someone to fall completely in love with?

B. — I always miss him terribly when he’s not around — I miss him now and want to write to him or phone him — but won’t. I talked to him while lying in our tent about what’s been worrying me about him — he talks quite freely about the boy he was in love with at Rugby & homosexuality — He thinks he is quite over it now but it is just that with girls he is so inexperienced & ignorant that it makes him terribly shy & embarrassed — it is pure inexperience — It’s not exactly fun dealing with an inexperienced boy — apart from the thrill of discovery that you can give him I suppose — especially one who just won’t let himself go completely as one has to — & it seems so wrong somehow & made me feel like “Miss Pringle, Tutor in Sex — for the woman to be teaching the man (I wonder if homosexuality can sometimes be a refuge from terror of women?) — B. — I do love you in a way — how I wish you’d go one step further and really open your soul to me.  He’s confided some very personal things to me — but what I want is for him to be completely honest with me — if he could just once look at me fair & square in the eyes — seriously & sincerely & for a long time — just looking into my soul & forgetting about himself — then & only then will I really feel this thin barrier between us has been broken.

Tonight Annie & I went & saw Easy Rider — M & D warned me against it but I thought it was fabulous — I can say nothing more than it was  a real experience — that meant something to me and I’m glad to have seen it — because it has & will help to get rid of silly & meaningless little prejudices that are built up inside me and I want to get rid of them because I don’t believe in them.

Otherwise today was an utter flop — I slept & lazed around and did NO work & have got so much to do for those retched exams — & on the whole German literature is not my cup of tea — at least, except for people like Kafka — Dürrenmatt — Böll — but the thought of having t plough through Grillparzer, Goethe, Tieck & that Romantic Novelle co. (I thought you loved the Romantic Novellen!) is quite an upset to the metabolism

Dear God

SUNDAY 12^TH SEPTEMBER 1970

That last bit wasn’t a despairing exclamation but a sudden burst of affection!

Have just read through B.’s letters and laughed myself to pieces — dear I love that boy. I rang him tonight on impulse. He’s coming up to London tomorrow to look for a flat & said he’d come to see me tomorrow or on Tuesday.

Re. Cornwall. On Saturday night, our first night there, we all went to our separate tents — & B. gave me a kiss & snörgle goodnight them rolled over and slept —Now I had been really excited earlier that day when we came back from surfing earlier than the others & decided to have a short rest — he had kissed me then like he’d never done before — gone was the cuddly teddy bear bit & I really thought this was it — so that night when he again showed o interest I couldn’t stop thinking about it and tossed and turned & literally didn’t sleep a wink all night — the only other time I can remember having such a night was that night with A. in the downstairs room at New College – AWFUL —But somehow — I don’t now how — on Sunday night, it was al different.  I don’t know how the conversation started — but he just said something about how he is really shy & embarrassed with girls because he’s had no experience & that gave me the opening to say how worried I’d been wondering whether he still felt attraction for men rather than women — he told me a little more about his “affair” at school with some guy called Mike — God I’d love to meet him! — Bruce said that when he first met me he never in his wildest dreams thought he’d ever even hold my hand. — It’s so strange having such a young and inexperienced boy after so many years (hmmmm.. who are you trying to impress?) of much older and very experienced ones (oh, yeah?) — and yet despite that obvious difference between us there is something deeper that is no different. / We decided to drive back on Tuesday as it was so wet & windy. That last night we did make love — but briefly, tentatively, as only B. could his second time — and then we slept. I was on a camp bed and slept brilliantly — but poor B. had a dreadful night & eventually woke me up to ask me if he could share the camp bed — he was in a pool of rainwater! We arrived in Lymington late on Tuesday night & Mrs. H. had the beds all ready for us — sweet of her.

Next day B. drove me back to London and after briefly dropping in home to leave my things & say hello — we upped & offed again to see his friend J. in Beaconsfield.

(…to be continued.)

A sad day for Musbury

We heard today that my mother's great friend from Musbury, Jeni de Meester, has died.
They first met at Queenswood when my mother went to work at her old school immediately after the war, and Jeni was a new girl being cared for in the sanatorium by the young assistant matron, Pat Dench.
When Pat and Peter first came to Musbury, Jeni and Flores were the first neighbours to come round to Laurel Cottage to welcome them. Chris and I had at least three engagement parties at their home South Cross, or so Jeni used to claim, and it would always be Jeni who remembered our wedding anniversary. She and my mother would sing, "Sisters, sisters, never were there such devoted sisters", linking arms and high-kicking at parties. They were both hopeless romantics
When Flores died so shockingly suddenly, in his early fifties, the ground fell from beneath her feet.  But later when she and John Waters found each other in their respective widowhood, it was like a love-companionship made in heaven
My Welsh great aunt Rya used to say to me, "I had several offers after Arthur died, but I would never marry again....what will I do when I get to heaven and two men come towards me, arms outstretched?"
My belief is that we all reunite in a single heavenly embrace when we get there
Our family seemed to have a psychic connection with Jeni, she adored my grandmother Molly who had a strongly psychic mind. Jeni's father was a Canon in the Church of England and she was a deeply spiritual person though not necessarily in an 'organised' way. In fact, nothing about Jeni was organised. She was very loving, a true eccentric. "Love" was the word she used most.  She loved Flores, she loved her two sons, she loved John, and I know she loved all of us
It makes me weep to think that all that is gone from the world
I have already wept for all that has gone from Musbury over recent years with the passing of so many good friend — Flores, my mother, Ray Thompson, Pamela Thompson, Pat Sant, and most recently Margaret Hargreaves — to name only a few
I sometimes feel the best party is happening 'over there', and am even quite looking forward to the day I get my invitation (although I hope not for some time yet....)

I have a little prayer card on my desk in front me. It is next to a picture of my mother and gives me strength and happiness, because I know this is what she would want to say to me:

John with Chris outside The Old Bakery in Musbury on New Year's Day 2010, and the letter he gave to us to post

Photos - thinking of Simon on his birthday

Second posting, a message for my Dench cousins

I've been dipping into my Grandmother Molly Dench's diary. It is a key to our family history, although I find it is full of riddles which I sometimes try to figure out by following through successive entries in a particular year. For example, I was recently looking at entries for 1946 to discover more about my mother Patty's "nervous breakdown" (as they euphemistically called it), when she jumped overboard from the steamship bringing her and her older sister Gilly back from Dublin, where they had gone to get her 'trousseau' for her forthcoming wedding to my father, Peter
There's an entry on July 23rd which simply says: "Patty's second chance - S.S. Hibernia"
and two days later: "London to Northampton (St Andrew's Hospital)"
I wept when I read this
But thanks to the internet, one is able to start to build a picture from what is hidden between the lines, and what was kept from our knowledge as children by our parents, the 'secretive generation' who thought they were protecting us, but actually (and more likely) were protecting themselves.
I found a picture postcard of the SS Hibernia and also looked up St. Andrew's Hospital in Northampton, which is now part of a leading mental health consortium in the UK.  Our great aunt Cally (née Dench) - my grandfather's artist sister whom I never met - lived in Northampton and my father Peter would go down from Oxford where he was doing his post-war degree in 1946 and stay with Cally at weekends so that he could visit Pat during the period of her confinement and treatment there. They had to cancel their original wedding date in August that year because of her breakdown. I came across a copy of the wedding invitation not so long ago among my father's papers
I've been partly motivated to start this blog because Facebook is beyond me, in fact I can't stand it. It's like being on a crowded beach with lots of noisy holiday-makers shouting nonsense at each other.  I suppose it's good to be able to track down lost friends and keep in touch, but I would delete myself from it if I knew how. I don't like the way friendships are becoming public affairs (and no longer private) these days and think it is fatally undermining the very essence of friendship
This Blog is not being forced on any captive audience.  I can talk to it, as I do in my diary or  notebooks, and if my occasional musings and stories reach one other person out there who wants to hear them (most likely a friend or relative, as I know no stranger will want to read it), then that's enough for me

Our grandfather William George (Will) Dench at Trinity College Dublin c.1905

Our great-great-grandmother, Will Dench's paternal Grandmother (hence Peter, Jeffery & Judi's Grandmother) c. 1900

Our grandmother Molly Huggard-Dench c. 1899

The Huggard family gathered on the shore of a Co. Kerry lake in Ireland c. 1899
My grandmother Molly aged 4 (centre), with her mother Joan Martin (who had 16 brothers and sisters), Grandmother Huggard & Great Aunt Izzie Huggard. Her father (centre standing) was John Turner Huggard, and she had 5 brothers: (to be Sir) Walter Clarence, William,  Harold (Hal), John Turner and Billy who died in childhood

Starting my new Blog

It's Saturday 24th September 2011, and I am starting a Blog at my husband Chris's insistence
We talk everyday with each other about the ways of world, God, the Meaning of Life, human experience and Truth, without ever reaching definitive answers of course, and wonder if others are having similar conversations
Two hours of my day are spent in reading and studying, and about an hour walking across fields in the open countryside.  This is when I commune with nature, with the trees and the insects, and my clearest thinking happens. This Blog will be my means of sharing my thoughts and questions to myself with others who may be asking themselves similar questions, and happen to stumble across it
I don't know yet what it will become, or what its main purpose will be, because there are other things I'll want to talk about from time to time, such as my film project for nuclear disarmament (www.talkworks.info) which I do in association with Anne Piper and Andy Russell of Different-Films.com
This is what TalkWorks is:
We make short films for the internet of influential people explaining why they are backing a radical step-by-step programme of global nuclear disarmament, leading to zero.  Security experts and policymakers from across the political spectrum have become newly alarmed in recent years at the dangerous crisis ('Nuclear Tipping Point') the world has reached with tens of thousands of nuclear weapons left over as a legacy of the Cold War, and the uncontrolled spread of nuclear materials and technology into 'unsafe' hands and to very unstable parts of the world.
We want ordinary people to know about this, and to join in the call to get rid of nuclear weapons once and for all because, as one of our contributors Sir Jeremy Greenstock says in his recent interview for TalkWorks, political leaders cannot do it on their own: they need strong public demand behind them in order to drive such a complex international policy as nuclear disarmamenent through.
I've worked on nuclear disarmament and the non-violent conflict resolution for the past 30 years, ever since I left teaching and joined the Oxford Research Group in 1982. It is my singular passion for the 21st century that the monstrous invention that has cast its terrifying shadow over the second half of the 20th be dismantled and outlawed, and the enormous scientific and financial resources that are expended in feeding the monster be turned instead towards creating and applying constructive new technologies that can help to save the planet.
At the same time, of course, human awareness (or lack of it) and the thinking patterns that created the nuclear problem, and the other man-made messes we've landed ourselves in, have to change fundamentally. 'Consciousness changing' is what my mentor and former colleague at Oxford Research Group Scilla Elworthy works on now, with her fellow global peacebuilders and consciousness raisers, Nelson Mandela, Desmond Tutu and their fellow Elders, an initiative Scilla helped Richard Branson and Peter Gabriel to set up.
For the moment, I am simply aiming with TalkWorks to raise awareness about the nuclear threat, so that the commitment made by President Obama in his Prague Speech in April 2009 to work with other nuclear nations, by a series of concrete steps, towards a nuclear weapon-free world in the 21st century has a chance of being fulfilled

It would have been my brother Simon's 59th birthday today, and it is also the anniversary of our mother Pat's death in 1999. They are the inspiration for everything I do — at least that is what I'm feeling as I start this blog on Saturday 24th September 2011

Simon Truman Houldsworth, violinist
b. 24th September 1952  d. 4th July 2001

My mother Pat Joan Dench-Houldsworth, artist
on the terrace at Burnaston Cottage c. 1995

in her studio at Bourne Street, London SW1 c. 1993

Woodcut expressing the struggle of living, which proved too much for Simon

— and (below) Simon and Irene with our youngest nephew Sebastian aged 9
meeting our middle nephew Dominic at Heathrow airport for Christmas 1999