CHRISTINE COPE
White VELVET BOXES Treasured moments of a lifetime, kept safe in the velvet boxes of the mind
White VELVET BOXES
CHRISTINE COPE
White VELVET BOXES
MEMOIRS Cirencester
Published by Memoirs
Memoirs Books 25 Market Place, Cirencester, Gloucestershire, GL7 2NX info@memoirsbooks.co.uk www.memoirspublishing.com
Copyright ŠChristine Cope, March 2012 First published in England, March 2012 Book jacket design Ray Lipscombe
ISBN 978-1-909020-10-8
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of Memoirs.
Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure that the information in this book was correct when going to press, we do not assume and hereby disclaim any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause. The views expressed in this book are purely the author’s.
Printed in England
Contents The white velvet boxes
Page 1
Family
Page 4
A special moment
Page 6
The seaside
Page 7
A secret place
Page 13
Trouble boxes
Page 17
Who am I?
Page 24
The tramp
Page 28
Mum and Dad
Page 30
Home and garden
Page 32
Friendship
Page 38
Barnie, my border collie
Page 43
Causes for courses
Page 46
Buddies and beliefs
Page 52
A stroke of luck
Page 58
Ship in a bottle
Page 68
Sea spirit
Page 71
Waves
Page 73
New ways
Page 74
A little thought
Page 76
Introduction There is so much in life at the moment, so many magic, treasured memories that I want to unfold. They may be insignificant to you, but I want to express the knowledge, reason and experiences life has delivered to me. Some may find it childlike, as l embrace what life has thrown at me. Some of my experiences may be what you too have been through or dreamed of in your life. Family and friends may tell you of their own wonders and lessons of living. I hope you will take away some of the inspirations and knowledge I am going to pass on from my life’s experiences. Life is ever changing. Nothing stays the same. Seasons come and go, there are births and celebrations, deaths and sorrows, yet we must carry on until the end of the short time we have in our bodies. We must make time to teach the good and let go of that past we cannot change. We must learn from mistakes, ask for what we need, believe everything is possible and learn to receive all that is given. My father always said that you have to want something, and believe anything is possible. I too, believe this is true, though things are not always easy to achieve. Sometimes we have to come out of our ‘comfort zone’ to gain something, and it then becomes an achievement for the depths of our souls in which we grow from within. I have broken down my treasured memories into chapters, fragments from my White velvet boxes. I hope you treasure them as I do.
Acknowledgments With the deepest gratitude, I wish to thank every person, whether friend, passer-by or four-legged companion, who has made an impression in my life and inspired me though their presence. This book was made possible through all the people who were willing to share so generously their wisdom, love and support in its creation. Thank you for allowing me to use your real names. Without your faith in me at my lowest times, this book wouldn’t have been possible. A special thank you to Sophie for offering to read my creation. You are a precious jewel and leave wonderful footprints wherever you go. Thank you John, for having the patience to teach me to use a computer so that I could write my memories. Without you it would have been impossible. You are a comic with passion, and you give fuel and laughter to my soul. Thank you Clare, for being a wonderful daughter and for your great respect, a treasure like a shell on a beach. I held your hand for what seemed only a short time, but I will hold your heart forever, as mums do. Thank you Mike - you have been my strength, my brick to lean on for years. You have made dreams and wishes come true. Thank you Doris, for the Secret Place and the cups of tea that sometimes never came. A huge thank you to Steve, for caring for me when I was recovering from my stroke. They have been difficult times, and without you I would have become lost. And thank you for helping me so much with my poor, dyslexic spelling. Thank you to Mum and Dad for a magical childhood that moulded me to think the things I have put in my white velvet boxes. I can now pass them on to you, the reader.
The white velvet boxes
r There are many times in life which are special to me, many people who touch my heart. Whether it is for a few minutes or a lifetime, they stay with me in the pigeonholes at the back of my mind. I see them as rows and rows of white velvet boxes. They look beautiful, though some are dusty and some have dirty marks on them because they have been opened so many times. Yet some are as brilliant white as untouched snow on a mountain in the sunshine. Each little white velvet box is tied delicately with ribbon. It may sound corny, but even people who are no longer here in our world are in them too. They are our memory store. The boxes each have a label which explains what is stored within. The ribbons are all different colours, each meaning something different to me. This, as I see it, is how we are able to remember all the things that happen in our lives. Just as your mind may be triggered by anything big or small - a smell, a sound, a touch - the ribbon is pulled and out come your inner memories. They are there right in front of you within seconds. Sometimes the memories are of people you would rather forget, but the mind triggers them and there they are with your spirit and soul. There is no control in the way memories are released or distinguished in your mind’s eye. What matters is how you deal with it when confronted. After that it’s down to you – it is your sole responsibility. A lot of things are down to your conscious effort to either do the right thing for all or just for yourself. That is what can make or ruin the life you follow, in a split second.
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I have found that if you have consideration for others, life treats you better most of the time, but sometimes it’s out of our hands. It is important to be positive, to take the rough with the smooth. Only then can the memory go back into its little white velvet box, ready to be released again and again. It’s how you fold that information, caress it, or gently tuck it back into the box that matters. Because that is how it will rear its head again when released. Sometimes items go into the wrong box, which will make you feel confused. They intermingle between boxes when more than one ribbon is untied, which would explain why you may not be able to remember a name, a place or something you are trying to recall. Then they sometimes go back into the right white velvet box for future reference. It’s amazing how the mind works. I am not going to pretend that I understand the science of the brain, but I do believe there are neurons (white velvet boxes) which are like building blocks that link with other neurons - as I say again, to me they are white velvet boxes. Years ago I found out that they resemble branches on a tree, as if you were lying under a tree and looking up towards the sky on a clear day. That is what it would look like to a scientist. The neurons are also like switches in the brain, the ribbon and label that you pull when you get a box out to me. The neurons are driven by a force that we don’t understand, to this day. The force that drives our brain is the ability to think. When did we all begin to think? Thinking is the only action that is completely hidden from others. Anything is possible in thought. You don’t have to tell anyone your inner drives, emotional turmoil, emotions, the illusions of your conscious or unconscious mind. This interaction is what none of us can pinpoint, as we are not aware how it is possible. Illusions are created, and this can trigger perception of our senses. There is much in life that we don't understand. So what, as long
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as it works. Who does understand the way the mind works? It’s a book in itself, pages of writings, words and pictures of our soul that we remember and feel as we go through life. It’s so very powerful. Another way of looking at it is the way someone can tell me that this is a load of nonsense or rubbish, yet it is important to me and my way of thinking. As a dear friend said to me ‘Who writes the rules?’ Who can know you as well as you do? As we grow, our wisdom and knowledge is ever growing, even if at times we don’t learn from our mistakes. They say our eyes are the windows to our souls. You can tell a lot by looking deep into another person’s eyes; there are depths that not everyone can see. It is a gift from the universe.
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Family
r I have a special daughter called Clare. She has something about her, a presence I cannot explain. At present she is doing her Level Three in hairdressing, and she will go far with that I am sure. She puts endless effort into everything she does. Clare is thought of highly by people she comes into contact with, yet she does not take any messing. I love that quality. She even saved up her hard-earned money to buy a car and pay for the insurance. She said 'I would rather save my own money up and work for it. You appreciate things better that way'. How very true this is. I’m proud that she thinks so wisely at such a young age. Clare is also her grandfather’s girl; she thinks the world of him, and it’s plain to see. My dad is great. He has principles that are significant, yet even a child can understand them because of the way he puts things across. I’ve always put my dad is on a pedestal. I’ve told him that many a time, and I think he likes it, by the look on his face. John, my youngest son, is a star. He lives and breathes football and would love to be a professional player. He is starting college in September to study sport. This could be the making of him, and will hopefully give him more confidence to do the things he believes in. I have told him to see his dream, and it will materialize. He is a loving, caring young man, who pushes himself as hard as he can with anything physical; he has drive and determination, and is very competitive - dare I say it, a bit like me at sixteen years old.
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Michael is my eldest. He has just made me a grandmother again. He has been living with Rachel, his girlfriend, and her family for over a year now. I still miss not having him at home, even now. Mike and Rachel already have a son, Jayden. I call him my little big man, and I love him so much already. Mike is great with him, which tells me he has a kind heart. Mike likes things to go his way, and they very often do, but I don't know how he does it. Good luck to him I say. Things have not always been good for him, but we all make our own destiny. It just depends on which path we take and what we learn from our mistakes. I have high hopes for him; he is very caring, but he also needs lots of love and reassurance. I like the simple things in life, such as walking along the seashore with a bag of chips. I love having my four-legged buddy, Barnie, a faithful border collie, at my side, then later Tess. I enjoy holding hands with Steve, my husband, soulmate and friend. He makes me feel safe. We get up each other’s noses sometimes, but that’s life.
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A special moment
r Steve and I are walking in the summer evening along a promenade, with a warm onshore breeze on our faces, the orange sky reflected in the ripples of the calm ocean. We are unable to see where the sky ends and the sea begins. The sound of shingle as it washes up in the gentle surf has a rhythm which slows my inner world. The aroma of sand and salt in the air gives me comfort. I take in deep breaths to savour every moment and relax. I can feel the week’s pressures draining away from me. We sit on rocks, watching the ball of fire slowly sink into the sea. Darkness is creeping in from behind us; it is nearly time to go. There’s a chill in the air now. I feel the warmth from Steve's body as we sit next to each other, gazing in the same direction, saying all that has to be said in the silence. If only every weekend could be like this, it would be lovely. The very fact that these days are so few and far between makes them more special. That’s what I tell myself anyway. I would love to feel this togetherness, comfort, support and oneness all the time, but sometimes I’m on a tread mill. This makes me lose the ability to stop long enough to let myself know what I am feeling. What I have leaned is that our past may have shaped our present, but it doesn’t have to determine our future. A white velvet box tied with ribbon.
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The seaside
r I am six years old, and getting things ready to take on holiday; my beach ball, my blow-up boat with the red hull and white sails. Most of all Teddy Edward. He goes everywhere with me, my comfort. Mum is packing food, Dad is loading our Morris Minor (registration 666 MTU) with cases and all the things we need. Now we are ready, I’m so excited. I can smell the leather seats. There’s nothing like it. Candy, our Westie, is sitting in the well at the front of the car by Mum’s feet as we set off. She’s going on her holidays too. We finally leave our home in Comberbach and are on our way to Nefyn. Time goes so slowly in the car that it soon feels as if we have been on the road forever. After a while Dad turns into a wide driveway with a curved stone wall entrance. There is an archway of trees all the way up the driveway, and it has gone dark and shady. I am feeling a little unsure, but then I see a break in the trees. The sun’s rays are shining though the gaps in the branches on to the many shades of green leaves. It feels magical, its like a fairy tale. There is a large cottage on the left with a green wooden stable door standing ajar. The two halves are swaying in a light breeze. A white-haired lady shuffles with a waddle like a duck out through the doorway. She has lines all round her large brown eyes as she smiles at us, her face friendly and comforting. She’s wearing a pinny around her waist, as Mum does when she is busy in the kitchen. Mum gets out and gives Candy to her. I am a little confused and
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concerned, as Candy is my friend - why would we leave her? Yet I trust the lady, for some strange reason. She has something trustworthy and familiar about her, like an angel. We set off again, and I have more time playing in the back of the car, which is fun. I play I-Spy and roll my matchbox cars around as we go round corners. Dad had made the back of the car like a playpen, with wood over the two rear wells at the back to make it level and blankets. It’s great. We didn’t have to wear seat belts back in 1969. I know we are getting close now. ‘Look out for the sea and the boats!’ says Mum. Then each of us starts saying, ‘I can see the sea!’ over and over again. I am so excited. Finally we arrive at the caravan site in Nefyn. The van is our home now; there’s a smell of wood and freshly-cut grass in the air. I scamper up the steps and place Teddy Edward on my bed. I can see the sea from our window. The view is amazing, and each time I look out it’s different. I kneel up on the seats that go around the window and look out. They feel rough against my knees, but it’s worth it. Looking into the openness with wonder and innocence is a gift I treasure. In the morning for breakfast Mum puts out the little cereal boxes on the table, all different ones. I’m allowed to pick the one I want. Dad and I then pile them up into a tower, hoping they won't fall over. Then it’s egg, bacon, fried bread, tomato and mushrooms from the next field, picked by me and Dad earlier. Mum wears a flowered pinny around her waist and a tea towel on her shoulder ready for the hot plates. The food is lovely and tasty. Mum is a great cook - I know that, even at my young age. Only the best will do. Mum has made some sandwiches and filled our red tartan flask with tea. She puts everything into a two-handled wicker basket which has flowers on the side in orange and yellow. She only uses this basket on holidays. We pack sun cream, tissues, camera and towels for the
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beach. Dad and I sort out the rest - the sun lounger, the ball, frisbee and blanket for me to sit on, and last but not least, the kite. I hope with excitement that it’s windy enough. We walk though the caravan site to the path that leads to my most treasured place. It is a steep, uneven path with grass and rocks all the way down, a high bank on the right and a long drop down on the left with small trees and bushes at the bottom. We can’t see the sea until we get round the bend near the bottom. Then it appears, grey-blue with white horses racing in the distance. It’s rough out there. Once we are on the stone-covered beach we set up camp. Then I am allowed to be free! I can’t wait to take off my jelly shoes. I can walk on the stones with nothing on my feet – it’s mind over matter, you know. Mum always wonders how I do this; I can tell by the puzzled way she is looking at me. The sand is appearing as the tide retreats back from the stones. Pebbles gleam and glisten in the sun, all different sizes and colours. Mum is happy sitting watching the sea and reading, while Dad plays with me. We either play with the ball or sit throwing stones at a pile of rocks that dad has piled up high, watching them bounce back. ‘This is called duck stone quack’, Dad says. Its means seeing who can get their stone to knock the top one off. We wait happily for the ocean to unfold the rippled sand so we can fly the kite. I enjoy walking along the shore with Mum, collecting shells. Some of them have living creatures inside; we have to put these back. I want to keep them, but I leave them for the next time we come. Mum lines her pockets and mine with shells, so we can take our treasure. They jingle in our pocket as we walk. I forget to take them out before I sit down, and they crunch and stick into my leg, which hurts through the thin cotton shorts I am wearing. Dad is getting the kite ready so we can fly it high up into the sky. I am so impatient that I am almost in a tantrum. Inside I am shaking,
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yet I know that if I show any outward signs of impatience, the kite will be put away just for one minute, which will feel like a lifetime, and Dad will take his time even more. Yet I am still smiling as I find my inner control. The sand is now clear where Mum and I had been collecting shells earlier. The sea is chasing all along, each ripple in a calming rhyme. The string is in my hands ready for my dad, who seems so far away, to throw the kite up in the air. Mum is standing next to me, making sure I don't let go. Up it goes into flight, swaying to one side, then the other. It soars down and lands on the sand with a thud. I look at Mum for reassurance that it will go back up. We start again, and this time the wind has taken the kite high up into the sky, up and up. We release more string, and the kite floats up there with the clouds and the birds. I want it to stay there soaring to and fro, the nose flapping in the wind, wishing that I could be up there with it, free. How great that would be! The kite seems to give me strength somehow. I feel that I am in command, and I am determined to keep it in the sky. I run back and pull the string naturally when it dips down slightly. I am completely absorbed in the affection I have for this wonderful lightweight diamond, so much that I don’t notice that Dad is now standing next to Mum. I enjoy every second with the kite. It must have been there for ages now. I just get lost in the dream. Mum says I have to pull the string in so we can go back to the caravan. It’s getting cold and it’s tea time. I help Dad fold up my kite for the next day. Dad wraps me in the thick jumper he has been wearing. It’s warm and smells of him. We walk up the path back to the caravan. The jumper is so long that it goes down past my knees and rubs on the goosebumps on my skin. It gives me a strange comfort. Mum has made a meal that fills and warms me; we then play
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snakes and ladders. There are board games and cards on the shelves for us to play with too. Dad lights the mantles in the gas lights with a match, and they give off a warm glow above our heads as night draws in and the sea disappears from sight through the window. When it is time to go to bed Mum takes me across the site to the toilets. It is dark and cold and I have my slippers and dressing gown on. We walk down the little path into the toilet building. It has a tiled floor and spiky walls that catch my dressing gown when I walk into a cubical. I wash my hands in the freezing water and dry them on my gown on the way out. Mum points up to the sky and Says ‘look at the stars!’ Watching the sky makes the walk back go quickly. Back at the caravan the lights pop as Dad turns them off, which makes me jump. I listen to Mum and Dad talking and hear the sea roaring; the tide must have come in. Safe and happy, I fall sound asleep. ********** I had lots of holidays like that, and I wouldn’t have changed anything about them. Nefyn was our holiday retreat for many years, and the things we got up to were always very similar and always very special. We would go down to the beach each day at some time or other. The sea has been special to me ever since I can remember. Now I have appreciation for the holidays Mum and Dad gave me. You don't realise what you have until it’s taken away, even if it’s only the years that have gone by that have made things change. It’s a shame we have to grow up. I think that’s why I want to share these little white velvet boxes with you. I would love to go back to those childhood days with the knowledge I have now, but I wouldn’t have the innocence I had then. Lots of people who have had happy childhoods would love to do the same, I’m sure. But circumstances
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would change, as when you are a child your mind is so innocent. There are no everyday pressures to worry about, such as simply paying the milkman or wondering what to give everyone for tea. It’s all done for you. I had a happy, magical childhood, because my mum and dad gave me unconditional love and understanding. I hope I have passed it on to my own family.
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A secret place
r A secret place, a home-made White Velvet Box tied with ribbon. A dream so good it’s a fairy tale - or is it? I remember calling at a friend’s house after a hard day gardening at my dad’s. I knew I looked a mess, so I tried to explain that I had been busy, though I knew deep down that it didn't matter. I remember saying ‘This is the real me, take me as you find me!’ I suppose I tried to explain my attire, but in a light sense, not really meaning it. If you’ve had a hard day gardening and then call at a true friend’s for a brew, they won’t judge you by the way you look, even if you are wearing old shorts, a baggy T-shirt and your hair’s a mess from driving with the window open. I looked as if I’d been dragged though a hedge backwards, but it was good to be welcomed just the same with a smile, a kiss on the cheek and a bear hug to treasure till the end of time, as my friend was so pleased to see me. It made me feel warm inside because the feeling was mutual. We chatted about how well the tomato plants were growing in the greenhouse, then picked up a pot and sniff as hard as we could to take in the aroma of the tomato stalk. That’s what gives off the wonderful smell, not the tomato, just in case you didn't know. Now this may be a secret place, but this white velvet box is an expanding, stuffed one, so it is very special. Labelled ‘Fantasy Fairy Tale’, it is dangling from a silver ribbon. **********
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I am so at ease as we walk to the bottom of the garden, past the woodpile which is there for the next coming winter; the smell is lovely. I become who I am, truthful, nothing hidden. It feels almost spiritual. I lie back on the lawn in the sunshine, feeling the blades of grass tickling the backs of my legs, while still looking up at the blue sky. A silver birch tree is at my side, giving shade from the warm sunny breeze. The sun is dancing and shimmering through the leaves on to the grass. My friend lies not too far away from me. I spot an owl at the top of the tree, swaying to and fro with the breeze. No, it’s a squirrel. The thought of it being an owl was a lot nicer; even so we both have to smile at the simple mistake. There is a canoe visible, on a stand at the back of the greenhouse. I close my eyes and dream of canoeing on the nice calm water, ducks with their young on the river bank. My friend brings me back, saying quietly, ‘Look, there’s a pheasant in the field.’ We can just see its feathers shining, all shades of brown at the top of his head. It spots us and scampers out of sight into the long grass. We talk about the things that have happened since we last met, and discuss a friend who has lost her way. I describe my way of explaining family members. We can pick our family if we wish. I class all my close friends as family, I’m proud to say. They mean more because you can count on them. They are loyal, not like some family members who can let you down, because they know they can. Blood relations are supposed to look after each other, but it doesn’t always work out that way. There are times when I remember my wider family are not related, but it doesn't matter as I love them anyway. They have helped to make me the person I am today. There is also another side to us all, the part that is bred in to us, that cannot be taken out. It can be controlled if you have the right
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guidelines, which I was lucky enough to have. I suppose I am blowing my own trumpet about my family, but that’s because they deserve it, especially for what they have done for me. On the grass, we continue to chat about our little white velvet boxes from years gone by. I can feel the closeness between us. My friend moves to sit nearer to me. I wish I could just lie with my head on her lap, as we felt so in tune with one another. Just to sense the togetherness is wonderful. Time seems to stand still. I want to stay forever, as life is so simple there, no pressures from everyday living. I know my friend will treat me with the respect I deserve. Our shadows entwine as she says ‘If you ever want somewhere to sit and let yourself be who you really are, you are welcome at any time.’ Simple words, yet they mean such a lot. Sometimes we all need such tranquil moments. Sometimes I may walk in an open field, read a book, or do some gardening. It gives me ‘me time’, and that is priceless. My mum would sometimes say to me ‘If you want to be on your own, just go and wash the dishes.’ In a sense she was right; no one comes in to help, do they? But here it doesn't matter that things are not getting done, for time has stood still in this treasure-laden place. Everything is almost too good to be true. There may be washing on the line, pots in the sink, vacuuming to be done, a meal to be got ready, but time has stopped. There's nothing that has to be done immediately to please someone else; such a wonderful feeling. I have abandoned everything and everyone that matters to me. That is what seems so strange. When I am in the other world, they are my main priority and who I live for. Then, as time has stood still, it doesn't matter - I won’t be missed by anyone, which is such an escape. A dream in a little white velvet box tied with ribbon, as always. Unfortunately it is now time to go back into the real world. As I
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stroll down the path back towards the house I am filled with delight, as my friend has also let time stand still with me. How lucky I am. As I leave we chat about the garden, then hug as if we are parting till the end of our time on this Earth, feeling the companionship we shared. We never did get that cup of tea, but it doesn’t matter. There will always be next time.
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Trouble boxes
r There are a few white velvet boxes we could do without – the trouble boxes. Everyone has a few boxes containing specific events or experiences which were not pleasant or caused distress, due to factors outside our control. Sometimes other people will interfere physically with what you think is outside your code or guidelines on what is and is not acceptable to you as a person. People who interfere with our balance are very often not intelligent and have a low opinion of themselves. They would rather bring people down to their own low level to make themselves look as if they have a higher position, even if it means making someone feel fear, then develop low self-esteem and a low opinion of themselves and their abilities. This is to me also a time when someone is trying to take your spirit, your deepest conscious and unconscious desires. The trouble boxes are out of our control. We can only learn by the information that raises its head every now and then, or deal with it in a more positive way. Sometimes we can only deal with such boxes as we get older, as our perception is different and we find it easier to deal with such matters without feeling upset. We can either let them destroy us and stop us from living our lives as we think we should, or suppress our thoughts. We will play around with the boxes as we go though life, shifting though information and disregarding what we don’t need any more; putting it into the right perspective. The secret is not to let anyone destroy us. It’s all down to the individual - if you let it rule your life, it will.
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Think of the trouble boxes as filing systems. They all need a clearout every now and then. Otherwise they will burst and leak into our souls and make us feel helpless, depressed, and deprived of our unique originality in the universe. There are memories in white velvet boxes I could do without. We have no control over what goes into the boxes. Sometimes we have to learn by them too. ********** As we are growing up we encounter different kinds of stress, such as school. One of my problems was wondering if the school bullies were going to get me, and how I could avoid them in the class or at dinner time. It was torture some days, yet I knew I had to face it. Feelings are there for a reason. Some are frightening, but I had to learn to respect them just the same. I was wondering if the girls who were bullying me were going to break my pen and pencil in the corridor just before a test, or worse, before an exam, when I couldn't get another. I did have a backup pencil in my sock, just in case. I had to plan for what they might do. I would stand near the door so the teachers could see what was going on, yet it was as if they saw nothing and it went on deaf ears. It was as if the bullies were somehow untouchable. I would have butterflies in my stomach and feel sick some days wondering what might happen. If the teacher walked out of the class, the bullies had an opportunity to get at me. They would fill my head with all sorts of information, telling me I was going to be beaten to a pulp at dinnertime or at home time when waiting for the bus, and telling me I was worthless. Sometimes they would snatch my glasses off my head or my desk and walk around the classroom teasing me, hoping I would lose my temper, but I didn't. I learned to suppress my
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fear by illusion, pretending that what was happening wasn’t real. It was as if the bullies wanted me to retaliate when the teacher walked back in, but I never did. One of them would say as the teacher came back into the classroom ‘Here are your glasses. Just picked them up for her, Miss’, in a bossy know-all tone of voice. What I always wondered was, what did the teacher think she was doing with my glasses in the first place? How would they have got across the room? Yet she got away with it again and again. The hate built up inside me, and the only person it was hurting was me. Were the teachers frightened too? Or couldn’t they be bothered? I knew that if I was attacked outside school the teachers couldn't do a thing to help. At a time like that I would try and ignore them as much as possible, so they would get anybody but me. They started to take away my hopes and dreams. I was feeling a loss of the rights I was always given at home and within my family. I felt as if someone had taken out my heart and lost it. The bullies made me fearful for my own life in school, as they intimidated me and would startle me when I walked around a corner. They would wait to terrify the living daylights out of me as they punched an arm or tripped me up as I walked past. One day the head bully, Janice, started a scuffle with another of the bullies, Sandra, in the corridor, outside the classroom where the whole class were standing waiting for the teacher to arrive. There was loud shouting, then handfuls of fair and brown hair were being pulled out and thrown on the floor. It didn't finish there. It carried on until one ended up on the floor on her back with Janice sitting on Sandra’s chest. Then, holding Sandra’s hair either side of her head, she started lifting her head and banging it back down on to the hard tiled floor as hard as she could. I watched it all in a sort of shocked slow motion, hearing the thuds one after the other as this crazy girl thrust her friend’s head again and
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again on to the floor. Blood was running freely on to the tiles and Sandra’s eyes began to roll to the back of her head. Two teachers tried to drag Janice off, but still she held on to Sandra’s head, her fingers entangled in her blood-stained hair. They were pulling the two girls together, as Janice wouldn't let go. Blood smeared along the floor. We watched in horror. There was nothing we could do to stop it happening. The teachers did finally manage to get Janice off by lifting her and uncurling her fingers one at a time, but she was still shouting abuse and kicking out. As we were all bundled into another classroom I could hear the sound of an ambulance siren. Nothing was said to us; we were expected to have an ordinary lesson, But I had no concentration, as it had upset me so much. I didn't let on. I tried to dissociate from the situation. I was thinking that made things worse for me, because if she could do this to her friend, what was she capable of with someone that she didn't like? I was scared, but felt I couldn’t tell anyone, not even Mum and Dad. One day as I was coming out of the dining hall, three of the bullies told me they were going to get me after school. I knew the teachers could not help, so I was on my own. I had to put up with the torment most of the afternoon, and by the time we were going home I was at my wits’ end. I tried to think of a way of avoiding meeting them, but all I could think of was walking home instead of taking the bus. About ten minutes before the end of the last lesson, I asked the teacher if I could go to the toilet. He was not going to let me go at first, but I kept putting my hand up. I would never have done that on a normal day, so he must have taken pity on me. I was allowed out five minutes before the bell was due to go. Although I was afraid, I was free, and I ran as fast as I could. I ran straight up the road out of the campus and didn't look back. I had four and a half miles to go, but it was worth every step. When I finally
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got home, I just said I had missed the bus, which in a way was true. I was not used to lying and it made me feel uncomfortable, but it was necessary. If I had said anything to Mum or Dad I don’t think I would ever have stopped crying. The bullies didn’t say anything to me the next day, so I felt a lot better after avoiding them. Or did I? There were many times I felt scared of them, but when I started to go to school on my bike it made a big difference. I became stronger, and Janice was taken out of school for twelve months for what she had done to her friend. By the time she came back I had new friends who I had been canoeing with in Anglesey on a week away with the school. It gave me courage and strength and changed my attitude towards the bullies, so they started to leave me alone when the new year’s intake of pupils started. It took three years, but it did get better. There was more time between the attacks, so it became more bearable to be in school. One day Janice found my bike in the bike rack. When she started to take it I ran over and pushed her off it as hard as I could. I pushed so hard she fell to the ground and my front wheel was buckled. She went off laughing, but she was putting on a brave face, because it must have really hurt when she went down with such a crash. I felt a sense of achievement. I still had the bike, which I’d been given for my sixteenth birthday and Christmas combined, and it meant the world to me. That’s all that mattered. I knew Janice didn’t really want it. All she would have done was dump it in an alley somewhere smashed up. The less I said to her, the better it got. I stood up to her as best as I could. It was far from easy, as I was still scared underneath. I made a commitment to be my own person again and keep my distance from negative surroundings. The more positive I became, the more I believed I had nothing to hold me back. The only time I could get Janice back was when we played hockey.
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I would hit her shins instead of the ball in a tackle, then apologise. The PE teacher never said anything; she turned a blind eye, as they all had when I was been tormented. There was no danger of me ever turning into a bully. I knew how horrid it felt. I knew the bullies were unhappy. They were isolated because no one wanted to be their friends. They all kept trying to prove to each other that they were the strongest in the school, but in reality they were the weakest. They had no respect for themselves or other. At an early stage in our lives we are completely dependent on our parents’ care, and it is very important for us that they show their love. If they do not show proper affection we may grow up finding it hard to love and show affection to others. Perhaps the bullies did not have a very good home life. Sometimes people test our tolerance, but it is up to us not to be discouraged. We all have spirit. I believe we are all born with it. How we use that spirit is up to us; it will never run out. It’s the force of life that drives us within our physical body. Spirit is what gives all of us drive, through practice in our daily lives which will make us fulfilled in all we do. My confidence has increased over the years. I think we grow as we get older and the spirit gets stronger too. It knows us truthfully, and we learn what is beyond with our experience of our mind. I seemed to find a spirit from right down inside me that is untouchable in another world within us all. As my dad would say, ‘a toenailer’ - it’s from that low down. I do believe we all have spirit somewhere – it is freedom to be you. It’s positive-self talk. You can sometimes forget about it when your guard is down and you’re vulnerable, with lots of things going on that are out of control or taken for granted. But believe me, no one can take your spirit. It is your soul - it’s like a wave on a sandy beach,
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always moving slowly backwards and forwards, the wind in the trees, the shadows on the ground from a full glowing moon on a clear night. Or even a rainbow high in the sky. The only way spirit can be passed on is when you give encouragement to someone who needs it. If someone does try and take your spirit by being nasty to you, your spirit will retaliate in time, in ways you may never know. As I was always told as a little girl, ‘Treat others as you would want to be treated yourself.’ If this is the only thing that you get out of my white velvet boxes, that’s fine with me. Remember, treat others as you want to be treated yourself. It will make your world a better place. Respect others and they will respect you for respecting them. If you’re lucky! Anger festers inside and eats away at the unforgiving, just as our conscience can destroy a good relationship within ourselves if you do anything you know is wrong. This isn’t a very nice memory from my white velvet boxes, but it did teach me so much about people’s lives. We have to go though troubles and difficulties in life so we can learn to avoid the same things again in the next life as we progress to a higher self. The more I learn, the more I learn to accept myself as a spirit being. Learn to accept the beauty and good of each day and let it enlighten you. A mirror only shows our reflection as others see us, yet it is not the being of our soul but the force of life that drives us.
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Who am I?
r One Saturday afternoon when I was seven years old, I was told by a friend that I had been adopted. I didn't even understand the meaning of the word; I had to ask what it meant. Jackie said ‘your mum and dad are not your real mum and dad’, which confused me. I ran home feeling let down that they had not told me themselves, and asked outright as soon as I walked in. They were both home, as it was the weekend. They sat me down and said yes, it was true. I felt empty and breathless, as if someone had punched me in the stomach and all the wind had been taken out of me. The emptiness was replaced by fear. I thought I might have to go back to wherever I had come from if I was naughty, or if they ever had enough of me. They sat and talked to me, but nothing seemed to register. It was as if my ears had closed off, like when you go under water. Just a muffled sound. My feelings were all mixed up, with no logic. At that age, what would you expect? Sometimes it did cross my mind to wonder who my real mum and dad were and what they looked like. Was I like them? Why did they not want me? Had there been something about me they hadn’t liked? I knew that I was loved where I was, yet it crossed my mind that I had no beginning to my life. How heavy had I been when I was born? What time of day was it, day or night? Information most people take for granted I did not have. As time went on I was told I was wanted and that was why they adopted me, also that I was special, the chosen one, and many more explanations. Eventually I realised how lucky I was to be in a loving
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family that had taken me on as their own. It had happened on Christmas Eve 1964, when I had just turned one year old. The time I was given Teddy Edward, the most treasured teddy bear. The holidays, pocket money, dusting me down when I fell over, my bike, and most of all encouragement to be my own person. They gave me all this and much more. The many times when Dad and I were near a stream and he would pick a long reed from the bank, fold it, tuck it into itself and make a boat, and we would place it in the water and see how far downstream it would go. That cost nothing, yet it was very significant and prominent in the way I value things. Those treasured memories of the fun things helped me realise that it’s not the cost of things that matters. You can buy a diamond ring worth thousands of pounds, look at it every minute of the day - for a week or too. But it will in time become the same as all the other rings in the box. The only time a diamond ring becomes priceless is when someone special has given or passed it on to you as a gift, wrapped in love. I’ve always done my own thing, to a degree, for example when friends went to night clubs I didn't join them because it wasn't my thing. I would rather go swimming with my dad or out on my bike, or canoeing. It was a life that set me up with the confidence and spirit to be my own person. Thinking back, it was amazing how I was trusted and believed in, even though I was so very young. Going into strange swimming baths with Dad, and him telling me ‘See you by the pool’ as he pointed me into the ladies' changing room. The smell of chlorine and bleach would make my nose twitch, it was so strong. I would sort myself out, put my clothes in a bag in a locker, lock it up and take the key out. The coloured band that was attached to the key was too big for my wrist, so I’d have to give it to Dad. We would have a great time in the cool clear water, then I would
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change on my own again afterwards. Maybe that’s why I didn't mind doing things on my own as I grew up. I would wear clothes I was comfortable in and shoes I could get my feet into, as I have wide feet. Mum would walk all over town just to get me set up with shoes; they were always expensive, and still are. I do believe that there is too much peer pressure for the young to be the same as each other and for girls to wear make-up. They believe they cannot look good without it, thanks to the magazine advertisements. If you want to wear make up, wear it for yourself, not because other people might criticise or belittle you or try to tell you what you should be doing. Don’t worry about what other teenagers think, it’s your life, not theirs. It’s they who are insecure, not you. We all grow at different speeds. It’s not first impressions that last when you meet up with an adult. If you are polite, it won’t matter that your hair is three different colours and you have a ring in your lip, as long as you have respect for adults and are well-mannered with a smile, there should not be a problem. Some adults cannot remember that they too were teenagers once, and felt the whole world was against them. Don’t let others run your life. Be yourself, unique, who you want to be. Keep your spirit alive. Try and have a direction in life, so you have new opportunities with memorable experiences, and build your knowledge of life. This goes for any age. Believe in yourself, and remember you can’t please everyone. Be true to yourself and don’t stand on others on your way up, or disrespect others. Keep your dignity. Learn that sometimes people will try and talk down to you, but as I have mentioned before, treat others as you would like to be treated yourself, and be proud of your uniqueness. It can sometimes be like walking in thick mud with a pair of wellies on. It’s difficult to keep your wellies attached to your feet, and on
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occasion your foot will come out of the welly, land in the mud and sink into it. Then you try and lift your other foot to steady yourself and you land in a big heap backwards on your bum in the cold mud. You then have to put your hands down to lever yourself up. What a mess! The point I have tried to put across is that life can be like that, but what is the worst thing that can happen? A pile of washing and a hot bath to wash it away. All things can be sorted in the end with determination. It just takes a little time and effort on your part.
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The tramp
r There are people I can recall from my white velvet boxes from years ago. I was about nine years old, on a mini holiday. Mum, Dad and I were staying at Baden Powell House for a few nights in London. A gentleman sat in the same carriage as us on the underground. He had a long scruffy matted beard, down to his chest, and wavy hair that was almost shoulder length. It had clearly not been washed or brushed for a very long time. He had two or three coats on and old boots without laces; you could see the skin on his legs, as his trousers were too short, and his skin was black and dry because he had not washed for so long. He was hugging a plastic carrier bag as if he was looking after the crown jewels. His face was weathered and his eyes looked down to the floor, showing that he lived a solitary life. He was talking to himself and anyone that was listening, reciting Shakespeare. The voice was deep, strong and powerful and carried through the carriage. He should have been in the Albert Hall, with an audience to clap and cheer him. He was wonderfully talented. He must have been so intelligent. Mum said ‘I wonder what he might have been before he became a tramp?’ What a waste of a life. Did he have a loving family? Had he tragically lost them, or did he discard them with all the pressures of his existence? Had he been a lecturer at a university, educating his students, enlightening them all about the wonderful information he must have picked up through his life? He looked so lonely, yet he oozed magnetism. I couldn't take my
CHRISTINE COPE
White VELVET BOXES
Christine Cope sees all her special memories of life as occupying rows of white velvet boxes at the back of her mind.The boxes, each tied delicately with coloured ribbon, contain happiness and sadness, humour and conflict, pleasure and pain. When she wants to remember an episode from her past, she just pulls on the ribbon. Christine believes that it’s how you deal with each memory, pleasant or painful, that determines how it will appear the next time you open it. This book is about the things Christine has saved in her boxes over the years – precious memories of childhood adventures, seaside holidays, valued friendships, secret corners in summer gardens, playground battles, her beloved dogs and her children and grandchildren.Together they have given her an insight and a wisdom which are well worth sharing with others.
ISBN 978-1-909020-10-8 Published by Memoirs 25 Market Place, Cirencester, Gloucestershire GL7 2NX. Tel: 01285 640485
9 781909 020108
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