Inside Josephine's head

An elderly lady reminisces about her childhood.

INSIDE JOSEPHINE’S HEAD

 

 “Her name’s Josephine Marie-Isabelle,” Jennifer told her friends who were gazing at her tiny recently born daughter.

“Rather a long name for such a tiny baby,” one of them said.

“She won’t be a tiny baby for ever,” Jennifer retaliated.

 

Now in late middle-age, the tiny baby was a well set up lady, whose names had done her well. No one had ever called her Jo, or if they had done so, it was out of her hearing. When she was a young girl she was called Sephy at home, at age twelve she declared to her family that she wanted to be known as Josephine from then on.

 

Walking by the river on her own was enough to set her mind off in motion. Feeding the ducks had always been an entertainment in itself for Josephine. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if all the small children were so well brought up as to follow their mothers just like the ducklings. The mother duck was confident that her ducklings wouldn’t stray from their places. With a confidence that a human mother never has in her offspring, she waddled ahead and gently slipped into the river, her ducklings following behind her. The duck family swam along, creating a large V on the surface of the river. They never show any sign of feeling the cold, they must have a built-in thermostat that controls the heat and cold in their bodies, or perhaps it’s something in their feathers.

The promenade that Josephine walked along was quite pretty, and in better weather a pleasant place to spend a morning or an afternoon. The winter wasn’t exactly the best moment to be out in the open and so near water. The flowers were not yet out, not even in bud. How do they know when to appear? There has to be some kind of hidden message that is sent from the earth and the elements to tell them to wake up and get flowering. The gardeners who looked after the lawns were not visible, there was nothing much for them to do. They’re probably retired men who do the gardens to make some extra money to stretch their pensions a bit further, that’s the reason they don’t have any anxiety about the winter being a dead season.

At the end of the promenade there was a flight of steps that led up to the pavement which looked down on the river. A fair number of houseboats were lined up one behind the other. I don’t think I’d like to live on the water, it must be freezing in the cold weather. What about being assaulted when you’re sleeping? Then there’s always the fire risk, and people jumping from their boat to yours. No, that isn’t for me. It was impossible to see through the windows, so they could have been empty or full of people. What kind of people live on the river? Those who can’t afford a flat or a house, or perhaps some might actually enjoy it.

Josephine continued her walk to where the houseboats were no longer visible, to the shopping area and the market.

“Hello, Love. How are you? I haven’t seen you in an age,” the flower seller greeted Josephine.

“I’ve had a bout of flu, but I’m over it, and out and about as you can see,” Josephine said, thinking to herself, how was it possible for anyone to be standing all day in all weathers. The market hadn’t always been covered, and Josephine’s mother had forbidden her to go there. My mother was full of prejudices. Working in a market is the same as working anywhere else. At least it’s honest and you’re in contact with the general public all day long, unlike those who work in an office or a factory. Josephine bought a bunch of flowers, to show willing rather than because she really wanted them. The flower seller smiled at Josephine, and began serving another customer. It’s true, if you see someone buying something in a shop or from a stall in a market, you automatically approach to discover what it is that’s attracted their attention.

Josephine’s thoughts turned to the friends she had known in her childhood and youth. The vague memory of a girl she used to go out with stirred in her head. The girl’s name she couldn’t remember, but going out together she could. They had walked round the town checking things out, to see what they would like for birthdays and Christmas. “Don’t you think that’s nice?” the other girl said. Josephine’s head buzzed, how on earth can you call such a vulgar sweater nice? It’s horrendous. There’s nothing nice about it. That friendship soon bit the dust, and Josephine reverted back to shopping alone.

The walk around the town was not carried out with much excitement. The pavements Josephine trod were too well-known to her to arouse great interest. The shops that had once been considered elegant were now up-to-date, and the old-style elegance, which gave class to them from the moment a would-be customer passed through the revolving doors and entered their hallowed halls, was no more. Instead of the affluent atmosphere that penetrated from the top floor to the basement, perfumed air fresheners gave off a scent more similar to a bathroom than a business centre. Fast moving escalators were inter-woven between floors sliding up and down carrying customers to any level they so wished. If my mother could see this she would be totally lost. What had happened to the Ladies and Gentlemen’s departments? The sales staff once spoke in modulated tones of voice to their customers, who replied in the same way. Nowadays, thought Josephine, everyone is living at minimalist level. My head doesn’t function as it used to.

Josephine exited the department store and walked to the bridge. The boats that carry passengers are still travelling back and forth along the river. No doubt they serve the same food and drink. The stone steps that led down to the river were dry, the swans were gliding around in their elegance. Somewhere, Josephine had read that swans were being killed and eaten. How can anyone do that to such beautiful creatures? There’s food aplenty in supermarkets, and some of it quite cheap, it isn’t necessary to kill swans. The ducks on the river are never killed, so why are swans?

There was one street that fascinated Josephine, it had always had a pungent smell. There used to be a large tannery that gave off the smell. I had always had the image of the goods in there being of a tan colour. How old was I when I understood the meaning of the word tannery? Ignorance is wonderful, there’s always someone around to correct you.

The street entered the oldest part of the town, where fifteenth and sixteenth century buildings once flourished, but where now there are modern food shops, chemists, the odd boutique and estate agents. Mothers with push-chairs occupied by children crying, barged all over the place and even entered the shops taking their noise inside. Why do the small children of today cry all the time? What has changed to make them so miserable?

The walk led Josephine down a narrow street. She wasn’t afraid. No one had ever got mugged. People didn’t use to get attacked. Well, that’s not strictly true, they did, but not so frequently, and there was always a policeman in sight to come to one’s rescue.

A tabby cat was sitting on a wall outside a small ice cream and sweets store. You’re very nice, Josephine said to it. When she was a little girl, Josephine had been given a cat. Her cat had been coal-black and had almost always been pregnant. At that time cats were never neutered and gave birth to many kittens. The cat had a fixed boyfriend, according to Josephine’s mother, as her kittens were always black. She used to wind herself around Josephine’s father’s neck when he was reading the newspaper or a book, like a fur collar. One day she disappeared, and for the rest of her life Josephine’s mother lamented the cat’s loss. I don’t want cats. You get fond of them and then they leave you, either by getting lost or death. It makes no difference, you are bereft. Cats and dogs are now treated more like dolls, and are not permitted to breed indiscriminately. There are no longer stray collarless cats and dogs roaming the streets. They all end up in official homes for cats and dogs.

That woman should never run to catch a bus in those shoes, the heels are far too high. Older women should have more common sense, especially as they get heavier with age. The driver- cum-conductor helped the unknown woman aboard, and then got the bus moving. The woman paid her fare and sat down in a window seat.

The walk continued. Somehow or other, Josephine was standing outside the church. She was now with her mother-in-law, and they were attending the wedding of an old friend of Josephine’s. It wasn’t a good day to be getting married: cold, windy, and wintry. Would it be a good omen or a bad one for the marriage? Josephine and her mother-in-law had gone to see how the bride was dressed. The happy couple had been courting for ten years. “Far too long,” her mother-in-law had said. There certainly wouldn’t be much romance left - if any. The church wedding was well attended. “Her hair is far too short,” her mother-in-law intoned as the bride walked down the aisle to the waiting groom. “There’s no weight of hair on her head.” Josephine’s head was full of questions. Where had they met? What was the attraction? Neither Josephine nor her mother-in-law enjoyed weddings, being nosey was as good a reason as any to be able to say they had seen the bride and the flowers, and the groom, who didn’t play much of a part. The couple made their responses, and all the time Josephine was thinking: I wonder what those two have got ahead of them. I hope they understand that a wedding is not a marriage. Snow was falling as the wedding group left the church and got into black flower-decked cars, and went off to the reception. Josephine strolled back home with her mother-in-law, to inform those who had preferred to stay indoors than put up with the rigors of a horrid afternoon, to being nosey as to what it would be like.

I can still feel the snow on my face after all that time. Why should it be? I live in a warm place where snow doesn’t play a part in the weather.

Many roads led down to the river which had large Victorian houses, monuments from a wealthier age, when there was a confidence that nothing would ever change. Emily, an elderly white-haired lady was sitting in one of the bay windows that looked straight onto the street. She waved to Josephine and the little girl waved back. Emily beckoned to her, and Josephine walked up the flight of stone steps to the front door, which was opened by a uniformed maid. That was the first time Josephine met Emily. In the sitting-room, which looked out onto the street, was a large black grand piano smothered with family photos, but Emily lived in the big house with only the maid for company. Through the large windows entered a lot of light, and the sitting-room was furnished in beiges and creams.

“Josephine, come and look at these,” Emily said, who was standing in front of an ancient piece of furniture. Drawer after drawer was opened to reveal butterflies that had been pinned down on thin cream-coloured cushions. “It was my husband’s hobby,” Emily, who was not long for this world, explained. The maid entered the sitting-room carrying a tray with a glass of orange juice and biscuits on it for Josephine.

Those visits to see her friend lasted till one day the curtains were different, and Emily had gone to join the butterfly hunter in the local cemetery.

 

Streets like that no longer exist in many places. Josephine’s grandmother’s house had suffered demolition, and offices occupied the space where, once, Josephine and her family had lived.

 

What had changed? Everything. Time marches on relentlessly.

 

“What are you thinking about?” Josephine’s husband asked her.

“Thoughts,” Josephine replied.