HNYIBF!

In 1919 - for Christmas- Maggie received an autograph book from her friend Ethel. 

Black, leather bound with a green-y gold interior; embossed flowers on the first page.

The word Autograph autographed with golden inlay, in the top-left corner of the front cover.

The first person to autograph in Maggie’s book was R. Benalo, it was February.

It might have been Richard.

It may have been Rachel.

They wrote For Ladies Only.

People had impressive handwriting in the 1919s.

In December- almost a year later – E. Heart added the following verse.

Little dabs of Powder

Little smears of Paint

Makes a girl look Pretty

When she really aint.

The entry is in pencil, the third line is faint, the handwriting remains prosaic.

E. Heart may or may not have been disappointed at the lack of autographees that Maggie had collected.

Yet one page later, V.Heath penned (or strongly pencilled) the following.

a pair in a Hammock 

had started to Kiss 

the Hammock turned over

ˌˌsᴉɥʇ ǝʞᴉʅ pǝpuɐʅ ʎǝɥʇ puɐˌˌ

The pages in Maggie’s book are bound with cord – alternate pink, white, and green.

Random.

Pink, white, white, pink, pink, green, green, green, green, pink, pink, white…

On this white page, a P. White appropriately added a black and white etching of a sea-captain smoking a pipe.

The pink page - two later - has a recipe.

The Cure for Love.

The resolution. 12ozs of dislike, 14 drams of the quill of dishonour and a long length of thyme. Next set it over the gentile fire of love and sweeten with the sugar of forgetfulness and stir it with the spoon of melancholy. Cork it up and put it at the bottom of your heart and you will instantly find relief. These things are got at the apothecary next door to reason in Prudent St, parish of Concord.

The recipe was written out for Maggie on Boxing Day, 1919. They still had apothecaries back then.

The next few pages are blank. Pink, green, green, pink, pink.

The page after appears yellow, it may have been cream one hundred and seventeen years ago.

Today not.

But A. Eastor’s pen is both bold and black.

Sailing down the stream of life,

In your little Canoe. 

I hope you’ll have a jolly time,

and room enough for two.

It’s May 1920, and A. Eastor is the first to have used punctuation in their verse. A flamboyant squiggle added at the end.

Another after the date!

Several pages later, a Friendship Wall appears. It has been drawn in pencil to look like bricks. It is dated Xmas 1919.

The first world war lay completed a year previously.

Two names have been added onto the bricks, sixth months apart.

E. Heart on the twenty-seventh of December, A, Eastor the following June.

And in May, 1920 A. Eastor is back with their pen.

Hair was made to fuss and curl,

Cheeks were made to blush,

Eyes were made to wink at boys,

and lips were made: (Oh hush.)

And then, nothing.

Empty page bears testimony to empty page.

Until, almost at the end, one which has become un-attached. Pink. Sandwiched between white and green.

E. Heart again. December once more.

1919.

The twenty-seventh day.

Leaves may wither

Flowers may die

Friends may forget you 

But never will I.

I dusted Maggie’s autograph book yesterday, in preparation for the year beginning.

It looks brand new.

The original gift was given to Maggie with an inscription.

To Maggie

Wishing her a happy Xmas, & the best of luck for the coming year.

It is signed Ethel.

Yep.

All the best.                  

                                                           

 

 

 

 

 

 

All's an End that Ends.

According to Walt Disney, Snow White - a largely fictional character living in a fairy tale written by the Brothers Grimm sometime, a long time ago - has hair which is coal black. Slow black, fishing-boat bobbing sea black*. On the other hand, So-White is a cat - just seen running into the forest by the stream. Her fur is snow-white, cotton-white, snow-ball rolling white. 

 

Freshly falling snow.

 

But there is no snow, falling or fallen. And the stream is not always here. 

It’s here now… the end of December, a handful of days from the start of a New Year. The last rains of the last year- academically this year – have swollen the meadows and the stream is happy to wander where she chooses. 

Snow White, So-White and the stream are all female. 

The path that the stream crosses - that from which So-White leapt, and on which Snow White is remembered – is male. He too though, runs where he chooses. 

Towards the village. 

The village is male – dominated by a phallic church spire. 

Small. 

The population – like the pre-January days that remain – a handful. 

Eighty. 

My friend the eighty-first. The most recent to arrive. A long time ago. He came here by chance. 

 

He stayed by choice.

 

My friend is a writer. 

Even now – as I stand watching the cat run between the trees of the forest, watching the brook babble and thinking about Snow White’s hair – he is writing. 

Scribbling words onto paper. Scratching phrases into paragraphs that have sprung from thin air. Struggling to place them somewhere before they are lost. 

I walk on. 

I think about his house. The walls – inside – are festooned with scraps of paper - all clumsily stuck where the thought that they gave witness to first occurred. He never has time to stop and confide them to paper. Thus they remain confined to post-its. 

 

I’m there now. Just inside the door. 

 

The hallway. 

 

I look at one. 

 

Fear knocked on the door. Hope opened it. There was no one there. It’s my favourite.

 

“It’s not original.” My friend says when I ask. “I didn’t write it.”

I look surprised.

“Well,” he continues. “I wrote it – obviously – but I didn’t…..”

His words wander elsewhere – as did the stream. 

 

Earlier.

 

My friend writes like this. 

 

Stops. 

Starts. 

 

He hasn’t always. Younger, he tried everything. 

Colons. Semi-colons. Subordinated clauses. Split infinitives. He no longer cares. He wants to write. Not punctuate.

“Leave it to fools.” He says. He speaks this way too. “Easier. No need to edit.”

“Really?” I copy him. Easier. 

He likes question marks.

“I like question marks,” he explains. “Commas are ok. Sometimes. Full stops better. A dash-always use a dash – it saves a lot of hassle.”

“What are you doing?” I ask. Unnecessarily.

“Writing.”

“What?”

“This.” He hands me a piece of paper. 

 

There is nothing on it.

 

“It’s empty,” I point out. 

“It’s a picture.”

“?” I say this by raising both eyebrows. 

I wish I could raise one on its own. Like Leonard Nimoy **.

I’ve tried. Practiced in front of a mirror. 

Sellotaped the one. 

Pushed the other.

Nothing.

“Snow White. In the snow.” My friend starts laughing.

“She has black hair.” I know this for a fact.

“You know Disney was American, don’t you?” My friend ignores me. I can’t ignore this.

“No he wasn’t. He was born in Chicago.”

“France.”

“U.S.A.” 

This could go on for a while.

“His ancestors were from Normandy.” 

My friend makes sure that it doesn’t. “Isigny-sur-mer.”

I don’t know what to say. I say nothing. But I hand him the piece of paper back.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I know what to say now. My mother taught me that politeness is next to godliness. Next to impossible too. Sometimes.

“Happy New Year,” I add.

“You too,” he completes.

* Dylan Thomas's words

** The actor who incarnated Doctor Spock in Star Trek.