RUNNING AWAY AGAIN

50 Years Together

This week has seen the re-enactment (but in far more pleasurable circumstances) of the week 50 years ago when John Matthews and I ran away together. Some of you may know this story from my Plague Diaries where I wrote about this, but since it is now a big anniversary, I thought you might enjoy hearing about it.

LONG, LONG AGO.

In Irish mythic lore, there is a category of story genres known as a Tochmarc which is usually translated as ‘a wooing’, (as in the Tochmarc Emer, or Wooing of Emer by Cú Cuchlainn), but which more actively translates as ‘abduction' or ‘riding off with the bride.’ This genre of story is one which is known across the Indo-European world, and several customs around it survive, whereby the bride has a mock-abduction as part of the ‘bringing home the bride’. Every time a bride is carried over the threshold, we are still recalling this custom, which evokes an earlier and somewhat wilder one . The clue to tochmarc is the ‘marc’ or ‘horse’ part of the word, telling you how the carrying off was done. Now, while the unconsensual abduction of women is not something to celebrate, the tradition I am talking about here is when the woman is actively willing to be removed from either the parental or existing spousal household, for that is my story.

I was willing, but needed a bit of carrying off myself, due to my circumstances, since I was sunk in a marriage that was already doomed by spousal alcoholism and controlling neglect. Having had to give up my work in the theatre due to the early onset complications of a genetic liver disease and then fell into a marriage which was leaching the life out of me. I mourned the loss of my career in acting with a heavy and yearning heart. But to keep body and soul together I had to work. The Labour Exchange people looked at my qualifications and said, I could work in a library with no problems. I argued that I couldn’t possibly take ‘a proper job’ and that I could do cleaning jobs (which is what actors did then and now between work) but really I was seriously not fit enough for any work, and their holding open an alternative door to the one that had been shut to me was part of the problem I was dealing with.

So I had been working at a public library for a few years which is where I had already encountered John, and we had struck it off rather well as colleagues in mythology, but there was more than a hint of something warmer behind it. We had initially bonded over the Mabinogion in the staff-room.

The picture below gives some idea of Kensington and Chelsea in the 1970s. This was the world of boutiques, and the bohemian clothes of Biba in Kensington High St, the poet and music venue, the Troubadour in Old Brompton Rd (still going strong), and the late lamented Breton creperie of Asterix, which retained the name until challenged by the copyright-holders (it became, cleverly, Astrix) on the corner of Chelsea Bridge St. (It is now Le Shop, 329 Kings Road, London SW3 5E.)

King’s Rd, Chelsea in 1970s: our stamping ground.

And there it might have rested, as I was unremittingly stuck in a situation that could have gone on until I died of my disease, or of heart-break from not doing what I should be doing creatively, or I might just have faded into the greyness of my miserable half-life until I was in my eighties. I had just my wages and no savings, and we both lived on those, as the ex worked rarely. Life hovered between my having to watch sport until I wanted to scream, or to engage with war-gaming figure painting (which I was not allowed to do, just admire. I would be removed from the bedroom to companion my ex, or else I had to inure myself to his drunken absence for days at a time, while he went and pawned my jewellery or possessions to get money for more drink. Any friends were strictly discouraged, and I could really only to go to work or shopping. Threat and a sense of danger kept me passive. Yes, this was coercive control and it is now illegal, thank goodness! I was in my twenties serving my term under this dire enchantment.

But then, I came home from work one evening when my ex. started to explain to me something he had evidently been turning over in his mind: his plan was that we should move to Essex, grow cabbages, and where I should then proceed to have four children. Without even engaging my mind, my body took me straight to the top of the wardrobe to instinctively pull down a suitcase into which I packed a few things. Taking up my guitar, I then proceeded downstairs, intent on phoning John to come and collect me. However, in those days, not everyone had a phone at home, and I had to walk to the bottom of the road to use the public telephone.

My ex - now thoroughly alarmed - began to panic. I was just over the threshold, when he cast himself to the pavement and, holding onto my ankle, begged me to stay. I proceeded to walk - with some difficulty - as I was carrying a suitcase, a guitar and the encumbrance of my ex. as he continued to hang onto my ankle all the way to the phone box, to which I dragged him about a hundred yards. There I shook him off, and phoned John to come and abduct me. Bless him, he promptly arrived in a taxi and bore me off. It may not have been traditional but it was as effective a tochmarc for all that!.

So far, so good. We spent a night in a hotel. But then we both had to go into hiding, as the ex. had not only been trained in the military, but had a knowledge of explosives. He now threatened to use these on us both, so we went into hiding in deepest Middlesex, at the home of John’s friend. By the time we re-emerged, the ex had taken himself off. We went back to our jobs at the library, and set up home in a one-room flat with a bed in the wall. Over the course of the next two years, the ex. showed up from time to time at the library, making himself extremely obnoxious, with menaces, to the extent that my employers cravenly threatened to give him my address if he didn’t go away. After a long period, I was finally able to serve divorce papers on him.

There followed a period of getting myself straight after eight years of being very ill, and without any support. Most of this time was spent re-establishing myself in my customary creative mode, only now as a writer rather than as an actor. Also, getting used to being loved and cared for, which was surprising and very pleasant, and strangely unexpected, like snow in the desert. (John and I both love snow, I have to explain!) First of all, I wrote for poetry magazines, and then helped John with his arts magazine, Labrys. My first book was published in 1981, almost ten years to the day that I had had to give up acting. I became a self-employed writer in 1986. We have continued to support each other’s work and creative process in some very difficult circumstances over the years, and while we seldom write much together these days, we are now considering a new project which we feel is needed badly at this time.

An early photo of us

John and I have never celebrated our eventual wedding (a somewhat delayed affair due to the protracted divorce proceedings), but rather our running away - on the 13 February. It is a much easier date to get a table at a restaurant and we are not obliged to opt into the pink heart day celebrations in any way, which suits us both: as Capricorns, we are far too serious for such enforced trivialities.

RUNNING AWAY: MARK 2

This week our running away to an undisclosed location was for our celebration and pleasure. For me, it had to be somewhere deeply historical and near the sea. And, since we are both in our seventies, it also had to be comfortable. So voilà, can you guess where it is yet?

When we planned this week, we had no idea how the weather would play out, of course. It proved to be both overcast, cold and very windy. The day and hotel booking had been in the diary since before Christmas,, but we left everything else to the last minute. Our hotel was lovely - a complete contrast to our first running away location. We had our own little thatched cottage in the hotel grounds with a private garden with the mill-race at our door.

Just before we set off, it was announced that the palace of the Saxon King Harold II (he of Battle of Hastings) depicted in the Bayeux Tapestry, had been finally located: which was a great find! https://news.exeter.ac.uk/faculty-of-humanities-arts-and-social-sciences/archaeology-and-history/archaeologists-find-lost-site-depicted-in-the-bayeux-tapestry/

This was exciting news that such a historic place had been finally located. Harold’s palace at Bosham was where he customarily lived, and here he anchored his fleet. Above we see Harold setting off from Westminster to go to Bosham. Below, he hears a mass at the Holy Trinity Church, feasts in his palace, and then embarks with his men to visit William of Normandy. That meeting didn’t go well, as you may remember, because William declared he himself was going to be claiming the throne of England - hence the Battle of Hastings followed, and the Norman Invasion.

Bosham had already been a good location for the Romans who came here also, because Vespasian may have established his own palace here as a convenient place to oversee proceedings - he was commanding the. 2nd Legion in 42CE, before he became emperor. The harbours between Portsmouth and Chichester were known as Magnus Portus. In a Bosham garden in 1800, an eroded stone was discovered: it is now believed to have been a statue of Trajan which stood at the entrance to the harbour.

Holy Trinity, Bosham

What is now Holy Trinity Church is believed to have been built on the remains of a Roman basilica and it is here that a Celtic monk, Dicuil made his foundation here before St Wilfred came to mission the Saxons of the south. Dicuil is known as ‘The Geographer’ because he wrote a treatise, De mensura Orbis terrae, an astronomical work which is really a computus or redaction of give other books. Dicuil’s cell is still part of the church. This is the most beautiful and peaceful of places.

Also in the church is the grave of an unnamed daughter of the Danish King Canute, who fell into the millstream and drowned. Canute had his palace here too (probably the same one inherited by Harold later. It is believed that Bosham is the location where the story of Canute and waves played out. Completely wearied of his courtiers’ fawning complements that he was the best of all kings, Canute took his followers to the shore and commanded that the sea should turn back at his command: of course, the courtiers were given a QED of the best kind, and probably shut up after that. Canute himself was a shrewd kind of king, with a Danish disregard for looking foolish, - he used to go a-viking with his dad, so he was not one to bear fools gladly. "Let all men know how empty and worthless is the power of kings. For there is none worthy of the name but God, whom heaven, earth and sea obey", he is reported to have said to his courtiers.

King Canute, proving his humanity..

Onwards then to bitterly chill Noviomagus Reginorum, or Chichester, as we know it today. A quick tour of the Cathedral and the shrine of St Richard, whose prayer is an excellent example of how to do your spiritual practice in a very short space. Such practices help us form ourselves along the lines that our holy spirits lead us upon: it combines gratitude and acknowledgement, as well as the three essentials of dedication: clarity, knowledge and love:

Thanks be to thee, my Lord Jesus Christ,
for all the benefits thou hast given me,
for all the pains and insults thou hast borne for me.
O most merciful redeemer, friend and brother,
may I know thee more clearly,
love thee more dearly,
and follow thee more nearly, day by day. Amen.

The 13th century bishop of Chichester, St Richard, was a vegetarian, a man tough on clerical abuses: I hope he is busy spinning things backstage for a worthy Archbishop of Canterbury to make an appearance!

We visited the exhibition at the Pallant Gallery of the painter Dora Carrington, followed by a quiet anniversary dinner at the Ivy.

On the way home we went to Petworth to see the exhibition of the artist and map-maker, Adam Dant: Legends of Albion, whose place-specific art embodies the legends and figures of our bedrock. Well, how could we not, with that title? The huge canvases of Brutus and other legendary figures of our Island were here ensconced in mythic triumph.

Now we are home, and the running away is done for this year. Some poetry from part of a longer sequence has been written, which will keep for another time. The deep historic charm of Bosham remains resonant in us both, but now a little rest after our adventures. Running away is hard work in a high wind in February when you are older!

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