Joan Aiken’s mother Jessie
Family anniversaries spark memories, but they can also open chasms back into the past; although birthdays may be celebrated, they are also haunted by the deaths of those remembered… While I was reading back about the life of my Granny Jessie, Joan Aiken’s beloved mother, whose birthday falls on the first of March, I discovered a series of strange coincidences, which told stories of their own, weaving our family history into memorable new patterns.
The first of March is a day I like to celebrate every year. It’s a day usually marked with daffodils, for the Welsh patron saint, a cheerful flower and a bright and glowing colour that seem to suit Jessie, although primroses and cowslips would have been her preference, and grew plentifully in her garden and wild on the Sussex Downs in the countryside where she and Joan lived and walked.
I remembered that Jessie had died a day or so before her birthday in 1970, when she would have been eighty-one. That year she didn’t stay for the first of March; knowing how ill she was, she had resigned herself to going, and with her usual tact, left a few days before the anniversary in the early hours of the 27th of February, having waited only for the opportunity to see her daughter Joan again.
Joan had been in Savannah Georgia, visiting her father Conrad Aiken – painfully divorced by Jessie after the agonising discovery of his constant infidelity, more than forty years earlier, when Joan was just four. Always able to draw the attention of the family, Conrad was himself in hospital, and Joan had to divide her attention between two dying parents one on either side of the Atlantic. Should she take a message? Yes, said Jessie, ‘Give him my love.’
Jessie met her American poet husband when they were students at Harvard in the spring of 1911. They had been married very young, and the marriage lasted only for about fifteen turbulent years; when they parted they never met or spoke again. Joan grew up with her Canadian mother in England, but gradually over the years came to know her American father again. Now, in 1970, Conrad had also been ill, and Joan had been summoned to his hospital bed in America, leaving her mother in the care of a nurse at her home in Sussex; she was booked to fly back just before Jessie’s birthday. Despite not having spoken for all those years, Conrad and Jessie were concerned for each other, he knew she was ill, and was asking about her, and he also when asked, sent a message of love.
Describing her visit to Conrad on the night of her return, Joan related a dream of her father’s; he had extraordinary dreams and liked to share them. He was trying to rescue some recalcitrant birds at sea, and had to struggle and fight with them, and force them into a dory, and row them out to a larger ship anchored further out in the harbour. ‘What kind of birds?’ ‘Kearsages,’ he answered. Joan had never heard of such birds. And when he had with some difficulty carried the birds up the steep companion-way to the deck of the ship, he noticed far away on the shore that there was someone looking on, a familiar figure, observant but detached, and dressed all in black. ‘I wonder who she was?’ he said.
Parting from him wasn’t easy, but Joan flew back, taking his love, and the story of the dream to Jessie. Conrad lived for another year or so, and Joan was glad she had returned in time to see her mother again, as this was to be the last time; Jessie died later that night.
Curiously the 27th of February was also the birthday of Joan’s first husband Ron. The father of her children, he was quite a bit older; he had been born in 1911 at about the time and in the very year when her parents were falling in love in a Boston spring, but he had also died many years before, in 1955. For us children his death was more important, and has become more memorable than his birthday, and this year I even had to look it up to check the date; I knew it was at the end of February, but we hadn’t celebrated it often because I was only three when he died. Racking my memory, I wondered whether his birthday might have occurred in a dangerous Leap Year? Might he have missed out on his birthday celebration for years at a time, and was that why the date seemed rather elusive?
But looking through some letters and papers to confirm the date I came across another piece of family history from that same date, that I am sure I was unaware of until now.
I discovered that the 27th of February, even longer ago in 1901 had been a day of memorable family tragedy; this was the day when Conrad’s own father, suffering from a mental breakdown, shot his wife and then himself, and it was left to their eleven year old son to close the door into the nursery, leaving his brothers and sister in the care of their maid, and going by himself to report this unthinkable story to the police.
Conrad Aiken mourned the loss of his mother all his life. Finding his parents dead, he wrote, he ‘felt possessed of them forever.’ He also wondered throughout his adult life, if his constant infidelities, which led to two further marriages and the break up of his own children’s family, had really been a search for the long lost mother who he had idealised, resented, and then mourned for the rest of his life. His most potent early memory was of her reading to him, sitting on the nursery floor, which was to be overlaid by the second memory he could not erase. At the end of his life he returned to Savannah, and lived in the house next door to the scene of his childhood tragedy.
These are lines about that return, that come from his last poem:
Death is a toy upon the nursery floor
broken we know that it can hurt no more
and birth, much farther back, begins to seem
like that recurring and delicious dream
… Dream, or a vision, we could not stay
and it is lost.
How can old age receive such Pentecost?
How strange that there should be a second death, another final loss, and on the very same date, of a wife, a long lost love, the mother of his children, also unattainable because of unstoppable human folly, and mourned for many years, and whose absence could only be bridged by the stories of their writer daughter.
A year or so after both her parents had died, Joan wrote a piece about this strange week of coincidences and messages, dreams and omens of parting.
She called it The Watcher on the Shore.
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