In black and white

"Trust yourself. Create the kind of self that you will be happy to live with all your life."

(Golda Meir)

(All photos: Gigi, album) My Dad Tony with Mum in his native Belgium.

Today is the anniversary of my Dad's passing and he's now been apart from this seen world for more than half of my lifetime. One of the things I remember most strongly about him is laughter and indeed his laugh. For a man who was not tall and who was non-confrontational and contemplative by nature, Dad's laugh was big, sudden and random. He was generally softly spoken but he laughed like Sid James. American writer Anne Lamott once said that laughter is "carbonated holiness": I can see my Dad was a very spiritual man who was capable of great joy in small things.
There was an honesty in Dad's laugh. So often, I'm aware of manufactured giggles and mannered groans. Hunour these days often seems so structured and sophisticated, even class conscious. I've inherited Dad's very out-of-the-box sense of humour; it encompasses the bizarre and the slapstick and the everyday ironic. I often open up one of his belly laughs; my mother used to think it was something of a curse in a woman but now I feel it's a blessing; my Dad's little route-finder for joyfulness.
My Dad was a deep thinking and well read man but was completely free of pretension; he had no real material aspirations either, although he always wanted to do the best for my mother, and later on, for my sister and me. My Dad may have blushed a little bit about Brigitte Bardot, Bernadette Devlin (now McAliskey) and that blonde bird from Abba, but Mum was the love of his life. My Mum was aware that he'd been quite inexperienced romantically before her and he seemed to wear his faithfulness like his favourite tweed teaching jacket. 

He'd been nearly halfway into a monastery when he met Mum; I can see how the tranquility and humility of the monastic life had appealed to my father. Lord knows what they would have made of his laugh. My father settled into teaching, interpreting and translating. His little study at home in south London was packed with books, newspapers, postcards from various monasteries and his cassettes of Gregorian Chant. Mum sometimes despaired of his lack of personal ambition later in life, but I realise Dad was always aware of the bigger picture from his little corner in it. It sounds cheesy, but he had high hopes for the world.

"Conscience is God present in man."

(Victor Hugo)

Dad with my sister.

After Dad died, I felt I envied my sister the quality one-to-one time she had with him when she was little. Once the family left Belgium for London and I was born, my Dad was always working; never less than two jobs and sometimes as many as four. When I was about seven years old, Mum would often go out on Saturdays, from lumchtime until the shops closed, with my Auntie Barbara and my sister, who was then fifteen going on twenty five (complete with heels and Audrey Hepburn cigarette holder). Still with yellow plaits and plastered knees, I felt very un-grown up and initially very left out: my Dad would be in his study for most of the day, translating and marking students' papers. But it became an easy habit that my Dad would emerge in time for the football results; even though Dad's idea of sport was "It's a Knockout"). He would make beans on toast or grilled kippers (these were the days when I couldn't even spell vegetarianism) and strong, sweet tea and we would watch "Doctor Who" together.
It occurs to me now that we didn't say very much; I would watch the good Doctor avidly while my Dad chuckled or tutted. He never picked up a newspaper or a book or looked bored. It was hugely comfortable and comforting just to sit quietly. I've realised across the years just how like my father I am. I love to laugh, I love music, colour and cleverness, but sometimes it's just lovely to be still and safe in your own company or with someone close.

"Laughter is the sound of the soul dancing. My soul probably looks like Fred Astaire." 

(Jared Kintz)

In Northern Ireland: Dad with his Poirot-style moustache, with my sister holding one of the baby cousins; my cousins Lucy and Charlie Joe are in front of him. I'm playing with my hair as Mum looks on from the doorway.

I'll acknowledge that I was usually described as being academically bright; it was quietly anticipated by my parents that I would probably follow Dad and become a teacher of some variety. I was never the kind of little girl who said she wanted to be an air hostess or even a princess. I wanted to be Tarzan's Jane at one point and then of course Dr Who's next lovely assistant. When I was in my early teens, at convent school and also having gone through all my preliminary dance exams, I announced that I wanted to be a nun or a ballerina. My Mum was exasperated and said I would do neither; that I was an eejit and would have to speak to my father. He was very calm about it all and didn't appear phased by the propositions of having a daughter in cloisters or on stage in tights. Having asked me why I felt I should or could do either, he simply said that from his point of view, it appeared that I could be a dancer and still pray, but that he didn't think there was a whole lot of pirouetting in most convents. He also told me I didn't have to be anything, but that I should try to do something with my life. He told me I didn't need to do anything other people might think of as "big" just for the sake of it. My Dad liked Victor Hugo's concise eloquence; he felt that death was really nothing, but not to have lived your life must be terrible.
Although he was a non-judgmental man, rights and wrongs were black and white to my father; he was assured of his own responses and responsibilities. He had a generosity of spirit and a talent for people that I feel made it very difficult to dislike him. Certainly, Dad didn't seem to have a bad word to say about anyone, although his sense of injustice was relentless. I hope I've inherited some of the latter at least: I take it as a compliment when I'm dismissed as an "effing do-gooder". 
I haven't done anything big with my life and may never do. I can see now that my Dad could have been a writer, but he was essentially content with what some might have called the minutiae of his life. In the Great Scheme of Things for other folk, my Dad may not have done anything big: his home and family became his vocation. Yet after he died, I discovered Dad had funded several students in Africa so they could change their lives. His letters to various publications about injustice in Northern Irish politics brought him to the attention of both the paramilitaries and Scotland Yard. He was regularly sent jokes by Bishop Desmond Tutu; they carried on corresponding after Dad taught the bishop languages. Dad called him Des. And Des has that same unexpectedly raucous laugh that Dad had, that delightful burst of animation in the midst of such gentleness.
I once described my Dad as a mixture of Desmond Tutu, Richard Briers and Hercules Poirot, but essentially he was very much his own person. I know now you can't be true to another person or to your God without being true to yourself. Because of Dad, some things will always be very black and white to me: love, truth, faith, justice. For a quiet, not-tall guy, my father probably had all the biggest things covered.
When I was little, my Dad would often play records on Sunday afternoons; music that both he and Mum had been moved by over the years. In between the Irish Rebel Songs, Edith Piaf, Jim Reeves and Abba, there would usually be The Seekers; two songs in particular. Since both my parents died, I can't hear "The Carnival is Over" without dissolving. On the other hand, I've never found their version of Tom Springfield's "Another You" anything other than joyful. It sounds like an affirmation; I always feel it reminded my parents of how they met. It reminds me of how I still want to live my life. Sometimes. things really can be that simple.

"Do your little bit of good where you are; its those little bits of good put together that overwhelm the world."

(Desmond Tutu)

"Another You"  The Seekers

"If they gave me a fortune

My treasure would be small;

I could lose it all tomorrow

And never mind at all;

But if I should lose your love dear,

I don't know what I'll do

For I know I'll never find another you."

(Tom Springfield)

Little women

"Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim." 

(Nora Ephron)

(All photos: Gigi, album)

Mum before she married.

I was quite distressed today when my sister told me my Mother's Day card for Mum hadn't arrived in Hampshire. This will be our third Mothering Sunday without her. It may seem silly to send a card to be placed at your Mum's grave, but I've always sent her one; don't think I ever missed a year. Like her, I'm big on cards, giving as well as receiving. You can often write out what sticks in the throat and crushes the heart and the written word is a memorable testament to a feeling. Hopefully, my card will arrive on Monday.
I've been thinking I should post a little testament to my Mum as the beautiful, funny, vibrant woman that she was. Mum had a strong femininity that wrapped itself around her motherhood like a Harris Tweed cloak; reassuringly abrasive, irrefutably warm and seemingly indestructible. The photos here span most of Mum's adult life as a wife, mother and early widow, but she herself never stopped being her mother's daughter. 

I never knew Granny Barbara, but Mum talked about her a lot. Like Mum, she was a petite and coquettish woman who loved things with bows and trims, in spite of her harsh and sparse upbringing. A Glaswegian Presbyterian by birth, she left her clan to marry my grandfather; by all accounts a surly Norn Irish Catholic widower, a farmer with no land of his own. 

Barbara was initially ostracised by the other Catholic women in their part of rural Antrim. They threw eggs at her front door and refused to sit with her in church: very Christian. She won them over with a gentle nature that belied her resilience; and with her gift for "knowing": they would come to her to reveal their fortunes apparently; also, not strictly Christian! She must have said something right because the egg throwing stopped and she was embraced by the women and the parish.

Mum's feistiness seems to have been inherited from her father; her quiet determination from her mother. She often referred to her as "poor Mum", but Granny was rich in the admiration and respect she invoked in her own four daughters. There was a fifth, youngest child, a son called William; also his mother's boy, to the anxiety of his father. My grandfather was a commanding but demanding man. Barbara bore her son when she was fifty, which may seem an unthinkable age, but she was by then very much a Catholic Mother. 

Her health deteriorated after her last pregnancy, although she lived to see her girls bear their own children in England before she eventually succumbed to cancer. She encouraged all her children to fly the nest and make something of themselves, even though at the time this essentially meant leaving Antrim and leaving her on her own with a weary but volatile husband. She eventually came to England in her final illness: my Dad helped to nurse her. Practically disinherited by his own family in Belgium, she became a mum to him too.

My Mum often grieved that my sister and I are childless; for me, it hasn't been a choice and it's my one big regret in life. I like nurturing creatures: it feels empowering rather than compromising.  I often say that I felt orphaned when Mum followed my Dad two and a half years ago, but I will never feel motherless, whichever day my card is delivered.

It's funny how the circles turn: Mum always said that Granny loved the song "Que Sera, Sera" and would sing it while she did the family laundry. Mum loved it too; I look at photos of her before she became my mother and she reminds me of Doris Day, who I find adorable. The song features in the old Hitchcock film "The Man Who Knew Too Much", also starring my Jimmy Stewart. Somewhere I have the film on DVD; I warble this now, sometimes when hoovering. I hope I've inherited much from some strong minded, big hearted little women; I hope I don't waste it. What will be, will be.

When Tony and Josie got married...

Mum with her own mother, my Scots-Irish Granny, and with her first baby; my sister.

With me when I was about eighteen years old. Please ignore floral jacket.

Mum in Paris with me and my sister, the year Princess Diana was killed there. Mum's in her favorite shade of red; my sister appears to be wearing a deceased animal with shoulder pads. I am honestly wearing a skirt, albeit a very short one, and black nail polish; Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

Mum went to Australia in her later years, when her health was already failing and she depended on a walking stick; she loved it there, later encouraging me to go and fall in love with the continent too.

My sister and I with Mum on her birthday, nine years ago.

This is one of the last photos taken of Mum, a few months before she died. It was taken on my birthday, almost exactly three years ago. Already very frail and ill here, she died little more than six months later.

"What would men be without women? Scarce, sir...mighty scarce." 

(Mark Twain)

"Que Sera Sera"  Doris Day

"Taking joy in living is a woman’s best cosmetic." 

(Rosalind Russell) 

"You educate a man; you educate a man. You educate a woman; you educate a generation." 

(Brigham Young) 

"I am a woman; my country is the whole world." 

(Virginia Woolf) 

The things my mother told me...

"May the nourishment of the earth be yours,

May the clarity of light be yours,

May the fluency of the ocean be yours,

May the protection of the ancestors be yours.

And so may a slow 

Wind work these words 

Of love around you, 

An invisible cloak 

To mind your life."

(From "Beannacht - For Josie", by John O'Donohue)

Josie Kelly: Gigi, family album

The late, lovely poet John O'Donohue wrote "Beannacht", which is Gaelic for "Blessing", for his own mother Josie during her lifetime. When I was putting together a wake for my Mum, Josie Kelly, I had a friend read the poem out in it's entirety; although the words reproduced above have always touched me most deeply. My Mum and Dad are now the invisible cloak that minds my life.
This Wednesday marked the second anniversary of my mother's death: she died on the morning of  10.10.2010. Although time appears to have flown by, I still seem to be slow at navigating the yawning void that has opened up in the very middle of my life. Until I moved to Brighton, I saw Mum everyday; once I had moved, I spoke to her everyday. I realise that losing my job around the same time that I lost my mother could only ever isolate me further: living on my own, I also find myself yearning for the camaraderie of my old colleagues. But more than anything, I can't deny that I miss my mum. 
Mum was one of a family of six children: the eldest was a step-sister who would quickly emigrate to Australia, the youngest was her only brother William; Josie was the youngest of the four sisters in between. With varying shades of strawberry blonde hair and Irish blue eyes, they were feisty and pretty and were known as The Kelly Girls around Antrim and Derry. My Auntie Barbara told me that when they were growing up Mum was generally stubborn and often cantankerous but always cute. Her enchantment of my father is recounted elsewhere in this blog; for her part, Mum appeared to have countless suitors but maintained she had only loved once. Living in my father's native Belgium and then Switzerland and France during the first fifteen years of their marriage, she loved the French culture and language, but she learned to speak French her way, with an unshakable Northern Irish accent. Mum was eternally Irish. She would cheerfully say she was born in "the Black North", but being born just before the partitioning of the Irish counties, she refused to recognise the divide, with an indignity I uphold. Her Irishness seems to have been as infectious for my Dad: he surely had a greater knowledge of Irish political history and a more prolific collection of Irish folk and rebel songs than your average, conservatively raised Walloon. And so the Sundays of my childhood resonated with Gregorian chant, Edith Piaf, The Dubliners and various versions of "Kevin Barry" and "The Fields of Athenry".
Mum was always a bit of a conundrum. Just as she was a resolute vegetarian who didn't care for many vegetables, she was also a confirmed Catholic who believed in fairies, omens and ghosts. Superstition and ritual featured large in her Catholic upbringing. Her own beloved Scottish mother, who I never knew, was a devout woman who could apparently"see" the fate of others; the local parish priest often asked for advice and assured my granny that she was thus "gifted" because she was close to God. Mum would often mutter prayers in front of the red-lit picture of The Scared Heart (above the fridge), asking The Virgin Mary, St Rita or St Anthony to fix or find things, to keep people safe or show them the error of their ways.
When my Dad died suddenly and my big sister left to travel across the world with the man she would marry, I feel I formed an enviable bond with Mum. At times, certainly in later years, I admit that I could feel smothered and stuck. The memory of that resentment is painful for me now: sometimes contrarily argumentative and startlingly devoid of tact, Mum loved my sister and I unconditionally and fiercely. She could be generous to a fault: some folk could pop in for a cuppa and still be there through lunch and dinner, and maybe even a drop of whiskey to set them back en route. At other times, she might resolutely refuse to open the door to neighbours or friends if she was having a bad hair or even a "bad house" day. She could be endlessly kind but brutally honest, frequently advising other people's daughters in shop changing rooms that a skirt or dress made them look fat, thin, peaky or just plain dreadful!
She could appear judgemental, largely due to the narrowness of her geography and religion. Yet I remember her instinctive reaction when she came to visit a man I had been helping to care for, in his last, painful stages of AIDS. His condition and homosexuality had blinded his own Portuguese Catholic family; when Mum asked him where his mother was, he started to cry. Always phobic about hospitals and terrified by the media's HIV and AIDS fever, my own Mum held Paolo's hand and told him she would be his mother that afternoon. I've never forgotten that; it helps me remember how I came to be me.
She had an unspoken fearlessness about her, which must have been attractive to my just and outspoken father. Once settled in south London, she rarely felt the need to travel across the Thames; yet she traveled to Australia and the Far East with my sister when she was well into her seventies and dependent on a walking stick. When I was younger, she would sometimes come along to reggae and punk gigs; she could often be heard offering young men with towering Mohican hairdos cough sweets and tissues. She became a big fan of singer and gay rights activist Tom Robinson, who referred to her as "Mum" on more than one occasion.
When I was arranging Mum's wake, I wrote the poem "Josie Kelly", which tumbled out in a rush of recognition of all that's Mum that I now see in me. I wanted to share it here, along with some of the (very many) things she would often tell me. She shared some of my taste in music, if not the full diversity which I inherited from Dad. She never tired of traditional Celtic music, including the pipes and the marching bands of the Orangemen, but I managed to introduce her to the likes of Springsteen, Van Morrison, Kings of Leon, Eddi Reader, Brian Kennedy, Damien Rice... I literally introduced her to Norn Ireland's own Snow Patrol, which is a whole other story. She grew to be especially fond of the band; her favourite Snow Patrol song, which reminded her of The Troubles, is included here. Mum felt that frontman Gary Lightbody would have made a fine Catholic priest, which would certainly be news to his lovely Protestant family back in Bangor. Mum frequently asserted that various people would've made fine Catholic priests. Apart from Blessed Pope John Paul: she thought he was wonderful of course, but felt he would've made a great rock star.
And people wonder where I get it from.

Things My Mother Told Me

Never let the sun set on an argument.

Never take your health for granted.

What's meant for you will surely not go past you.

That her marriage to my Dad was made in Heaven; or at the very least, the wedding license was filed there.

That I would never have much money, but that needn't mean I would ever be poor.

Money puts a price on happiness but still can't buy it.

Always accept an apology. It makes it easier to offer one.

God does indeed move in mysterious ways: why wouldn't He; He's God?

Irish people know how to laugh at themselves, which has encouraged the English to make Irish jokes because they haven't yet learned to laugh at themselves.

If you believe you're right, stand up and fight for your opinion, until you're knocked down; then, sit down and carry on shouting.

Men who mock women for being virgins, or chaste or celibate, are not fit for love-making.

You should marry for love and work for money, not the other way round.

That her lack of culinary skills hadn't affected her raising a family: she simply married a man who loved cooking and had one daughter who loved the preparing and eating of food and another who liked to eat out.

You can wear tartan with floral, polka dots with stripes; as long as none of it is wearing you.

You can paint your face but not a smile on it.

Real class has nothing to do with where you are on any social scale.

That talking to my plants would help me as much as them.

Irish people are born to laugh and cry; sometimes, both at the same time.

That I should've married Bruce Springsteen.

Always keep a clean house: you don't want burglars thinking you're slovenly.

Always wear good underwear, in case you get knocked down or have to climb up something.

That I had her mother's gift of "knowing" things for others but would always be shortsighted about my own life.

Anyone with a semblance of decency surely has an Irish or Scottish grandmother tucked away somewhere.

Don't worry if people talk about you: at least you've been noticed.

That all the Christian denominations quite like the idea of being Catholic.

That I would grow more like her and my Dad as I grow older; that it would become my greatest comfort.

That she would die on a Sunday morning.

That I would miss her every day of my life.

"Josie Kelly"

Where have you gone Mum?

Not at the end of the 'phone,

nor waiting in my sister's car 

or scowling in the hated chair. 

My mirror reflects a pale ache of you, 

but you are there at the corners of my mouth, 

stretching my shy smile to a farm-girl grin. 

You are in the cussedness of my fringe, 

in my eagerness to laugh and in the easiness of my tears. 

You are in the rising of my temper and the dropping

of all wrongs before bedtime. 

You are in the tapping of my feet, 

from Springsteen to Sean South of Garryowen. 

You are in my green fingers, 

my need to nurture seeds and pips, twigs and stones. 

You are the way of grace in me, 

and in my knack for falling off kerbs while standing still 

and eyeing up a mountain. 

You are in my constant boiling of the kettle, my cake kept for strangers,

my sweeping of the stairs for critical burglars. 

You are in my lust for red shoes and handbags, 

in the miraculous medals in my purse; 

in my calling on the saints 

for lost rings, people and battles. 

You are in my recollections of an Ireland I never knew; 

you are in my love for my father and his faith,

and for your own mother's telling of the unknown. 

You are the gossamer that binds me and my sister 

beyond all differences of time, place or opinion.

You and my father are in my veins like whiskey and syrup: 

more than any DNA, 

you are at the core of me.

You are the skip in the heartbeat of all those who may come to love me; 

and you are in the echo of me, 

as I am in your footsteps. 

Where have you gone Mum? 

Wherever I am going. 

                                                                                                                                              Gigi

"The Fields of Athenry"  Brian Kennedy



"Open Your Eyes"  Snow Patrol

When Tony Met Josie

Photo: Gigi's album

Wednesday, 13th June, was my parents' 65th wedding anniversary, apparently their Blue "Star" Sapphire Anniversary. My Dad died before I left school and Mum has been gone for more than eighteen months now, but my Mum maintained that she wouldn't remarry because she had never divorced; I believe my father shared that sentiment.

I rattle on a lot about the sanctity of marriage, but then this is my blog after all...  I believe firmly in faithfulness, forever love, soul mates and marriage. I see broken marriages and homes and in fact ones that were never forged in the first place all around me, not least in Brighton: it merely strengthens that belief. Anyone who knows me well, knows that I believe that marriage was intended to be a sacrament and that love and physical union are also God-given

My parent's love story was by no means a fairy tale or bed of roses, but recounting it against today's backdrop, it certainly reads like one. Dad was from a fairly well-to-do Walloon (French speaking) Belgian family; my Mum was a farmer's daughter from the wrong side of the tracks in rural Northern Ireland. At that time, being Catholic, her father didn't actually own the land he farmed or the cottage they lived in. My Mum was one of five girls and six children. She was christened Josephine, after St Joseph, but was eternally Josie. My Dad was an identical twin and one of five children; he was named after St Anthony of Padua and was therefore Anthony, never the French form "Antoine". By the time he met Josie, he was officially Tony.

My father was always very spiritual and expressed an interest in becoming a Benedictine monk in his teens. Although staunchly Catholic, his parents were not at all impressed by this, as the done thing was to marry your offspring into other wealthy Catholic families: keeping it in the family and the church. When Dad and his twin brother came out of the army, my grandfather packed them off to Europe to "live a little" and experience the sights and cultures before settling down with Monsieur So-and-so's daughters. Probably best translated as sowing le wild oats. At some point, they found themselves in England and out of money. Brother Maurice was happy to return to the fold but Tony was unsure what he wanted to do. He still felt a yearning for the monastic life and was loathe to walk straight back into the argument at home. With a wonderful Poirot-style French accent and a love of food that's clearly inspired mine, he passed himself off as a French chef at Margate for a few weeks. He was coming to the end of this time there when a cheeky Irish girl and her former ATS girlfriends walked in for an evening meal.

My Mum told me that she was also loathe to return home for reasons rather different from my father's: all her sisters had settled in London and there was simply no work and therefore no food or fun to be found back in Antrim. My Mum had also used up all her funds and couldn't even pay for her dinner; she ate it anyway and then complained that it wasn't good enough to pay for! When challenged, she asked to see the chef. Enter Tony. My poor Dad was immediately smitten and said he would like to make up for the "bad" cuisine by taking her out to dinner the following night. The rest is pretty much sixty five year old history, but of course it wasn't plain sailing.

My father took his Josie home to the Ardennes and presented her as the girl who had dispelled his monastic dream; he wanted to marry her as soon as possible. My grandfather was horrified. Although Mum was undeniably pretty, bright and Catholic, she was also dirt-poor and had no formal education beyond the age of fourteen or so. After much wrangling and heartache, my grandfather cunningly said that he would give his blessing to the marriage if my father entered his preferred Benedictine monastery on retreat for one year. If Tony still wanted to marry Josie after that, it would be agreed. So my father got his taste of the monastic life after all; my mother slunk back to Ireland broken-hearted. She knew Tony had longed to enter the monastery before he met her and she feared he would simply forget her. My Mum had previous GI suitors, one of whom seemed to own most of  Wyoming or something similar. I believe she corresponded with them for a while. But Tony didn't forget Josie. He completed his retreat with the Trappist monks and left the monastery with a penchant for fruit beer, chocolate and plainchant and with his love for my mother as strong as ever. He set off for Ireland to bring her back to Belgium once more.

Of course my grandfather had no intention of keeping his word and flatly refused to give his blessing or enable a wedding: he promptly disinherited my Dad and subsequently refused to entertain my Mum or their first child (my sister, who was born in Belgium six years later).  My grandfather had passed away by the time I was born in London, some eight and a bit years after my sister. As I grew up, we holidayed in Northern Ireland and in Belgium, but my French grandmother clearly blamed my mother for the rift and never really warmed to her. When I was fifteen, Granny died, and my aunts didn't inform my father for a few days, just long enough to make sure the family home had been stripped bare, presumably still in accordance with my grandfather's wishes. I heard my Dad cry into the night afterwards, comforted by Mum; it seemed to break him. He died a year later, still a relatively young man.

My Mum certainly gave up her dreams of America and endless leisure to be with Dad; wherever Dad found work in Europe in the early years of their marriage she worked too, often in domestic service. She didn't see her own mother regularly and wasn't able to relocate with her sisters in England for several years. My Dad gave up his dream of the cloistered vocational life, his inheritance and his own family to some extent. He eventually became a teacher of languages, a translator and linguist. He sometimes worked four jobs while I was growing up in sarf lundun: I would have loved more time with him, but to me he was always the ideal of a father and husband. My Mum's Irish temper involved the odd clip round the ear and some colourful maternal advice, but if my placid and laughing Dad raised his voice or treated me coldly, I was immediately chastened and upset. Likewise, my Mum's warning of Hell as the ultimate punishment was loaded with fire and brimstone. My Dad would talk about the awful damnation of being kept away from God and those you loved: I can see so clearly where this analogy was formed. My father's Catholicism was quite romanticised and all about the ethereal and the contemplative; Mum's background was one of rugged and often harsh religion rather than spirituality, with a healthy measure of superstition thrown in. It happened that my parents married on 13th June, which is also the feast of St Anthony of Padua, my father's patron saint. When I was a child, I often heard my harassed mother saying "Tony, Tony look around, something's lost and must be found!" It was a few years before I realised that she was calling on one of her favourite saints of the hapless, and not nagging Dad in his absence.

There is of course a legend surrounding the saint's patronage of all things lost or taken. A novice of St Anthony, grown tired of the religious life, decided to leave the community. In addition to going AWOL, he took St Anthony's psalter with him. When Anthony realised his psalter was missing, he prayed for its safe return. Soon after, the psalter thief felt compelled to return it to Anthony as well as returning to the order. I've always felt that Dad was quite aptly named after the saint. Anthony was born into a very rich and noble family who arranged for him to be instructed at a cathedral school: against the wishes of his family, he entered the community of the Abbey of St Vincent, just outside Lisbon, later becoming a Franciscan and an eminent teacher. My Dad didn't give up on his love for my Mum; likewise, he always said if he could have married and been a monk, he would have done both, but he never lost his own faith when he was forced to choose.

My maternal Granny, who I never knew but feel very close to, was deeply God-fearing (literally) but still read tea-leaves and palms (don't tell my bishop) for people from neighbouring villages, to great acclaim. My mother claimed she even read the local Catholic priest's tea-leaves. When Mum was little, her mother told her that she would marry a good man who was "of the faith" and that they would have two children, one dark and one fair; that she would have many adventures but only ever one love. I don't know what brew she was using but it was certainly accurate. I know many Catholics may frown on such things as fanciful or even faithless, but my parent's union was certainly self-sacrificing, kind, passionate and devoted. My Mum would later say it was a match made in Heaven; I believe it was simply meant to be.

Whatever curve-balls life has pitched at me over the past couple of years, I'm strengthened by the knowledge that I'm the product of love: I sincerely wish it was so for all children. Ostracised from his own family, my Dad embraced the warmth and extended familiarity of Mum's relatives; he became a very Irish Catholic, still with the Poirot accent. I see more and more of him in me, yet I have always "felt" my Irishness more keenly than being half Belgian or even being born a Londoner. I've inherited a love of Irish music and dance, and like my father I struggle to keep my nose out of Irish and church politics. There were no blogs then, but Dad was no stranger to the Letters page of the Catholic Herald. My mother's passion for a particular red is evident throughout my little house and in my wardrobes; the perfect backdrop for a collection of icons and crucifixes which rivals my Dad's. My father corresponded with monks in Belgium and beyond for the rest of his life, keeping postcards, literature and always tapes of monastic music. Consequently, I adore Gregorian chant, even though I can cuss in three languages like my Mum. I said at Mum's funeral that I was always my father's daughter and my Mum's baby; the passing of my parents and the passage of years will do nothing to alter that.

Photo; Gigi's album

This post has been pure self indulgence for me, and in that spirit of indulgence I've included two songs. "Plaisir d'Amour" was my Mum and Dad's "tune", as sung by Dad's long term crush, Nana Mouskouri. I included it on the playlist for my Mum's wake and it would just as surely have been played at my Dad's. My mother's mother was actually Scottish by birth, and I share her love of Robbie Burns, in particular the  ballads. I wanted to include "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose", not only because my parent's wedding took place "newly sprung in June", but also because I think the words form one of the most sublime love letters ever written. No wonder Bob Dylan cited this song as the greatest poetic influence of his life.

Happy Anniversary Mum and Dad; here's to the next 65 years.

"Plaisir d'Amour"  Nana Mouskouri

"My Love is like a Red Rose"  Eddi Reader

"My Love is like a Red, Red Rose"

(Robert Burns)

O, my love is like a red, red rose,
That is newly sprung in June.
O, my love is like the melody,
That is sweetly played in tune.

As fair thou art, my lovely lass,
So deep in love am I,
And I will love thee still, my Dear,
Till all the seas go dry.
Till all the seas go dry, my Dear,
And the rocks melt with the sun,
O I will love thee still, my Dear,
While the sands of life shall run.

And fare thee well, my only Love,
And fare thee well a while!
And I will come again, my Love,
Though it were ten thousand mile!