exasperated by, her unflagging liveliness. She seemed to be willing herself not to get tired. It was only when she flopped on to the grass, panting heavily, that I knew she was ready to go home. Or was she? As soon as we were outside the park she began to draw back on the lead. The beast who had towed me earlier now had to be dragged homewards. This was a double spectacle the neighbours found diverting – that of a man being pulled along the street by an eager dog, and of the same man trying to coax the same, suddenly reluctant, dog into following him.
I was in a state of blank despair on the afternoon I decided to occupy myself by making jam. I went out and bought plums, raisins, blanched almonds and a bottle of dark rum. I cut the plums into halves, and put the stones in a small saucepan, covering them with half-a-pint of water. I boiled the stones for ten minutes, and drained the liquid through a sieve. This I poured over the plums and raisins I had placed in a larger pan. I let the mixture simmer over a low heat. When the fruit had softened, I took the pan off the gas and added the requisite amount of sugar, which I stirred in until it was completely dissolved. I put the pan back on the ring and watched it carefully, stirring at intervals to prevent the jam thickening too quickly or getting burnt. Concentration, of a satisfyingly mindless kind, was necessary. I concentrated on the task I had chosen. I removed the pan from the heat and threw in the finely chopped almonds and four tablespoons of rum. More stirring was needed, and then the glistening jam was ready for the pots I had previously sterilized. I tasted it when it had cooled a little, and realized I was in possession of a new, unanticipated talent. To stave off depression, or to lighten it at least, I had only to go to the stove and perfect my skills as a jam-maker.
And that’s what I did, and am still doing. I like making jams, jellies and chutneys when the fruit is in season, though there are some you can rustle up at any time in the year – dried apricot, for instance, and the exotic Creole jam, composed of bananas, the juice and zest of two or three limes, a spoonful of cinnamon and a generous measure of rum. The friends and acquaintances who enjoy this tend to be exotic themselves – given to owning parrots or mynah birds, or communing with the Beyond via a number of middle-aged women with suburban addresses that boast names – ‘Rest-a-While’, ‘Magnolia Lodge’ – instead of numbers.
Once a year, and that once is enough, a friend brings me crab apples and medlars from her garden. The patience called upon to convert these inedible fruits into appetizing jellies is of the superhuman kind, what with straining the liquid through muslin and ensuring that not one precious drop – and every drop
is
precious –is wasted.
I seldom eat my own jam, preferring to give it away to the appreciative and to those I wish to thank for acts of kindness. Making it properly affords me enough satisfaction. ‘Sweet are the uses of adversity’ – it’s strange to look back on that summer afternoon when I found a means to keep grief at bay for an hour or so.
Clearance
Edie stood in state in the front room for months after David’s death. Circe, waking from a long sleep, would bark at her, hoping perhaps for some response from the curious individual with no arms, legs or head. Edie’s sizeable bosom did not heave at the sound. She was fixed to her spot, in the bay of the window.
Edie was David’s tailor’s dummy. Dresses worn by many of the greatest opera singers of the second half of the twentieth century had been put together piece by piece on Edie’s immobile frame. The corset that had given Montserrat Caballé the unexpected bonus of a waist had been moulded and built on Edie.
How did she come to be called Edie? In 1961, three years before meeting David, I was in the company of the then Shakespeare Memorial Theatre at Stratford-upon-Avon playing the
I was in a state of blank despair on the afternoon I decided to occupy myself by making jam. I went out and bought plums, raisins, blanched almonds and a bottle of dark rum. I cut the plums into halves, and put the stones in a small saucepan, covering them with half-a-pint of water. I boiled the stones for ten minutes, and drained the liquid through a sieve. This I poured over the plums and raisins I had placed in a larger pan. I let the mixture simmer over a low heat. When the fruit had softened, I took the pan off the gas and added the requisite amount of sugar, which I stirred in until it was completely dissolved. I put the pan back on the ring and watched it carefully, stirring at intervals to prevent the jam thickening too quickly or getting burnt. Concentration, of a satisfyingly mindless kind, was necessary. I concentrated on the task I had chosen. I removed the pan from the heat and threw in the finely chopped almonds and four tablespoons of rum. More stirring was needed, and then the glistening jam was ready for the pots I had previously sterilized. I tasted it when it had cooled a little, and realized I was in possession of a new, unanticipated talent. To stave off depression, or to lighten it at least, I had only to go to the stove and perfect my skills as a jam-maker.
And that’s what I did, and am still doing. I like making jams, jellies and chutneys when the fruit is in season, though there are some you can rustle up at any time in the year – dried apricot, for instance, and the exotic Creole jam, composed of bananas, the juice and zest of two or three limes, a spoonful of cinnamon and a generous measure of rum. The friends and acquaintances who enjoy this tend to be exotic themselves – given to owning parrots or mynah birds, or communing with the Beyond via a number of middle-aged women with suburban addresses that boast names – ‘Rest-a-While’, ‘Magnolia Lodge’ – instead of numbers.
Once a year, and that once is enough, a friend brings me crab apples and medlars from her garden. The patience called upon to convert these inedible fruits into appetizing jellies is of the superhuman kind, what with straining the liquid through muslin and ensuring that not one precious drop – and every drop
is
precious –is wasted.
I seldom eat my own jam, preferring to give it away to the appreciative and to those I wish to thank for acts of kindness. Making it properly affords me enough satisfaction. ‘Sweet are the uses of adversity’ – it’s strange to look back on that summer afternoon when I found a means to keep grief at bay for an hour or so.
Clearance
Edie stood in state in the front room for months after David’s death. Circe, waking from a long sleep, would bark at her, hoping perhaps for some response from the curious individual with no arms, legs or head. Edie’s sizeable bosom did not heave at the sound. She was fixed to her spot, in the bay of the window.
Edie was David’s tailor’s dummy. Dresses worn by many of the greatest opera singers of the second half of the twentieth century had been put together piece by piece on Edie’s immobile frame. The corset that had given Montserrat Caballé the unexpected bonus of a waist had been moulded and built on Edie.
How did she come to be called Edie? In 1961, three years before meeting David, I was in the company of the then Shakespeare Memorial Theatre at Stratford-upon-Avon playing the
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